Can a horseman turn from his heart's desire at the stroke of a statesman's pen?
Can we learn to fight from a motor-car—we who were mounted men?
In a petrol-tank and a sparking-plug shall we strive to put our trust,
And hang our spurs as a souvenir to gather reproachful rust?
Shall we never again ride knee to knee in the pomp of squadron line,
With head-ropes white as a mountain drift and curb chains all a-shine?
Will they dawn no more, those glorious days when the world seemed all our own,
Who rode as scouts on an errant quest, alive, alert, alone?
Can a man be made by a motor-car as a man is made by a horse,
With strength in his back and legs and arms, and a brain of swift resource?