The Artist By 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.

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