University of Virginia Library

THE POACHER:

A TALE FROM REAL LIFE.

This subject wants no Muse the breast t' inspire,
Deep learning,—nor the Apollonian lyre;
Fine tropes and figures here can nought avail,
'Tis but a plain and simple rustic tale,—
A tale of poachers, partridge, grouse, and hares,
Gamekeepers' acts, their dangers and their fears;
And who the persons that are most to blame,
Or those who buy, or those who steal the game.
But in description little is my pow'r,—
I never took a hare at midnight hour;
Experience cannot teach me how to sing,—
My shot ne'er broke the pheasant's glossy wing:
No partridge in my hands, resigned its breath,
Nor moor-cock closed its beauteous eyes in death;
For when I found them young upon the bent,
Far from their nests in sympathy I went.
Though low the theme, yet lords it has engaged,
And famous knights have oft at poachers raged.
They act such deeds as make e'en barons swear,
Break down their fine park walls and take the deer;
In every hedge suspend the murd'ring snares,
And from their best preserves fetch bags of hares.
Nor is it strange—a child may know the cause
Why daring poachers break the nation's law;
When for one night they gain far more reward
Than for a week of honest labour hard.
Game laws, they think, are made by greedy elves,
Who want the free-created game themselves;
The partridge, snipe, and grouse, for aught they know,
Belong to them just equal with the crow.
The youthful poacher first a terrier keeps,
And where the conies haunt oft slily creeps,
Till one is caught,—and then the foolish boy
Is elevated with a ruinous joy.
His parents chide not, nor his actions blame,
But praise his skill, and gladly take the game.
Growing in vice, such implements he gets
As powder, shot, a fowling-piece, and nets.
His parents then too late their follies see,
Pass days of grief, and nights of misery!
Absent from home—he ranges far and wide,
His comrades are his ruin and his pride;
Daily they spend the money they obtain;
Half drunk at night they sally forth again:
Dangers on ev'ry side they heedless scorn,
If they with hares and pheasants can return!
Ignotus was a man who work could get,
Had he not more than working loved his net;
On the brown fallow he the grain could throw,
Could use a flail, a sickle, scythe, or hoe;
To rustic youths he had no cause to yield,
A better workman seldom took the field;
Had not his failing been the death of hares,
Keeping a dog, and making nets and snares.
An old experienced poacher, nearly done,
Who scarce could walk, yet gloried in the fun,
Learnt him to call, and how to temper wire,
With rushes, straw, or shavings set on fire;
Told him what money on a night he made,
When he was young, and fewer of the trade;
An evening long he lengthened out his tale,
Spoke of his feasts on spirits, beef, and ale,
Then praised the persons who had bought his hares,—
Forgot his wants, his mis'ries, and his cares!
Though old, infirm, and racked with many a pain,
He almost wished to pass such nights again!
When sportsmen some notorious poachers fine,
On game at taverns they should never dine,
For fear it was their own the week before,
Hung in their parks, or shot upon the moor!
But here we scarce can tavern-keepers blame—
They wish to have a wide extended fame;
And but for poachers, what could such men do,
When for a feast they want a hare or two?
If there be supper, or a private ball,
Be there no game, it does not please at all;
The beaux and belles go home dissatisfied
With ev'ry dainty, roasted, baked, or fried.
The ladies blame the master of the house,
If in the feast there be nor snipes nor grouse;
For that is ever held the choicest dish,
That comes in secret, be it game or fish!
The ladies then in ecstasy declare
What part they took of partridge, grouse, or hare;
Describe the dainties when they each get home,
But ne'er consider how those dainties come:
For whether poachers steal from 'squires or kings,
This is the cause whence most of poaching springs.
The epicures of ev'ry trading town,
Who get a hare or pheasant for a crown,
Have done more harm than all the murd'ring wire
That e'er was tempered in the poacher's fire.
The bards of genius sing the orphan's woe,
The rise of nations, or their overthrow;
Others describe the shipwrecked sailor's fate,
The terrors of th' ensanguined field relate.—
Mine be the task to paint unto the life,
The deep distress of a poor poacher's wife,
Who in the worst of huts is forced to live
Where winter snow comes through it like a sieve;
The furniture, were it put up for sale,
Would scarcely make a crown to buy him ale;
His children to the utmost famine driv'n,
Quite destitute of clothes but what were giv'n
By one whose heart could at misfortunes melt,
Who knew their wants, and for their suff'rings felt.
