Hunting Songs :: :: University of Virginia Library

Now summer's dull season is over,
Once more we behold the glad pack;
And Wicksted appears at the cover,
Once more on old Mercury's back;
And Wells in the saddle is seated,
Though with scarce a whole bone in his skin;
His cheer by the echo repeated,
'Loo in! little dearies! 'loo in!

II

How eagerly forward they rush,
In a moment how widely they spread;
Have at him there, Hotspur! hush! hush!
'Tis a find or I'll forfeit my head,

Fast flies the Fox away—faster
The hounds from the cover are freed;
The horn to the mouth of the master,
The spur to the flank of his steed.

III

Through ages recorded in metre
May the fame of each rider survive;
From Tunstall comes Broughton, call'd Peter,
From Styche comes the brotherhood Clive.
There's Hammond from Wistaston bringing
All the news of the neighbouring shire;
Fitzherbert renown'd for his singing,
And Dorfold's invincible Squire;

IV

Few Sportsmen so gallant, if any,
Did Woore ever send to the chase;
Each dingle for him has a cranny,
Each river a fordable place;
He knows the best line from each cover,
He knows where to stand for a start,
And long may he live to ride over
The country he loves in his heart.

V

There's Henry, the purple-clad Vicar,
So earnestly plying the steel;
Conductor conducting him quicker,
Each prick from the spur at his heel.

Were my life to depend on the wager,
I know not which brother I'd back;
The Vicar, the Squire, or the Major,
The Purple, the Pink, or the Black.

VI

On a thorough-bred horse there's a bruiser,
Intent upon taking a lead;
The name of the man is John Crewe, sir,
And Ajax the name of the steed;
There's Aqualate's Baronet, Boughey,
Whose eye still on Wicksted is cast;
Should the Fox run till midnight, I know he
Will stick by his friend to the last.

VII

The Ford they call Charlie,—how cheery
To ride by his side in a run;
Whether midnight or morn, never weary
Of revel, and frolic, and fun.
When they lay this good fellow the tomb in,
He shall not be mock'd with a bust,
But the favourite evergreen blooming
Shall spring and o'ershadow his dust.

VIII

With Chorister, Concord, and Chorus,
Now Chantress commences her song,
Now Bellman goes jingling before us,
And Sinbad is sailing along;

Old Wells closely after them cramming,
His soul quite absorb'd in the fun,
Continues unconsciously damning
Their dear little hearts as they run.

IX

Scent on the fallow now failing,
While onward impatiently press
The horsemen—hear Charlie bewailing
In accents of bitter distress—
“ Why, why will you spoil me the day now;
Have they run but to lose him at last?
Pray now, friends! gentlemen! pray now,
Hold hard, let them make their own cast.”

X

One moment for breathing we tarry,
One cast and they hit it anew;
See! see! what a head they now carry,
And see now they run him in view.
More eager for blood at each stroke,
See Vengeance and Vulpicide rush;
Poor Renard, he thinks it no joke,
Hearing Joker so close at his brush.

XI

See! Soldier prepar'd for the brunt,
Hark! Champion's challenge I hear;
While Victory leads them in front,
And Havock pursues in the rear;

Whoop-hoop! they have ended the skurry,
And Charlie half mad with the run,
First dances and shouts, “Worry! worry!”
Then tells what each darling has done.

XII

A fig for your Leicestershire swells!
While Wicksted such sport can ensure;
Long life to that varmint old Wells!
Success to the country of Woore!
Let Statesmen on politics parley,
Let Heroes go fight for renown,
While I've health to go hunting with Charley,
I envy no Monarch his crown.

1830.

Quæsitum Meritis.

I

A club of good fellows we meet once a year,
When the leaves of the forest are yellow and sear;
By the motto that shines on each glass, it is shown,
We pledge in our cups the deserving alone;
Our glass a quæsitum, ourselves Cheshire men,
May we fill it and drink it again and again.

II

We hold in abhorrence all vulpicide knaves,
With their gins, and their traps, and their velveteen slaves;
They may feed their fat pheasants, their foxes destroy,
And mar the prime sport they themselves can't enjoy;
But such sportsmen as these we good fellows condemn,
And I vow we'll ne'er drink a quæsitum to them.

