WITH THE CHIDDINGFOLDS
The horse is bedded down
Where the straw lies deep.
The hound is in the kennel;
Let the poor hound sleep!
And the fox is in the spinney
By the run which he is
haunting,
And I’ll lay an even guinea
That a goose or two is wanting
When the farmer comes to count them in the morning.
The horse is up and
saddled;
Girth the old horse tight!
The hounds are out and drawing
In the morning light.
Now it’s ‘Yoick!’ among the
heather,
And it’s
‘Yoick!’ across the clover,
And it’s ‘To him, all
together!’
‘Hyke a Bertha! Hyke a
Rover!’
And the woodlands smell so sweetly in the morning.
‘There’s
Termagant a-whimpering;
She whimpers so.’
‘There’s a young hound
yapping!’
Let the young hound go!
But the old hound is cunning,
And it’s him we mean to
follow,
‘They are running! They are running!
And it’s ‘Forrard to
the hollo!’
For the scent is lying strongly in the morning.
‘Who’s the fool
that heads him?’
Hold hard, and let him pass!
He’s out among the oziers
He’s clear upon the
grass.
You grip his flanks and settle,
For the horse is stretched and
straining,
Here’s a game to test your mettle,
And a sport to try your
training,
When the Chiddingfolds are running in the morning.
We’re up by the
Coppice
And we’re down by the
Mill,
We’re out upon the Common,
And the hounds are running
still.
You must tighten on the leather,
For we blunder through the
bracken;
Though you’re over hocks in heather
Still the pace must never
slacken
As we race through Thursley Common in the morning.
We are breaking from the tangle
We are out upon the green,
There’s a bank and a hurdle
With a quickset between.
You must steady him and try it,
You are over with a scramble.
Here’s a wattle! You must fly it,
And you land among the bramble,
For it’s roughish, toughish going in the morning.
’Ware the bog by the
Grove
As you pound through the slush.
See the whip! See the huntsman!
We are close upon his brush.
’Ware the root that lies before you!
It will trip you if you
blunder.
’Ware the branch that’s drooping o’er
you!
You must dip and swerve from
under
As you gallop through the woodland in the morning.
There were fifty at the
find,
There were forty at the mill,
There were twenty on the heath,
And ten are going still.
Some are pounded, some are shirking,
And they dwindle and diminish
Till a weary pair are working,
Spent and blowing, to the
finish,
And we hear the shrill whoo-ooping in the morning.
The horse is bedded down
Where the straw lies deep,
The hound is in the kennel,
He is yapping in his sleep.
But the fox is in the spinney
Lying snug in earth and burrow.
And I’ll lay an even guinea
We could find again to-morrow,
If we chose to go a-hunting in the morning.
A HUNTING MORNING
Put the saddle on the mare,
For the wet winds blow;
There’s winter in the air,
And autumn all below.
For the red leaves are flying
And the red bracken dying,
And the red fox lying
Where the oziers grow.
Put the bridle on the mare,
For my blood runs chill;
And my heart, it is there,
On the heather-tufted hill,
With the
gray skies o’er us,
And the long-drawn chorus
Of a running pack before us
From the find to the kill.
Then lead round the mare,
For it’s time that we began,
And away with thought and care,
Save to live and be a man,
While the keen air is blowing,
And the huntsman holloing,
And the black mare going
As the black mare can.
THE OLD GRAY FOX
We started from the Valley Pride,
And Farnham way we went.
We waited at the cover-side,
But never found a scent.
Then we tried the withy beds
Which grow by Frensham town,
And there we found the old gray fox,
The same old fox,
The game old fox;
Yes, there we found the old gray fox,
Which lives on Hankley Down.
So here’s
to the master,
And here’s
to the man!
And here’s to twenty
couple
Of the white and black and tan!
Here’s a find without a wait!
Here’s a hedge without a gate!
Here’s the man who follows straight,
Where the old fox ran.
The Member rode his thoroughbred,
Doctor had the gray,
The Soldier led on a roan red,
The Sailor rode the bay.
Squire was there on his Irish mare,
And Parson on the brown;
And so we chased the old gray fox,
The same old fox,
The game old fox,
And so we chased the old gray fox
Across the Hankley Down.
So here’s
to the master,
And here’s
to the man!
&c. &c. &c.