He sees them shiv'ring oft without a fire,
And what should buy them coals is spent in wire;
Two-thirds laid out in powder, shot, and nets,
The other part the well-fed landlord gets,—
And when the night of danger's passed away,
While others work, he sleeps throughout the day:
But oft his sleep is broke by sudden fears,
He starts,—and thinks some bailiff's voice he hears,—
He lifts his head,—'tis famine all and dearth,
His famished children clinging round the hearth;
Disease destroying all his partner's charms,
And tears fall on the infant in her arms.
His conscience wakes, though nearly hard as stone—
He turns him o'er, and heaves a heavy groan;
Vows like an honest man's his days shall be—
At last convinc'd his deeds bring misery.
His weeping wife hears the repentant sighs,
In anguish t'ward him turns her tear-drenched eyes,
Thus speaks, with looks that would the marble move,
While weeping o'er the pledges of their love:
“Thou once dear youth, for whom I all forsook,
“To me and mine, O give one thoughtful look!
“Where shall we fly?—our credit all is o'er,
“Thy evil deeds have made and keep us poor.
“My mother, wearied out, no more can do,
“My father's bosom wasting with his woe!
“Thou, while at enmity with ev'ry friend,
“Dost only to the worst advice attend.
“Bring thou but constant wages, I could rest,
“And with a certain pittance should be blest.
“While others sit in plenty and at peace,
“As years roll on their nuptial joys increase.
“Here is our eldest and our only son,
“Who blessed us first ere sorrow had begun,
“Without a shoe to travel in the snow,
“By rags defended when the cold winds blow;
“Who knows not yet an alphabet or pray'r,
“Nor ever yet engrossed a father's care.
“Such things as these sink in my bosom deep,
“And hours unseen I sorrowing sit and weep.
“And see those little innocents beside,
“More than half naked, while clothes are washed and dried.
“While other children are with raiment blessed,
“And twice upon a Sabbath day are dressed,
“Ours stand aloof, upon the holy day,
“Or weep, upbraided with their rags at play.
“Debts undischarged, while thou enjoy'st thy cheer,
“Forgetful of the wants and sorrows here.
“How well could we be clothed,—how well be fed,
“If like an honest man's thy life was led;
“O that the purchasers of game could know
“My children's wants—the burden of my woe!”
While thus she spoke, his nightly comrade came,
Extensive orders he had got for game,
From a rich man in whom they could confide,
Theander, whom the poachers long had tried.
To those who bought his goods he presents made
Of hares and pheasants, yet he ne'er betrayed
The youths who brought them from the distant wood,
And risked their lives to bear them o'er the flood!
Then to the distant parks with steps of haste,
They cheerful crossed the wide-extended waste.
The moon's resplendent orb was hung on high,
Though hid were half the diamonds of the sky;
While skimming clouds, borne on the wings of air,
Shrouded the heav'ns, excepting here and there
The moonbeams darted through a misty veil,
And fields of light fled swiftly o'er the dale.
Two dogs attended them across the moor,—
A double-barrelled gun each poacher bore:
The hares were feeding on the turnips green,
But Wharf's broad stream rolled rapidly between,—
So deep the ford, it scarcely could be crossed,
They greatly fear'd their journey would be lost.
But soon they found the horse they oft had tried,
Which ne'er refused to cross the torrent wide;
Without a bridle to adorn his head,
The peaceful creature by his mane was led.
A while they on the brink consulting stood,
Then mounted both, and ventured at the flood.
The stream was rolling rapid, deep, and strong,—
Yet in the midst, they hummed the poacher's song,
To kill their fears; for who could help but fear?
Broad was the river, and the whirlpool near.
The aged horse, his oft-tried strength now lost,
And on the rapid stream they both were tossed!
Their homes the poachers ne'er had reached again,
Had not Ignotus grappled fast the mane;
Desparo seized his friend—'twas all he could,
And thus, half drowned, they ferried o'er the flood.
Upon the bank they search the ball and string,
And in the oil-case wrapped, they quickly bring
Across the stream their implements of sport,
And with them to the farmer's house resort.
