Twixt The Wings Of The Yard

Hear the loud swell of it, mighty pell mell of it,     Thousands of voices all blent into one:     See hell for leather now trooping together, now     Down the long slope of the range at a run,     Dust in the wake of em: see the wild break of em,     Spear-horned and curly, red, spotted and starred:     See the lads bringing em, blocking em, ringing em.     Fetching em up to the wings of the yard.     Mark that red leader now: what a fine bleeder now,     Twelve hundred at least if he weighs half a pound,     None go ahead of him. Mark the proud tread of him,      See how he bellows and paws at the ground.     Watch the mad rush of em, raging and crush of em.     See when they struck how the corner post jarred.     What a mad chasing and wheeling and racing and     Turbulent talk twixt the wings of the yard.     Harry and Teddy, there! let them go steady there!     Some of you youngsters will surely get pinned.     What am I saying? Ive had my last day in     The saddle: I might as well talk to the wind.     Why should I grieve at all? soon I must leave it all     Leave it for ever; and yet it seems hard     That I should be lingering here stead of fingering     Handle of whip twixt the wings of the yard.     Hear the loud crack of the whips on the back of the     Obstinate weaners who will not go in     Sharp fusilade of it till, half afraid of it,     Echo herself shuts her ears at the din.     Theyll say when its over now that Im in clover now     Happy old pensioner, yet it seems hard,     Een on the brink of the grave, when I think of the     Times out of mind that I rode to that yard.     Hark to the row at the rails, theres a cow at the     Charge: how she laughs all their lashes to scorn.     Mark how she ran agin little Tom Flannagan.     Lucky for him that it wasnt her horn:     Hed make no joke of it had he a poke of it.     There she comes back! but hes put on his guard,     Greenhide descending now, sharp reports blending now,     Flogging her back up the wings of the yard.     The breeze brings their bellowing, softning it, mellowing,     Till it sounds like a spent giant in pain     Steals up the valley on, sounding a rally on     Sonorous hills that return it again.     Useless my whining now, useless repining now,     Twont make me any less battered and scarred;     Though Ive grown grey at it oh, for a day at it,     Oh, for an hour twixt the wings of the yard.     Oh, how I yearn for those times, how I burn for those     Days when my weapons, the whip and the spur,     The double reigned bridle, were not hanging idle,     But Im old, and as useless as Stupmy that cur;     No good for heeling now, he has a feeling now     Not unlike mine that its woefully hard     We should be lying here, groaning and sighing here     Watching the cattle come up to the yard.     Life has no salt in it. See how I halt in it     I, who once rode with the first of the flight     Watching and waiting now, feebly debating now     Whether the close will bring darkness or light;     Half my time pondering, back through life wandering,     Groaning to see how life has been marred     Seeing the blots in it, all the bad spots in it,     Mustering, bringing past sins to the yard.     .    .    .    .    .     Shall I be able to show a clean waybill to     God, when he rounds up and drafts off his own     When, at the mustering, millions of clustering     Souls come to judgement before the white throne?     Is the Lords hand on me? Have I his brand on me?     When I go up will the passage be barred?     Am I a chosen one? must the gates close on me?     Shall I be left twixt the wings of the yard?