HAWKING, A BALLAD
Made at Falconers' Hall, Yorkshire
Come, sportsmen, away—the morning how fair!
To the wolds, to the wolds, let us quickly repair;
Bold Thunder
and Lightning
are mad for the game,
And Death
and the Devil
are both in a flame.
See, Backers
, a kite!—a mere speck in the sky—
Zounds! out with the owl—lo, he catches his eye—
Down he comes with a sweep—be unhooded each hawk;
Very soon will they both to the gentleman talk.
They're at him—he's off—now they're o'er him again:
Ah! that was a stroke—see! he drops to the plain—
They rake him—they tear him—he flutters, he cries,
He struggles, he turns up his talons, and dies.
See, a magpie; let fly—how he flutters and shambles!
How he chatters, poor rogue! now he darts to the brambles:
Out again—overtaken—his spirits now flag—
Flip! he gives up the ghost—good night Mister Mag.
Lo, a heron! let loose—how he pokes his long neck,
And darts, with what vengeance, but vainly, his beak!
Egad, he shifts well—now he feels a death-wound,
And, with Thunder and Lightning rolls tumbling to ground.
Thus we falconers sport—now homewards we stray,
To fight o'er the bottle, the wars of the day:
And in honour, at night, of the chase and its charms,
Sink sweetly to rest, with a dove in our arms.