The frugal, aged dame is filled with fear,
Lest some should say they harboured poachers there.
Her son—a sporting youth, then goes and draws
A jug of ale—regardless of the laws:
Then vows,—nor lord, nor lease, his sport shall stop,
Since hares and pheasants ruin half the crop!
He rouses then the fire, piles on the peat,
And soon the poachers' clothes smoke with the heat.
The aged farmer, grieved, with locks turned grey,
Sighs in his chair, and wishes them away;
Then hobbling on his crutch he ventures out,
To listen if the keepers are about;
While down his furrowed cheeks the tears run fast,
Afraid with him that year will be the last.
His landlord angry,—now no hope appears;
But his good farm, possessed for forty years,
He soon must quit, ere his few days are gone,
Through the bad actions of a wicked son.
With eyes suffused with tears, the poor old man
To reason with his son then thus began:
“O that I could persuade thee to give o'er
“This cruel sport, which makes and keeps us poor!
“Would'st thou but honestly attempt to live,
“My little all to thee I'd freely give:
“But now each field, untilled, neglected lies;
“Thy flail the beasts with fodder scarce supplies.
“While thou art ranging with thy nets and gun,
“Our cattle and our farm to ruin run;
“Among thy comrades all that little spent
“Which should have paid my long arrears of rent.
“Nothing but deepest anguish is my lot;
“I would have lived at this my native spot,
“Where I so many years of labour passed,
“And where I first drew breath, have breathed my last!
“But now, the workhouse”—here his anguish strong,
O'ercame his soul, and sorrow bound his tongue!
The hardened poachers could not help but think;
But soon they took the quart, and swore “Let's drink!”
Ignotus vowed that was no time for fears,
The 'squire must have his score of living hares.
The rich Theander, grown by commerce great,
Had purchased with his wealth a wide estate;
Then down came ev'ry hedge, and ev'ry wall,
And ev'ry humble cot was doomed to fall.
Upon the rising hill each plan was drawn,
Of villa, gardens, grove, and sweeping lawn;
And planted were the trees of ev'ry hue,
The oak, the ash, the sycamore, and yew;
The fir, the larch, and plants not native here,
The poplar, with its waving leaves, was there.
The rills collected, formed a lake for trout,—
And who that has a park would be without?
With the high fence the whole was circled round,
But in the modern park no hares were found;
No pheasants in the new plantation bred,
Nor partridge chirruped its young brood to bed.
But what's the villa, garden, or park wall,
Except the hares are frisking round them all?
What pleasure in the grove and cooling breeze,
Except the pheasants glitter in the trees?
The partridge whirring from beneath our feet,
In our own grounds, is surely pleasure sweet!
So thought Theander,—who from poachers bought
With cheerful heart, all living game they brought.
But stop, my pen—O let it not be said
That great Theander would have bought them dead!
The poachers, with their nets, their dogs, and gun,
Directed truly by the farmer's son,
Then left the house, and hastened to the wood;
In silence there a while they list'ning stood,
Just when the hammer of the village bell
Twelve times heaved back, the midnight hour to tell.
Then Nature such an awful silence kept—
The faded leaves on lofty poplars slept;
The withered rushes on the heathy hill
Were scarcely moved—the tallest pines were still.
The waning moon a bloody vesture wore,
The only sounds the distant cataract's roar,
And deep-mouthed mastiffs, struggling in the chain,
Fierce barking to their echoed noise again.
This solemn scene no deep impression made
On hearts of flint, so hardened with the trade.
Then through the thick-grown briers they wandered slow,
Looking for pheasants on each lofty bough.
Ignotus swore they would not fire that night,
Till they beheld between them and the light
Ten glist'ning birds within the trees at rest;
For oft before they numbered many a nest,
And when the powder flashed, and shot had flown,
Dried sticks and leaves were all that tumbled down.
The number in the wood was quickly found;
They left them there, and ranged the open ground.
That night the poachers did their utmost strive
To catch the rich Theander hares alive.
Then swiftly round the fields the lurchers went,
Dogs which were silent on the strongest scent:
And when the flying hare was just before,
Their feet were heard, their panting, but no more.
