Poem: the fugitive

I am not sure where this came from but it wanted to be written.  The first four stanzas still left me confused but now I have some idea who, why where. And maybe it will be the introduction to a book ....

The fugitive

He stood all alone on the crest of the hill

His shape ‘gainst the sunset was stark

Then ere they could raise up their muskets to kill

He was gone downhill into the dark

They sent up a shout and the dogs all gave tongue

The volley was ragged and late

The cry was set up that he was to be hung

And foul vows were made for his fate

Then they mounted with speed and rode over the rise

Through heather and gorse in pursuit

They thundered over the ridge for their prize

Sure he could not elude them on foot.

Onward they thundered, up valley and down

Certain to take him by force

Whilst their quarry lay still on soft grass that had grown

Surrounded by thick walls of gorse

Hollow its centre with rabbit-cropped turf

A ready-made fortress to hide

And deep in his heart he controlled all his mirth

While his enemies went for a ride.

They shouted and called, as if Renard their prey

With a terrible racket and din

And cautiously forth he crept out where he lay

And surveyed the camp where they had been.

There’s forty spare horses at picket left there

And the sumpter train never unpacked

And nary a guard save the Colonel’s grey mare

And soon he was up on her back.

He rode from the camp with the forty spare horse,

Leading the ponies as well

And when they returned he was gone o’er the gorse

And the soldiery damned him to hell.

But he’d made his slow way to his homeland again

At a pace that to horses was kind

And he foreswore the wars with their loss and their pain

For he’d found a trophy to mind.

There’s no greater horse thief in Ireland they say

Than Cormac O’Toole of the gorse

For his prowess in riding and other horseplay

Comes from his bond with the horse.