III

That man of his wine is unworthy indeed,
Who grudges to mount a poor fellow in need;
Who keeps for nought else, save to purge 'em with balls,
Like a dog in a manger, his nags in their stalls;
Such niggards as these we good fellows condemn,
And I vow we'll ne'er drink a quæsitum to them.

IV

Some riders there are, who, too jealous of place,
Will fling back a gate in their next neighbour's face;
Some never pull up when a friend gets a fall,
Some ride over friends, hounds, and horses, and all;

Such riders as these we good fellows condemn,
And I vow we'll ne'er drink a quæsitum to them.

V

For coffee-house gossip some hunters come out,
Of all matters prating, save that they're about;
From scandal and cards they to politics roam,
They ride forty miles, head the Fox, and go home!
Such sportsmen as these we good fellows condemn,
And I vow we'll ne'er drink a quæsitum to them.

VI

Since one Fox on foot more diversion will bring
Than twice twenty thousand cock pheasants on wing,
The man we all honour, whate'er be his rank,
Whose heart heaves a sigh when his gorse is drawn blank.
Quæsitum! Quæsitum! fill up to the brim,
We'll drink, if we die for't, a bumper to him.

VII

O! give me that man to whom nought comes amiss,
One horse or another, that country or this;

Through falls and bad starts who undauntedly still
Rides up to this motto: “Be with 'em I will.”
Quæsitum! Quæsitum! fill up to the brim,
We'll drink, if we die for't, a bumper to him.

VIII

O! give me that man who can ride through a run,
Nor engross to himself all the glory when done;
Who calls not each horse that o'ertakes him a “screw,”
Who loves a run best when a friend sees it too!
Quæsitum! Quæsitum! fill up to the brim,
We'll drink, if we die for't, a bumper to him.

IX

O! give me that man who himself goes the pace,
And whose table is free to all friends of the chase;
Should a spirit so choice in this wide world be seen,
He rides, you may swear, in a collar of green;
Quæsitum! Quæsitum! fill up to the brim,
We'll drink, if we die for't, a bumper to him.

1832.

Old Oulton Lowe.

I

Bad luck to the Country! the clock had struck two,
We had found ne'er a Fox in the gorses we drew;
When each heart felt a thrill at the sound, “Tally-Ho!”
Once more a view hollo from old Oulton Lowe!

II

Away like a whirlwind toward Calveley Hall,
For the first thirty minutes Pug laugh'd at us all;
Our nags cur'd of kicking, ourselves of conceit,
Ere the laugh was with us, we were most of us beat.

III

The Willington mare, when she started so fast,
Ah! we little thought then that the race was her last;
Accurst be the stake that was stain'd with her blood;
But why cry for spilt milk?—may the next be as good!

IV

'Twas a sight for us all, worth a million, I swear,
To see the Black Squire how he rode the black mare;

The meed that he merits, the Muse shall bestow,
First, foremost, and fleetest from old Oulton Lowe!

V

How Delamere went, it were useless to tell,
To say he was out, is to say he went well;
A rider so skilful ne'er buckled on spur
To rule a rash horse, or to make a screw stir.

VI

The odds are in fighting that Britain beats France;
In the chase, as in war, we must all take our chance.
Little Ireland kept up, like his namesake the nation,
By dint of “coercion” and great “agitation.”

VII

Now Victor and Bedford were seen in the van,
Cheer'd on by the Maiden who rides like a man,
He screech'd with delight as he wip'd his hot brow,
“Their bristles are up! Sir! they're hard at him now.”

VIII

In the pride of his heart, then the Manager cried,
“Come along, little Rowley boy, why don't you ride?”

How he chuckled to see the long tail in distress,
As he gave her the go-by on bonny brown Bess.

IX

The Baron from Hanover hollow'd “whoo-hoop,”
While he thought on the Lion that eat him half up;
Well pleas'd to have balk'd the wild beast of his dinner,
He was up in his stirrups, and rode like a winner.

X

Oh! where 'mid the many found wanting in speed,
Oh! where and oh! where was the Wistaston steed?
Dead beat! still his rider so lick'd him and prick'd him,
He thought (well he might) 'twas the Devil that kick'd him.

XI

The Cestrian chestnut show'd symptoms of blood,
For it flow'd from his nose ere he came to the wood.
Where now is Dollgosh? Where the racer from Da'enham?
Such fast ones as these! what mishap has o'er-ta'en 'em?

