William Henry Ogilvie

Here you will find the Poem The Artist of poet William Henry Ogilvie

The Artist

He stands at no easel, he mixes no paint, 
He colours no canvas to gladden the eye, 
Yet the picture he makes will not fade or grow faint 
Till our love of the chase shall desert us and die. 
He's an artist of parts 
Who appeals to the hearts 
That can thrill to good hunting and hounds in full cry. 
By his seat in the saddle, his touch on the reins, 
His skill and his mastery, who can gainsay 
That here is an artist in all that pertains 
To the horse and his handling - a real R.A. ? 
An artist 'twould irk 
Not to cut out the work 
When the hats are crammed down and a fox is away.
You will find him no centre of salon or crush, 
No letters attached to his name may he sign, 
But there's no one so eager to handle the Brush 
And there's none so consistently found on the Line. 
If an artist you ask, 
Here's the man for the task, 
Making pictures where keenness and courage combine.