The Doctor’s gray was going strong
Until she slipped and fell;
He had to keep his bed so long
His patients all got well.
The Member he had lost his seat,
’Twas carried by his horse;
And so we chased the old gray fox,
The same old fox,
The game old fox;
And so we chased the old gray fox
That earthed in Hankley Gorse.
So here’s
to the master,
And here’s
to the man!
&c. &c. &c.
The Parson sadly fell away,
And in the furze did lie;
The words we heard that Parson say
Made all the horses shy!
The Sailor
he was seen no more
Upon that stormy bay;
But still we chased the old gray fox,
The same old fox,
The game old fox;
Still we chased the old gray fox
Through all the winter day.
So here’s
to the master,
And here’s
to the man!
&c. &c. &c.
And when we found him gone to ground,
They sent for spade and man;
But Squire said ‘Shame! The beast was game!
A gamer never ran!
His wind and pace have gained the race,
His life is fairly won.
But may
we meet the old gray fox,
The same old fox,
The game old fox;
May we meet the old gray fox
Before the year is done.
So here’s
to the master,
And here’s
to the man!
And here’s to twenty
couple
Of the white and black and tan!
Here’s a find without
await!
Here’s a hedge without a
gate!
Here’s the man who follows
straight,
Where the old
fox ran.
’WARE HOLES
[‘’Ware Holes!’ is the expression used in the hunting-field to warn those behind against rabbit-burrows or other such dangers.]
A sportin’ death! My word it
was!
An’ taken in a sportin’ way.
Mind you, I wasn’t there to see;
I only tell you what they say.
They found that day at Shillinglee,
An’ ran ’im down to Chillinghurst;
The fox was goin’ straight an’ free
For ninety minutes at a burst.
They ’ad a check at Ebernoe
An’ made a cast across the Down,
Until they got a view ’ullo
An’ chased ’im up to Kirdford town.
From Kirdford ’e run Bramber way,
An’ took ’em over ’alf the
Weald.
If you ’ave tried the Sussex clay,
You’ll guess it weeded out the field.
Until at last I don’t suppose
As ’arf a dozen, at the most,
Came safe to where the grassland goes
Switchbackin’ southwards to the coast.
Young Captain ’Eadley, ’e was
there,
And Jim the whip an’ Percy Day;
The Purcells an’ Sir Charles Adair,
An’ this ’ere gent from London way.
For ’e ’ad gone amazin’
fine,
Two ’undred pounds between ’is knees;
Eight stone he was, an’ rode at nine,
As light an’ limber as you please.
’E was a stranger to the ’Unt,
There weren’t a person as ’e knew
there;
But ’e could ride, that London gent—
’E sat ’is mare as if ’e grew
there.
They seed the ’ounds upon the scent,
But found a fence across their track,
And ’ad to fly it; else it meant
A turnin’ and a ’arkin’ back.
’E was the foremost at the fence,
And as ’is mare just cleared the rail
He turned to them that rode be’ind,
For three was at ’is very tail.
‘’Ware ’oles!’ says
’e, an’ with the word,
Still sittin’ easy on his mare,
Down, down ’e went, an’ down an’ down,
Into the quarry yawnin’ there.
Some say it was two ’undred foot;
The bottom lay as black as ink.
I guess they ’ad some ugly dreams,
Who reined their ’orses on the brink.
’E’d only time for that one cry;
‘’Ware ’oles!’ says
’e, an’ saves all three.
There may be better deaths to die,
But that one’s good enough for me.
For mind you, ’twas a sportin’
end,
Upon a right good sportin’ day;
They think a deal of ’im down ’ere,
That gent what came from London way.
THE HOME-COMING OF THE ‘EURYDICE’
[Lost, with her crew of three hundred boys, on the last day of her voyage, March 23, 1876. She foundered off Portsmouth, from which town many of the boys came.]
Up with the royals that top the white spread of
her!
Press her and dress her, and drive through the
foam;
The Island’s to port, and the mainland ahead of her,
Hey for the Warner and Hayling and Home!
Bo’sun, O Bo’sun, just look at the
green of it!
Look at the red cattle down by the hedge!
Look at
the farmsteading—all that is seen of it,
One little gable end over the edge!’
