The Silent Squadron

Southland Times, Issue 14333, 29 April 1899, Page 1 (Supplement)

The Silent Squadron

Down the long dream lanes At the dead of night, With grey mists over and mists below, With loose held reins On their, horses white I watched where the silent riders go.

With their heads bent low And a hoofstroke dumb They never turn to the left or the .right. And the shadows go And the shadows come, But the silent squadron is deathly white.

Should a bit-bar play Or a saddle creak, It would free the blood of an icy fear; If a horse would neigh Or a rider speak, It would lighten the load of my heart to hear.

But the troop rides on With a measured pace, And touching stirrups that make no sound; And the stars have shone On a comrade’s face That is twelve long years in a graveyard ground.

Here are the ends Of the parted ways— The long Dead March of the years to be; And these are the friends Of the olden days Taking their last ride silently. There’s an empty space— They keep my place In their ghastly ranks; and I catch my breath 1 Yet hand to the rein There are better men Riding to-night with the Steeds of Death.

Will. H. Ogilvie in the Pastoralists Review.