XII

Two gentlemen met, both unhors'd, in a lane,
(Fox-hunting on foot is but labour in vain,)
“Have you seen a brown horse?” “No, indeed, Sir; but pray,
In the course of your ramble have you seen a grey?”

XIII

As a London coal-heaver might pick up a peer,
Whom he found in the street, with his head rather queer,
So Dobbin was loos'd from his work at the plough,
To assist a proud hunter, stuck fast in a slough.

XIV

I advocate “movement” when shown in a horse,
But I love in my heart a “conservative” gorse;
Long life to Sir Philip! we'll drink ere we go,
Old times! and old Cheshire! and old Oulton Lowe!

1833.

Tarporley Hunt, 1833.

I

When without verdure the woods in November are,
Then to our collars their green is transferr'd;
Racing and chasing the sports of each member are,
Come then to Tarporley booted and spurr'd;

Holding together, Sir,
Scorning the weather, Sir,
Like the good leather, Sir,
Which we put on:
Quæsitum meritis!
Good fun how rare it is!
I know not where it is,
Save at the Swan.

II

Lo! there's a Maiden whose sweet disposition is
Bent, like Diana's of old, on the chase;
Joy to that sportsman whose horse, in condition, is
Able and willing to go the best pace;
Racers are sweating now,
Owners are fretting now,
Stable boys betting now,
France! ten to one:
Quæsitum meritis, &c.

III

Lo! where the forest turf covers gentility,
Foremost with glory and hindmost with mud;
Now let the President prove his ability,
Umpire of speed, whether cocktail or blood;
Go-by and Adelaide,
Though they were saddled,
Led forth and straddled,
Judge there was none!
Quæsitum meritis, &c.

IV

How with due praise shall I sing the Palatinate,
Ably with Presidents filling our chair;
The Greys and the Leghs, and the Brookes that have sat in it,
Toasting our bumpers and drinking their share?
Each Squire and each Lord, Sir,
That meets at our board, Sir,
Were I to record, Sir,
I ne'er should have done:
Quæsitum meritis, &c.

V

“Sume superbiam quæsitam meritis,”
Shades of Sir Peter and Barry look down,
Long may we good fellows, now a day rarities,
Live to make merry in Tarporley town.
Fox preservation,
Throughout the whole nation,
Affords recreation,
Then drink it, each man:
Quæsitum meritis!
Good fun how rare it is!
I know not where it is,
Save at the Swan.

The Little Red Rover.

I

The dewdrop is clinging
To whin-bush and brake,
The skylark is singing
“Merrie hunters, awake;”
Home to the cover,
Deserted by night,
The little Red Rover
Is bending his flight.

II

Resounds the glad hollo;
The pack scents the prey;
Man and horse follow
Away! Hark, away!
Away! never fearing,
Ne'er slacken your pace:
What music so cheering
As that of the chase?

III

The Rover still speeding,
Still distant from home,
Spurr'd flanks are bleeding,
And cover'd with foam;

Fleet limbs extended,
Roan, chestnut, or grey,
The burst, ere 'tis ended,
Shall try them to-day!

IV

Well known is yon cover,
And crag hanging o'er,
The little Red Rover
Shall reach it no more!
The foremost hounds near him,
His strength 'gins to droop:
In pieces they tear him,
Who-whoop! Who-who-whoop!

The Fox and the Brambles.

A FABLE.

Before the pack for many a mile
A Fox had sped in gallant style;
But gasping with fatigue at last,
The clamorous hounds approach'd him fast;
Though painful now the toilsome race,
With draggled brush and stealthy pace
Still onward for his life he flies—
He nears the wood—before him lies
A tangled mass of thorn and bramble;
In vain beneath he tries to scramble,

So springing, heedless of his skin,
With desperate bound he leaps within.
The prickly thicket o'er him closes;
To him it seem'd a bed of roses,
As there he lay and heard around
The baying of the baffled hound.
Within that bush, his fears allay'd,
He many a sage reflection made;
“'Tis true, whene'er I stir,” he cried,
“The brambles wound my bleeding side,
“But he who seeks may seek in vain
“For perfect bliss; then why complain?
“Since, mingled in one current, flow
“Both good and evil, joy and woe;
“O! let me still with patience bear
“The evil, for the good that's there.
“Howe'er unpleasant this retreat,
“Yet every bitter has its sweet;
“The brambles pierce my skin, no doubt,
“The hounds had torn my entrails out.”

