The horns ring and the bells chime
Room in the lists for no pantomime
Lads atop boney old nags
Stylized of coursers
Of course and manner
Leading the charge, yet fields behind
In all courage, hair flying
Without fear and without crying
Under hoof and boot, to carry forth
Towards lands of unending fame
Yet how quickly the arrow flies
To make his mount lame
And familiarize his clear face
With the dirt, fear and famine
Hidden so plainly within his race