The Old Mare's Foal

A Poem by W H Ogilvie

The hunting seasons may come and pass,
And, deaf to the horn and hound,
The old mare sleeps where the meadow grass
Grows green upon yonder mound;
But over the fence where the young stock run
And the long-tail yearlings roll
Best of the bunch there is always one
That is known as 'the old mare's foal.'

When the stable is full and each box and stall
Has a head to our footsteps turned,
Where there is a tale to be told of them all
And a legend of each to be learned,
The owner will turn to a box aside
Like a man who has reached his goal,
And say in a voice that is big with pride,
'And this - is the old mare's foal!'

She was the best that I ever had,
She needed no whip nor spur,
Game as a pebble, and this game lad
Is the living image of her -
Same old courage and jaunty tread,
Just like the good old soul!
I could pick him out of a hundred head,
In the dark, as the old mare's foal.'

The old mare sound in the warm earth sleeps
And the seasons come and go,
But a colt in the stable her likeness keeps,
And somehow it's good to know
That a sportsman is true to his love for her
And till Time of his best takes toll
There will never be mark of whip or spur
On the flank of the old mare's foal

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