‘Lord! the tongues of them clattering,
clattering,
All growing wild at a peep of the Wight;
Aye, sir, aye, it has set them all chattering,
Thinking of home and their mothers
to-night.’
Spread the topgallants—oh, lay them out
lustily!
What though it darken o’er Netherby Combe?
’Tis but the valley wind, puffing so gustily—
On for the Warner and Hayling and Home!
‘Bo’sun, O Bo’sun, just see
the long slope of it!
Culver is there, with the cliff and the light.
Tell us,
oh tell us, now is there a hope of it?
Shall we have leave for our homes for
to-night?’
‘Tut, the clack of them!
Steadily! Steadily!
Aye, as you say, sir, they’re little ones
still;
One long reach should open it readily,
Round by St. Helens and under the hill.
‘The Spit and the Nab are the gates of
the promise,
Their mothers to them—and to us it’s our
wives.
I’ve sailed forty years, and—By God it’s upon
us!
Down royals, Down top’sles, down, down, for
your lives!’
A grey swirl of snow with the squall at the back of
it,
Heeling her, reeling her, beating her down!
A gleam of her bends in the thick of the wrack of it,
A flutter of white in the eddies of brown.
It broke in one moment of blizzard and
blindness;
The next, like a foul bat, it flapped on its way.
But our ship and our boys! Gracious Lord, in your
kindness,
Give help to the mothers who need it to-day!
Give help to the women who wait by the
water,
Who stand on the Hard with their eyes past the
Wight.
Ah! whisper it gently, you sister or daughter,
‘Our boys are all gathered at home for
to-night.’
THE INNER ROOM
It is mine—the little chamber,
Mine alone.
I had it from my forbears
Years agone.
Yet within its walls I see
A most motley company,
And they one and all claim me
As their own.
There’s one who is a soldier
Bluff and keen;
Single-minded, heavy-fisted,
Rude of mien.
He would
gain a purse or stake it,
He would win a heart or break it,
He would give a life or take it,
Conscience-clean.
And near him is a priest
Still schism-whole;
He loves the censer-reek
And organ-roll.
He has leanings to the mystic,
Sacramental, eucharistic;
And dim yearnings altruistic
Thrill his soul.
There’s another who with doubts
Is overcast;
I think him younger brother
To the last.
Walking
wary stride by stride,
Peering forwards anxious-eyed,
Since he learned to doubt his guide
In the past.
And ’mid them all, alert,
But somewhat cowed,
There sits a stark-faced fellow,
Beetle-browed,
Whose black soul shrinks away
From a lawyer-ridden day,
And has thoughts he dare not say
Half avowed.
There are others who are sitting,
Grim as doom,
In the dim ill-boding shadow
Of my room.
Darkling
figures, stern or quaint,
Now a savage, now a saint,
Showing fitfully and faint
Through the gloom.
And those shadows are so dense,
There may be
Many—very many—more
Than I see.
They are sitting day and night
Soldier, rogue, and anchorite;
And they wrangle and they fight
Over me.
If the stark-faced fellow win,
All is o’er!
If the priest should gain his will
I doubt no more!
But if
each shall have his day,
I shall swing and I shall sway
In the same old weary way
As before.
THE IRISH COLONEL
Said the king to the colonel,
‘The complaints are eternal,
That you Irish give more trouble
Than any other corps.’
Said the colonel to the king,
‘This complaint is no new thing,
For your foemen, sire, have made it
A hundred times before.’
THE BLIND ARCHER
Little boy Love drew his bow at a chance,
Shooting down at the ballroom floor;
He hit an old chaperone watching the dance,
And oh! but he wounded her sore.
‘Hey, Love, you
couldn’t mean that!
Hi, Love, what would you be
at?’
No word would he
say,
But he flew on
his way,
For the little boy’s busy, and how could he stay?
Little boy Love drew a shaft just for sport
At the soberest club in Pall Mall;
He winged an old veteran drinking his port,
And down that old veteran fell.
‘Hey, Love, you mustn’t
do that!
Hi, Love, what would you be at?
This cannot be
right!
It’s
ludicrous quite!’
But it’s no use to argue, for Love’s out of
sight.
A sad-faced young clerk in a cell all apart
Was planning a celibate vow;
But the boy’s random arrow has sunk in his heart,
And the cell is an empty one now.
