Red and rigid the Powers of the riding men were, And as sea birds on Ailsa, in the nesting time there, Rise like leaves in a whirlwind and float like leaves blown, So the wants chased the riders and fought for their own. Unseen by the riders, from the myriad tense brains Came the living thoughts flying to clutch at men's reins, Clearing paths for their darlings by running in cry At the heads of their rivals till the darlings gat by. As in football, when forwards heave all in a pack, With their arms round each other and their heels heeling back, And their bodies all straining, as they heave, and men fall, And the halves hover hawklike to pounce on the ball, And the runners poise ready, while the mass of hot men Heaves and slips, like rough bullocks making play in a pen, And the crowd sees the heaving, and is still, till it break, So the riders endeavoured as they strained for the stake. They skimmed through the grassland, they came to the plough, The wind rushed behind them like the waves from a prow, The clods rose behind them with speckles of gold From the iron-crusht coltsfoot flung up from the mould. All green was the plough with the thrusts of young corn, Pools gleamed in the ruts that the cartwheels had worn, And Kubbadar's man wished he had not been born. Natuna was weary and dwelt on her stride, Grey Glory's grey tail rolled about, side to side. Then swish, came a shower, from a driving grey cloud Though the blue sky shone brightly and the larks sang aloud. As the squall of rain pelted, the coloured caps bowed, With Thankful still leading and Monkery close, The hoofs smacked the clayland, the flying clods rose. They slowed on the clayland, the rain pelted by, The end of a rainbow gleamed out in the sky; Natuna dropped back till Charles heard her complain, Grey Glory's forequarters seemed hung on his rein, Cimmeroon clearly was feeling the strain. But the little Gavotte skimmed the clay like a witch, Charles saw her coquet as she went at Jim's Pitch. They went at Jim's Pitch, through the deeply dug gaps Where the hoofs of great horses had kicked off the scraps, And there at the water they met with mishaps, For Natuna stopped dead and Grey Glory went in And a cannon on landing upset Cross-Molin. As swallows bound northward when apple-bloom blows, See laggards drop spent from their flight as it goes, Yet can pause not in Heaven as they scythe the thin air But go on to the house-eaves and the nests clinging bare, So Charles flashed beyond them, those three men the less Who had gone to get glory and met with distress. He rode to the rise-top, and saw, down the slope, The race far ahead at a steady strong lope Going over the grassland, too well for his peace, They were steady as oxen and strong as wild geese.