Here you will find the Poem English Grass of poet William Henry Ogilvie
Come, horsemen all, from every field And taste this rare delight, And see what English pastures yield To those whose hearts beat right! Come, haste and quaff the stirrup-cup! Turn down the empty glass! The horn is blown, the hunt is up, And here's our English grass! And here are foxes swift to find And fences strong to break, And here are doubles steep and blind That try the best to take, And dappled hounds to keep in sight And rivals you must pass Before the long December night Enshrouds the English grass! And think it not a lightsome thing Or feat to wake your scorn To follow where the Pytchley swing Or lead them with the Quorn ; For men have hacked the mulga trail And packed the mountain pass, Yet found the boldest heart may fail To ride the English grass. The meadows stretch from stream to stream, Close-bitten, firm, and sound; No stubble stands, no plough man's team Rips up the ravaged ground; But level far as eye can see Like smooth green-tinted glass, A battle-ground for bravery, Is spread the English grass. Though thorns be thick, though binders lace, Though stout be stile and rail, Though nought but blood can live the pace, And nought but pluck prevail, The call's to all, the field is fair To every creed and class; So draw your girths, all ye who dare, And ride the English grass!