But fatal for poor Stormer was the night,
Two lusty keepers saw him in the flight,
Levelled their pieces at the vital part,
And shot poor faithful Stormer through the heart;
While Phillis swift, the fleeting hare pursued,
And left her partner struggling in his blood.
The echoing woods conveyed the swift report,—
The poachers guessed the end of that night's sport.
Then quickly sounded Stormer's dying cries,—
Rage filled each breast, and blazed within their eyes;
Ignotus swore, “This luckless night I'll die,
“Ere Stormer, wounded, on the field shall lie;
“And should a legion of gamekeepers come,
“The shot of both my barrels shall fly home!”
Weak and more weak the cries of Stormer grew,
As to the fatal place the poachers flew;
And, when arrived, Ignotus raised his head,
Then heaved a sigh, and deeply swore, “He's dead!
“O friend, Desparo! such a dog ne'er went
“Across the fields, for swiftness or for scent.
“Poor Stormer! look, Desparo, where he bled!—
“How oft to us he has the hares conveyed!
“How oft have I, with exultation great,
“Stood list'ning to the singing of his feet;
“But now his turnings of the hares are o'er,
“And he must pant close at their heels no more!”
No sooner had these words escaped his tongue,
Than four armed keepers, lusty, stout, and strong,
Leaped from the bushes with the full design
To make these bold marauders pay the fine.
O'er Stormer's death their bosoms were enraged;
In desperation, one with two engaged.
Around the poachers many a pellet flew,
Before in war they either trigger drew;
Then all at once their double barrels went;
The shot whizzed past,—its force in air was spent;
No time to load again,—they met in blows,
The poachers struggling with superior foes.
His piece Ignotus by the barrel took,
One adversary's arm in splinters broke;
He groaned and fled, his piteous case to tell;
Another stroke,—and strong Ignotus fell!
While bold Desparo, with his strong butt-end,
Made his antagonist to earth descend.
Now two disabled, furious was the fray,
Both sides were stupid, neither would give way,
The barrels broken from their carved stocks,
And on the field were strewed the torn-off locks.
Enraged, Ignotus rose, and drew his knife,
And cried, “Desparo's freedom or your life!”
The keepers, dreading much the fatal blow,
Took to their heels, and let the poachers go,
And where the 'squire who can such keepers blame?
They fought, 'tis true,—but who would die for game?
Next night, of game Desparo made a feast,
And every well-known brother was a guest.
Not to the ale-house did the group retire,
But drank and smoked around the poacher's fire:
Pheasants and grouse, and Stormer's last-caught hare,—
Domestic fowls, unbought, were roasted there.
Their liqour, home-brewed ale, and smuggled rum;
And each was armed had the excisemen come;
But these as soon durst fierce banditti meet,
As force their way into the lone retreat!
The supper ended, what a jovial crew!
Each showed his nets, of those they had not few.
From friend to friend the cheering bumpers ran,
The viol tuned, the merry dance began.
O that some greater bard had present been,
And touched with verse burlesque the festive scene!
Their tattered clothes were such as might have graced
Some farmer's scarecrow in a wheat field placed:
Thus doth misconduct bring the richest down,
And clothe with rags the poacher and the clown.
Ducando was a man of careful heart,
He seldom paid a sixpence for his quart;
To sip the smuggled drops was his delight,—
With such a group he spent the jovial night.
The keeper of the neighbouring 'squire was there,
Enjoyed the sport, and drowned all his care.
Inspired by drink, who can be silent long?
The poachers could not, but began their song

SONG.

The song was ended;—and Ignotus drew
The plan of ev'ry distant park he knew;
Described each gateway where he hung the net,
And ev'ry hedge, where oft his wire he set;
Marked out the fish-ponds, and the river's flood,
The pheasants' haunts, and where the villa stood.
“Upon this spot,” said he, “one stormy night,
“When darkest clouds obscured the moon's pale light,
“I stood alone, while Stormer ranged the plain,
“And five strong hares within my net were slain!
“And here the place where I my tackling hide
“When lusty keepers press on ev'ry side;
“And here, within the wood, the lonely dell,
“Where oft I fired, and sleeping pheasants fell.
