A Poetry of Exiles By Douglas B. W. Sladen: An Australian colonist: Second edition, revised |
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THE FIRST OF SEPTEMBER. |
 | A Poetry of Exiles |  |
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THE FIRST OF SEPTEMBER.
Grouse shooting's grand in August: for the first of fair September,
Pleasant it was to wend his way back to familiar Kent,
To shoot through fields and hop-gardens in which he could remember
Each rise and dip, and gap and gate, that met him as he went.
Pleasant it was to wend his way back to familiar Kent,
To shoot through fields and hop-gardens in which he could remember
Each rise and dip, and gap and gate, that met him as he went.
In that 12-acre paddock there he brought down his first partridge,
Before the season, 'mid the hoots of reapers looking on;
And his grandfather on that knoll fired off his latest cartridge,
The day that his long pilgrimage of eighty years was done.
Before the season, 'mid the hoots of reapers looking on;
And his grandfather on that knoll fired off his latest cartridge,
The day that his long pilgrimage of eighty years was done.
That's the first gate he ever took upon the old grey pony;
To that oak copse his father oft to meet his mother crept,
And down the road that rounds the hill he drove with just one crony,
To marry her at Harbledown, while all the “big house” slept.
To that oak copse his father oft to meet his mother crept,
And down the road that rounds the hill he drove with just one crony,
To marry her at Harbledown, while all the “big house” slept.
There stands the hall where he was born, with chimney-stacks and gables
In the Elizabethan style, and crown-glass window-panes,
And with a courtyard built all round with outhouses and stables,
Of old red brick, suffused with brown by sun and weather stains.
In the Elizabethan style, and crown-glass window-panes,
And with a courtyard built all round with outhouses and stables,
Of old red brick, suffused with brown by sun and weather stains.
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He longs to go back home and have a walk with the old keeper,
Who taught him how to hold a gun, and set up the goshawk,
That was his earliest trophy—shot just where the edge grows steeper,
And hangs above the Roman road, a crumbling cliff of chalk.
Who taught him how to hold a gun, and set up the goshawk,
That was his earliest trophy—shot just where the edge grows steeper,
And hangs above the Roman road, a crumbling cliff of chalk.
He longs to go back home and have a shoot with his old neighbours,
With those who'd shared his holidays, since holidays he had,
And were his mates and rivals in all country sports and labours
Upon the ancient manor, ever since he was a lad.
With those who'd shared his holidays, since holidays he had,
And were his mates and rivals in all country sports and labours
Upon the ancient manor, ever since he was a lad.
And he'd love a stiff day's walking, and his father to dispute his
Supremacy with bird for bird from dawn to fall of night,
In undulating plough-fields, where the speckled little beauties
Might rise from any rise one topped, a dozen at a flight;
Supremacy with bird for bird from dawn to fall of night,
In undulating plough-fields, where the speckled little beauties
Might rise from any rise one topped, a dozen at a flight;
Or to work a field of turnips with his favourite Gordon setter,
Unheedful of the dew that lies in Autumn on the “Roots,”
Until a shiver told him that he'd “had a thorough wetter,”
Above, and in between, and through his gaiters and his boots;
Unheedful of the dew that lies in Autumn on the “Roots,”
Until a shiver told him that he'd “had a thorough wetter,”
Above, and in between, and through his gaiters and his boots;
And to see his cousin Maggie, looking most divinely pretty,
With her blush and smile of welcome and her gauzy dinner-dress,
The feathered quarry finger with a tender touch of pity,
To alloy her exultation, and enhance her loveliness.
With her blush and smile of welcome and her gauzy dinner-dress,
The feathered quarry finger with a tender touch of pity,
To alloy her exultation, and enhance her loveliness.
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Her cheeks had not the rose, her hair was russet and not golden,
Her eyes if blue at all, were not “hall-marked” in their sky hue;
Yet needed it no lover's eye the viewer to embolden,
To match her with the wearers of the gold and of the blue.
Her eyes if blue at all, were not “hall-marked” in their sky hue;
Yet needed it no lover's eye the viewer to embolden,
To match her with the wearers of the gold and of the blue.
| A Poetry of Exiles | |