‘Hey, Love, you
mustn’t do that!
Hi, Love, what would you be at?
He is not for
you,
He has duties to
do.’
‘But I am his duty,’ quoth Love as he
flew.
The king sought a bride, and the nation had
hoped
For a queen without rival or peer.
But the
little boy shot, and the king has eloped
With Miss No-one on Nothing a year.
‘Hey, Love, you
couldn’t mean that!
Hi, Love, what would you be at?
What an impudent
thing
To make game of
a king!’
‘But I’m a king also,’ cried Love on the
wing.
Little boy Love grew pettish one day;
‘If you keep on complaining,’ he
swore,
‘I’ll pack both my bow and my quiver away,
And so I shall plague you no more.’
‘Hey, Love, you
mustn’t do that!
Hi, Love, what would you be at?
You may ruin our
ease,
You may do what
you please,
But we can’t do without you, you dear little
tease!’
A PARABLE
The cheese-mites asked how the cheese got
there,
And warmly debated the matter;
The Orthodox said that it came from the air,
And the Heretics said from the platter.
They argued it long and they argued it strong,
And I hear they are arguing now;
But of all the choice spirits who lived in the cheese,
Not one of them thought of a cow,
A TRAGEDY
Who’s that walking on the moorland?
Who’s that moving on the hill?
They are passing ’mid the bracken,
But the shadows grow and blacken
And I cannot see them clearly on the hill.
Who’s that calling on the moorland?
Who’s that crying on the hill?
Was it bird or was it human,
Was it child, or man, or woman,
Who was calling so sadly on the hill?
Who’s that running on the moorland?
Who’s that flying on the hill?
He is there—and there again,
But you cannot see him plain,
For the shadow lies so darkly on the hill.
What’s that lying in the heather?
What’s that lurking on the hill?
My horse will go no nearer,
And I cannot see it clearer,
But there’s something that is lying on the
hill.
THE PASSING
It was the hour of dawn,
When the heart beats thin and small,
The window glimmered grey,
Framed in a shadow wall.
And in the cold sad light
Of the early morningtide,
The dear dead girl came back
And stood by his bedside.
The girl he lost came back:
He saw her flowing hair;
It flickered and it waved
Like a breath in frosty air.
As in a steamy glass,
Her face was dim and blurred;
Her voice was sweet and thin,
Like the calling of a bird.
‘You said that you would come,
You promised not to stay;
And I have waited here,
To help you on the way.
‘I have waited on,
But still you bide below;
You said that you would come,
And oh, I want you so!
‘For half my soul is here,
And half my soul is there,
When you are on the earth
And I am in the air.
‘But on your dressing-stand
There lies a triple key;
Unlock the little gate
Which fences you from me.
‘Just one little pang,
Just one throb of pain,
And then your weary head
Between my breasts again.’
In the dim unhomely light
Of the early morningtide,
He took the triple key
And he laid it by his side.
A pistol, silver chased,
An open hunting knife,
A phial of the drug
Which cures the ill of life.
He looked upon the three,
And sharply drew his breath:
‘Now help me, oh my love,
For I fear this cold grey death.’
She bent her face above,
She kissed him and she smiled;
She soothed him as a mother
May sooth a frightened child.
‘Just that little pang, love,
Just a throb of pain,
And then your weary head
Between my breasts again.’
He snatched the pistol up,
He pressed it to his ear;
But a sudden sound broke in,
And his skin was raw with fear.
He took the hunting knife,
He tried to raise the blade;
It glimmered cold and white,
And he was sore afraid.
He poured the potion out,
But it was thick and brown;
His throat was sealed against it,
And he could not drain it down.
He looked to her for help,
And when he looked—behold!
His love was there before him
As in the days of old.
He saw the drooping head,
He saw the gentle eyes;
He saw the same shy grace of hers
He had been wont to prize.
She pointed and she smiled,
And lo! he was aware
Of a half-lit bedroom chamber
And a silent figure there.
A silent figure lying
A-sprawl upon a bed,
With a silver-mounted pistol
Still clotted to his head.
And as he downward gazed,
Her voice came full and clear,
The homely tender voice
Which he had loved to hear:
‘The key is very certain,
The door is sealed to none.
You did it, oh, my darling!
And you never knew it done.
