Verily yes,--for the riders gay, Saddled softly, in armed array, Hand on the bridle, heel at the flank, And that martial music, clinkety-clank! Charming the ear in galloping time With the hoofs' hard rattle in clattering chime. Clumpety-clump! Clankety-clink! Out on the caitiff who'd pause or shrink! Clinkety-clank! Clumpety-clump! The stout steed's heart at his ribs may thump, In spasms the breath through his nostrils pump, The strained neck droop, though 'tis held at stretch, The labouring lungs in sheer agony fetch Blood-mixed breathings, red-dappled foam,-- Let the lash descend, let the spur strike home! Are they not _racing_? Is not their pride Engaged in winning _this_ Long-Distance Ride?
_Excessive_? No! Who dares hint so? The going's hot, and the steeds must _go_! Chargers entered for such a race Must not complain of the pounding pace; Must not grumble at crushing weight. Yes; they appear in a piteous state, Almost foundered, and well nigh blown, With the burden big o'er their shoulders thrown. Ever swelling, like miser's sacks; But why have horses such broad strong backs, If not to _bear_--to the death at need, Though lungs may choke, and though flanks may bleed? Ride, ye _militaires_, ruthlessly ride! Shouting Emperors hail with pride, "Gallant" riders, who lash and goad Their staggering steeds on this desperate road; Their whips are wet, and their spur-points gory, But--beasts must bleed, in the name of Glory!
Beasts of burden, ye peoples, still Ridden hard by a ruthless will! Militarism is mounted firm. The saddled slaves may shudder and squirm, The bridled brutes may shy and shrink, The road is long, and the gulf's black brink Seems distant yet, and is scarcely seen By the rival riders, whose pride and spleen Blind them--save to each other's glare, To the pace they make, and the weight they bear, Those hot-urged horses! Lash and goad, Rash riders!--but, at the end of the road, When the growing burden's last possible pound Is piled; when the steed's last staggering bound Is made, when the last short, labouring breath Is breathed, when over, in shuddering death, The charger rolls, with a sickening crash, And responds no more to the spur or lash; And the gulf yawns close, sheer slope to air, Black, unavoidable, ruinous there-- Then, gallant rider, how will _you_ fare?