“Here stands the tree to which the cord is tied,
“And there my game across the river ride;
“Then I the bridge securely travel o'er,
“And none take oath that murdered game I bore.”
The junior poachers silent sit and gaze,
And give with joy the senior poacher praise.
They laughed—they shouted—when the rhymer ceased,
(For fools, half drunk, with feeblest verse are pleased).
Then four strong keepers burst the shattered door,
And stood well armed upon the dirty floor.
Desparo and Ignotus forced their way;
The rest, o'erpowered, were captives forced to stay.
Game, newly killed, was in the cellar found,
Snares, pack-thread, guns, and nets were spread around:
The poachers, mournful, left their lawless sport,
To meet the dreadful audit of a court.
Desparo and Ignotus knew their cares,
Supplied their wants, and killed the 'squire his hares;
Death and destruction through his grounds were spread,
Till scarce a leveret on the clover fed.
With sorrows worn, and ebbing fast her life,
Unhelped, unheeded, lay the poacher's wife!
He spent his days in revelry and mirth;
While she, too weak to give her infant birth,
O'ercome with grief, and of her suff'ring tired,
Neglected, starved, and pitiless, expired!
No husband there, her fading eyes to close,—
Confess his guilt, though author of her woes.
When he was told the period of her pain,
He smiled, and had the tankard filled again!
Untouched with sorrow, anguish, or remorse,
One tear he never dropped upon her corse.
He left his home the two succeeding nights,
To make expenses for the fun'ral rites.
His starving children o'er their mother mourned,—
A neighbouring peasant o'er the infant yearned,
In pity took and nursed it as her own,—
And sure such deeds are worthy of renown.
Loosed from his wife, with whom he jarring lived,
His children bread through charity received.
One night he spent where lies famed Robin Hood,
The next where Harewood's ancient castle stood;
The beauteous vale of Wharf he wandered o'er,—
Expecting wealth, but still was always poor.
What he in dangers got at taverns went,
Or in rich treats was on his comrades spent.
Read this, ye rich,—who stolen game receive,
And think how wretchedly the poachers live:
Far from your feasts prohibit lawless game,
Caught in disgrace,—and purchas'd too with shame!
Ye rustic plunderers, who sport by night,
And fearlessly invade another's right,
Cold winds and storms your frame will soon impair,
Your robust limbs will soon in sickness wear;
Though firm your sinews as the hardest steel,
Your constitution must your follies feel:
The sport, the bowl, the glass, the cheering quart,
Soon, soon will fail to animate the heart.
Ye who purloin by night the harmless game,
Ere youth is past, old age shall rack your frame.
No days well spent can you look back to view,
At last convinced this axiom is true,—
“If injured lords no punishment prepared,
“Drinking and poaching bring their own reward.”
On lost Ignotus' fate a moment gaze,
Who in his cups oft gained the drunkard's praise;
He swiftly hasted with his pilfered load
The bridge to shun and oft-frequented road.
Beneath a sheet of ice the river slept,
Half o'er its course the thoughtless poacher stepped,
Around his feet the yielding crystal bends,
And dreadful in a spreading circle rends!
He heard—he trembled,—but it was too late,
The ice gave way, and locked him up with fate.
Till morning came his faithful lurcher stopped,—
Howled near the chasm through which his master dropped.
His frantic children viewed the fatal cleft,
Though injured,—their affection still was left;
Their grief,—their woe,—can never be expressed,—
Imagination must depict the rest.
His corse, though sought, was never brought to land,
But somewhere lies deep shrouded in the sand!
His neighbours wept not, though he ne'er returned,
And for his loss his children only mourned.
No distant parks but ev'ry shade he knew,
From whence at morn the waking pheasants flew;
The lonely streams where speckled fishes played,
And where the hares upon the mountains fed.
The dark brown heath, upon the trackless moor,
With dog and gun he often travell'd o'er;
In winter's frost, upon some rocky spot,
He called the list'ning grouse within his shot,
Then on his upraised knee he levelled true,—
The trigger pulled,—the moor-cock never flew:
But now—the hares may feed, the fishes play,
The pheasants sleep upon the lofty spray;
The grouse, secure, may in the rushes rest,
The speckled pairs of partridge form their nest;
The keepers now their watchings may give o'er,
Ignotus, prince of poachers, is no more!