‘When the net was broken,
You thought you felt its mesh;
You carried to the spirit
The troubles of the flesh.
‘And are you trembling still, dear?
Then let me take your hand;
And I will lead you outward
To a sweet and restful land.
‘You know how once in London
I put my griefs on you;
But I can carry yours now—
Most sweet it is to do!
‘Most sweet it is to do, love,
And very sweet to plan
How I, the helpless woman,
Can help the helpful man.
‘But let me see you smiling
With the smile I know so well;
Forget the world of shadows,
And the empty broken shell.
‘It is the worn-out garment
In which you tore a rent;
You tossed it down, and carelessly
Upon your way you went.
‘It is not you, my sweetheart,
For you are here with me.
That frame was but the promise of
The thing that was to be—
‘A tuning of the choir
Ere the harmonies begin;
And yet it is the image
Of the subtle thing within.
‘There’s not a trick of body,
There’s not a trait of mind,
But you bring it over with you,
Ethereal, refined,
‘But still the same; for surely
If we alter as we die,
You would be you no longer,
And I would not be I.
‘I might be an angel,
But not the girl you knew;
You might be immaculate,
But that would not be you.
‘And now I see you smiling,
So, darling, take my hand;
And I will lead you outward
To a sweet and pleasant land,
‘Where thought is clear and nimble,
Where life is pure and fresh,
Where the soul comes back rejoicing
From the mud-bath of the flesh
‘But still that soul is human,
With human ways, and so
I love my love in spirit,
As I loved him long ago.’
So with hands together
And fingers twining tight,
The two dead lovers drifted
In the golden morning light.
But a grey-haired man was lying
Beneath them on a bed,
With a silver-mounted pistol
Still clotted to his head.
THE
FRANKLIN’S MAID
(From ‘The White Company’)
The franklin he hath gone to roam,
The franklin’s maid she bides at home;
But she is cold, and coy, and staid,
And who may win the franklin’s maid?
There came a knight of high renown
In bassinet and ciclatoun;
On bended knee full long he prayed—
He might not win the franklin’s maid.
There came a squire so debonair,
His dress was rich, his words were fair.
He sweetly sang, he deftly played—
He could not win the franklin’s maid.
There came a mercer wonder-fine,
With velvet cap and gaberdine;
For all his ships, for all his trade,
He could not buy the franklin’s maid.
There came an archer bold and true,
With bracer guard and stave of yew;
His purse was light, his jerkin frayed—
Haro, alas! the franklin’s maid!
Oh, some have laughed and some have cried,
And some have scoured the countryside;
But off they ride through wood and glade,
The bowman and the franklin’s maid.
THE OLD HUNTSMAN
There’s a keen and grim old huntsman
On a horse as white as snow;
Sometimes he is very swift
And sometimes he is slow.
But he never is at fault,
For he always hunts at view
And he rides without a halt
After you.
The huntsman’s name is Death,
His horse’s name is Time;
He is coming, he is coming
As I sit and write this rhyme;
He is
coming, he is coming,
As you read the rhyme I write;
You can hear the hoofs’ low drumming
Day and night.
You can hear the distant drumming
As the clock goes tick-a-tack,
And the chiming of the hours
Is the music of his pack.
You may hardly note their growling
Underneath the noonday sun,
But at night you hear them howling
As they run.
And they never check or falter
For they never miss their kill;
Seasons change and systems alter,
But the hunt is running still.
Hark!
the evening chime is playing,
O’er the long grey town it peals;
Don’t you hear the death-hound baying
At your heels?
Where is there an earth or burrow?
Where a cover left for you?
A year, a week, perhaps to-morrow
Brings the Huntsman’s death halloo!
Day by day he gains upon us,
And the most that we can claim
Is that when the hounds are on us
We die game.
And somewhere dwells the Master,
By whom it was decreed;
He sent the savage huntsman,
He bred the snow-white steed.
These
hounds which run for ever,
He set them on your track;
He hears you scream, but never
Calls them back.
He does not heed our suing,
We never see his face;
He hunts to our undoing,
We thank him for the chase.
We thank him and we flatter,
We hope—because we must—
But have we cause? No matter!
Let us trust!
PRINTED
BY
SPOTTISWOODE SALLANTYNE AND CO., LTD.,
LONDON
COLCHESTER AND ETON