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
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.
