Strathcona's Horse

O I was thine, and thou wert mine, and

    ours the boundless plain,

Where the winds of the North, my gallant

    steed, ruffled thy tawny mane,

But the summons hath come with roll of drum,

    and bugles ringing shrill,

Startling the prairie antelope, the grizzly of the

    hill.

'Tis the voice of Empire calling, and the child-

    ren gather fast

From every land where the cross bar floats out

    from the quivering mast;

So into the saddle I leap, my own, with bridle

    swinging free,

And thy hoofbeats shall answer the trumpets

    blowing across the sea.

Then proudly toss thy head aloft, nor think of

    the foe to-morrow,

For he who dares to stay our course drinks

    deep of the Cup of Sorrow.

Thy form hath pressed the meadow's breast,

    where the sullen grey wolf hides,

The great red river of the North hath cooled

    thy burning sides;

Together we've slept while the tempest swept

    the Rockies' glittering chain;

And many a day the bronze centaur hath gal-

    loped behind in vain.

But the sweet wild grass of mountain pass, and

    the battlefields far away,

And the trail that ends where Empire trends,

    is the trail we ride to-day.

But proudly toss thy head aloft, nor think of

    the foe to-morrow,

For he who bars Strathcona's Horse, drinks

    deep of the Cup of Sorrow.