 | English Roses |  |
FOX HUNTING.
It is O the pink jacket, the fox is away!
And with rushing and racket and scorn of delay
We must find him, and follow (by hill and through hollow)
Our best without rest—he has led us astray.
Ha, the hounds are not sleeping, their bellies that pass
With a swish and a sweeping dash dew from the grass;
With a smother of dust, stretching out in the lust
Of their passion to kill,
Long and sinewed and lean, going fast, going clean;
With their sterns all upstanding and stiff, no commanding—
One tempest of will!
Noses down, see them tearing stem on, white and black—
While the Whips do the swearing,—Ah dead on the track.
And with rushing and racket and scorn of delay
We must find him, and follow (by hill and through hollow)
Our best without rest—he has led us astray.
Ha, the hounds are not sleeping, their bellies that pass
With a swish and a sweeping dash dew from the grass;
With a smother of dust, stretching out in the lust
Of their passion to kill,
Long and sinewed and lean, going fast, going clean;
With their sterns all upstanding and stiff, no commanding—
One tempest of will!
Noses down, see them tearing stem on, white and black—
While the Whips do the swearing,—Ah dead on the track.
And the mob of mere lubbers who fancy they ride,
But will soon get good rubbers to peel off their pride!
For the pace runs too hotly to please things so motley,
Who trail in a tail and like sacks all astride,
There is emptied a saddle, and souse for the ditch!
While the owner may paddle home, glad of the hitch
Which has held man and steed from a crueler need
And the bitterest end;
Safer both in the stall, and preserved by the fall;
And if hard words are spoken, no limbs have been broken—
Collapse is a friend.
And far better such courses that part for a day,
Than the dirty divorces that law sends to stay.
But will soon get good rubbers to peel off their pride!
For the pace runs too hotly to please things so motley,
Who trail in a tail and like sacks all astride,
There is emptied a saddle, and souse for the ditch!
While the owner may paddle home, glad of the hitch
Which has held man and steed from a crueler need
And the bitterest end;
347
And if hard words are spoken, no limbs have been broken—
Collapse is a friend.
And far better such courses that part for a day,
Than the dirty divorces that law sends to stay.
It is hurry and hustle, the boot and the spur,
With a burst and a bustle to catch the red fur!
For the strongest will stumble, the Master may tumble
And stones break our bones—but we do not demur.
O the beautiful horses, each colour and kind,
Fire incarnate, and forces as fleet as the wind!
Loose the reins, give them head, for the haunches to spread
And the legs get their reach.
Tally ho! This is life sweet as battle's own strife,
If at times is a blunder and somebody under—
One fortune to each!
If you spill, sir, your nieces (the right girls to wed)
Will yet pick up the pieces—unless they are ahead.
With a burst and a bustle to catch the red fur!
For the strongest will stumble, the Master may tumble
And stones break our bones—but we do not demur.
O the beautiful horses, each colour and kind,
Fire incarnate, and forces as fleet as the wind!
Loose the reins, give them head, for the haunches to spread
And the legs get their reach.
Tally ho! This is life sweet as battle's own strife,
If at times is a blunder and somebody under—
One fortune to each!
If you spill, sir, your nieces (the right girls to wed)
Will yet pick up the pieces—unless they are ahead.
It's the madness of motion, the splendour of speed;
And the doctor's best potion is nothing in need,
When the system is ailing, to glorious sailing
On turf like the surf and a fox-hunter's creed.
Why, the first is a lady—God bless her blue eyes!—
And the next is O'Grady; by Jove, how he flies!
But his language were best not repeated, if guessed—
He is Irish, you know.
There's a cropper for one, and most handsomely done!
Now he's up, Major Billy, not hurt nor his filly—
They make a grand show.
It is saddle and bridle, the stirrup and steel,
And none care to be idle but cowards at heel.
And the doctor's best potion is nothing in need,
When the system is ailing, to glorious sailing
On turf like the surf and a fox-hunter's creed.
Why, the first is a lady—God bless her blue eyes!—
And the next is O'Grady; by Jove, how he flies!
But his language were best not repeated, if guessed—
He is Irish, you know.
There's a cropper for one, and most handsomely done!
Now he's up, Major Billy, not hurt nor his filly—
They make a grand show.
It is saddle and bridle, the stirrup and steel,
And none care to be idle but cowards at heel.
There's our reverend Parson, a wonderful weight,
With his face flaming arson and no Sunday freight,
Taking bullfinch and fences—without false pretences,
And sure and secure—as his sermons—and straight!
He sits down and is steady and true as the Church
And for anything ready, howe'er he may lurch.
But his brother, whose pipe is more lov'd if less ripe
In a different sphere,
I discern not—his taste runs to words and to waste;
And our friend, Little Zion, that roars like a lion
At home, is not here.
Across fallows and hedges the Rector rides true,
Sharpening wits and their edges, and gets all his due.
With his face flaming arson and no Sunday freight,
Taking bullfinch and fences—without false pretences,
And sure and secure—as his sermons—and straight!
348
And for anything ready, howe'er he may lurch.
But his brother, whose pipe is more lov'd if less ripe
In a different sphere,
I discern not—his taste runs to words and to waste;
And our friend, Little Zion, that roars like a lion
At home, is not here.
Across fallows and hedges the Rector rides true,
Sharpening wits and their edges, and gets all his due.
It is O the pink jacket, the Fox is awake,
With a goose in his packet he will not forsake;
He's a hardened old sinner, but of his fat dinner
We yet ere sunset with him soon must partake.
This is fun, this is living twice over the day,
And it's well worth the giving of pastime and pay;
If the pleasure be short, it is certain and sport
Of the merriest kind,
Tally ho! see the brush, as we close with a rush
And the wildest of whooping, hangs down its last drooping
That draggles behind.
Two or three of us in it—the white and the tan—
Twenty years in a minute—a game for a man.
With a goose in his packet he will not forsake;
He's a hardened old sinner, but of his fat dinner
We yet ere sunset with him soon must partake.
This is fun, this is living twice over the day,
And it's well worth the giving of pastime and pay;
If the pleasure be short, it is certain and sport
Of the merriest kind,
Tally ho! see the brush, as we close with a rush
And the wildest of whooping, hangs down its last drooping
That draggles behind.
Two or three of us in it—the white and the tan—
Twenty years in a minute—a game for a man.
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