Hunting Songs :: :: University of Virginia Library

The Miller, when he heard the pack,
Stood tiptoe on his loaded sack,
He view'd the fox across the flat,
And, needless signal, wav'd his hat;
He saw him clear with easy stride
The stream by which the mill was plied;
Like phantom fox he seem'd to fly,
With speed unearthly flitting by.

The road that leads to Witney town,
He travell'd neither up nor down;
But straight away, like arrow sped
From cloth-yard bow, he shot a-head.
Now Cokethorpe on his left he past,
Now Ducklington behind him cast,
Now by Bampton, now by Lew,
Now by Clanfield, on he flew;
At Grafton now his course inclin'd,
And Kelmscote now is left behind!

Where waters of the Isis lave
The meadows with its classic wave,
O'er those meadows speeding on,
He near'd the bridgeway of St. John;
He paused a moment on the bank,
His footsteps in the ripple sand,
He felt how cold, he saw how strong
The rapid river roll'd along;
Then turn'd away, as if to say,
“All those who like to cross it may.”

The Huntsman, though he view'd him back,
View'd him too late to turn the pack,
Which o'er the tainted meadow prest,
And reach'd the river all abreast;
In with one plunge, one billowy splash,
In—altogether—in they dash,
Together stem the wintry tide,
Then shake themselves on t'other side!
“Hark, hollo back!” that loud halloo
Then eager, and more eager grew,
Till every hound, recrossing o'er,
Stoop'd forward to the scent once more;
Nor further aid, throughout the day,
From Huntsman or from Whip had they.

Away! away! uncheck'd in pace,
O'er grass and fallow swept the chace;
To hounds, to horses, or to men,

No child's play was the struggle then;
A trespasser on Milward's ground,
He climb'd the pale that fenc'd it round;
Then close by Little Hemel sped,
To Fairford pointing straight a-head,
Though now, the pack approaching nigh,
He heard his death-note in the cry.
They view'd him, and then seem'd their race
The very lightning of the chace!
The fox had reach'd the Southropp lane,
He strove to cross it, but in vain,
The pack roll'd o'er him in his stride,
And onward struggling still—he died.

This gallant fox, in Tarwood found,
Had cross'd full twenty miles of ground;
Had sought in cover, left or right,
No shelter to conceal his flight;
But nigh two hours the open kept,
As stout a fox as ever stept!
That morning, in the saddle set,
A hundred men at Tarwood met;
The eager steeds which they bestrode
Pac'd to and fro the Witney road,
For hard as iron shoe that trod
Its surface, the unyielding sod;
Till midday sun had thaw'd the ground
And made it fit for foot of hound,

They champ'd the bit and twitch'd the rein,
And paw'd the frozen earth in vain,
Impatient with fleet hoof to scour
The vale, each minute seem'd an hour;
Still Rumour says of that array
Scarce ten liv'd fairly through the day.

Ah! how shall I in song declare
The riders who were foremost there?
A fit excuse how shall I find
For every rider left behind?

Though Cokethorpe seem one open plain,
'Tis slash'd and sluic'd with many a drain,
And he who clears those ditches wide
Must needs a goodly steed bestride.
From Bampton to the river's bounds
The race was run o'er pasture grounds;
Yet many a horse of blood and bone
Was heard to cross it with a groan;
For blackthorns stiff the fields divide
With watery ditch on either side.
By Lechlade's village fences rise
Of every sort and every size,
And frequent there the grievous fall
O'er slippery bank and crumbling wall;
Some planted deep in cornfield stand,
A fix'd incumbrance on the land!

While others prove o'er post and rail
The merits of the sliding scale.

Ah! much it grieves the Muse to tell
At Clanfield how Valentia fell;
He went, they say, like one bewitch'd,
Till headlong from the saddle pitch'd;
There, reckless of the pain, he sigh'd
To think he might not onward ride;
Though fallen from his pride of place,
His heart was following still the chace;
He bade his many friends forbear
The proffer'd aid, nor tarry there;
“O! heed me not, but ride away!
The Tarwood fox must die to-day!”

Nor fell Valentia there alone,
There too in mid career was thrown
The Huntsman—in the breastplate swung
His heels—his body earthward hung;
With many a tug at neck and mane,
Struggling he reach'd his seat again;
Once more upon the back of Spangle,
His head and heels at proper angle,
(Poor Spangle in a piteous plight,)
He look'd around him, bolt upright,
Nor near nor far could succour see,—
Where can the faithless Juliet be?
He would have given half his wage

Just then to see her on the stage;
The pack those meads by Isis bound
Had reach'd ere Jem his Juliet found;
Well thence with such a prompter's aid,
Till Reynard's death her part she play'd.

There Isaac from the chace withdrew,
(A horse is Isaac, not a Jew,)
Outstretch'd his legs, and shook his back,
Right glad to be reliev'd of Jack;
And Jack, right glad his back to quit,
Gave Beatrice a benefit.

Moisture and mud the “Fungus” suit,
In boggy ditch he, taking root,
For minutes ten or thereabout,
Stood planted, till they pluck'd him out.
By application of spur rowel
Charles rubb'd him dry without a towel.

Say, as the pack by Kelmscote sped,
Say who those horsemen cloth'd in red?
Spectators of the chace below,
Themselves no sign of movement show;
No wonder—they were all aghast
To see the pace at which it past;
The “White Horse Vale”—well known to Fame
The pack to which it gives a name;

And there they stood as if spell bound,
Their morning fox as yet unfound;
Borne from that wood, their huntsman's cheer
Drew many a Tarwood straggler near,
And he who felt the pace too hot,
There gladly sought a resting spot;
Himself of that White Horse availing,
When conscious that his own was failing.

Thus ships, when they no more can bide
The fury of the wind and tide,
If chance some tranquil port they spy,
Where vessels safely shelter'd lie,
There seek a refuge from the gale,
Cast anchor, and let down the sail.

The speed of horse, the pluck of man,
They needed both, who led the van;
This Holmes can tell, who through the day
Was ever foremost in the fray;
And Holloway, with best intent,
Still shivering timber as he went;
And Williams, clinging to the pack
As if the League were at his back;
And Tollit, ready still to sell
The nag that carried him so well.

A pretty sight at first to see
Young Pretyman on Modesty!

But Pretyman went on so fast,
That Modesty took fright at last;
So bent was she to shun disgrace,
That in the brook she hid her face;
So bashful, that to drag her out
They fetch'd a team and tackle stout.

When younger men of lighter weight
Some tale of future sport relate,
Let Whippy show the brush he won,
And tell them of the Tarwood run;
While Rival's portrait, on the wall,
Shall oft to memory recall
The gallant fox, the burning scent,
The leaps they leapt, the pace they went;
How Whimsey led the pack at first,
When Reynard from the woodside burst;
How Pamela, a puppy hound,
First seiz'd him, struggling on the ground;
How Prudence shunn'd the taint of hare,
Taught young in life to have a care;
How Alderman, a foxhound staunch,
Worked well upon an empty paunch;
How Squires were, following thee, upset,
Right honourable Baronet;
How, as the pack by Lechlade flew,
Where close and thick the fences grew,
Three Bitches led the tuneful throng,

All worthy of a place in song;
Old Fairplay, ne'er at skirting caught,
And Pensive speeding quick as thought;
While Handsome prov'd the adage true,
They handsome are that handsome do!

Then long may courteous Redesdale live!
And oft his pack such gallops give!
Should fox again so stoutly run,
May I be there and see the fun!

1845.