Good farmers! read, nor take amiss,
The moral which I draw from this;
Grieve not o'er gap or broken gate;
The damage small, the profit great;
The love of sport to home brings down
Your Landlord from the smoky town,
To dwell and spend his rents among

The tenantry, from whom they sprung.
Though vainly when he leads the chase,
His willing steed urged on apace,
When scent is good and hounds are fleet,
Though vainly then you shout, “Ware wheat!”
That steed, perchance, by you was bred,
And yours the corn on which he's fed;
Ah! then restrain your rising ire,
Nor rashly damn the Hunting Squire.

The Earth Stopper.

I

Terror of henroosts! now from hollow sand-earth,
Safely at nightfall, round the quiet farmstead,
Reynard on tiptoe, meditating plunder,
Warily prowleth.

II

Rouse thee! Earth stopper! rouse thee from thy slumber!
Get thee thy worsted hose and winter coat on,
While the good housewife, crawling from her blanket,
Lights thee thy lantern.

III

Clad for thy midnight silent occupation,
Mount thy old doghorse, spade upon thy shoulder,
Wiry hair'd Vixen, wheresoe'er thou wendest,
Ready to follow.

IV

Though the chill rain drops, driven by the north wind,
Pelt thy old jacket, soaking through and through thee,
Though thy worn hackney, blind and broken winded,
Hobble on three legs;

V

Finish thy night-work well, or woe betide thee,
If on the morrow irritated Huntsman,
Back'd by a hundred followers in scarlet,
Find the earths open!

The Old Brown Forest.

I

Brown Forest of Mara! whose bounds were of yore
From Kellsborrow's Castle outstretch'd to the shore,

Our fields and our hamlets afforested then,
That thy beasts might have covert—unhous'd were our men.

II

Our King the first William, Hugh Lupus our Earl,
Then poaching, I ween, was no sport for a churl;
A noose for his neck who a snare should contrive,
Who skinn'd a dead buck was himself flay'd alive!

III

Our Normandy nobles right dearly, I trow,
They loved in the forest to bend the yew bow;
They wound their “recheat” and their “mort” on the horn,
And they laugh'd the rude chase of the Saxon to scorn.

IV

In right of his bugle and greyhounds, to seize
Waif, pannage, agistment and windfallen trees,
His knaves through our forest Ralph Kingsley dispers'd,
Bow-bearer in chief to Earl Randle the first.

V

This horn the Grand Forester wore at his side
Whene'er his liege lord chose a hunting to ride;
By Sir Ralph and his heirs for a century blown,
It pass'd from their lips to the mouth of a Done.

VI

O! then the proud falcon, unloos'd from the glove,
Like her master below, play'd the tyrant above;
While faintly, more faintly, were heard in the sky,
The silver-ton'd bells as she darted on high.

VII

Then rous'd from sweet slumber, the ladie high born,
Her palfrey would mount at the sound of the horn;
Her palfrey uptoss'd his rich trappings in air,
And neigh'd with delight such a burden to bear.

VIII

Vers'd in all woodcraft and proud of her skill,
Her charms in the forest seem'd lovelier still;
The Abbot rode forth from the abbey so fair,
Nor lov'd the sport less when a bright eye was there.

IX

Thou Palatine prophet! whose fame I revere
(Woe be to that bard who speaks ill of a seer),
Forewarn'd of thy fate, as our legends report,
Thou wert born in a forest and “clemm'd” in a court.

X

Now goading thine oxen, now urging amain
Fierce monarchs to battle on Bosworth's red plain;

“A foot with two heels, and a hand with three thumbs!”
Good luck to the land when this prodigy comes!

XI

“Steeds shall by hundreds seek masters in vain,
Till under their bellies the girths rot in twain;”
'Twill need little skill to interpret this dream,
When o'er the brown forest we travel by steam!

XII

Here hunted the Scot whom, too wise to show fight,
No war, save the war of the woods, could excite;
His learning, they say, did his valour surpass,
Though a hero when arm'd with a couteau de chasse.

XIII

Ah! then came the days when to England's disgrace,
A King was her quarry, and warfare her chase;
Old Noll for their huntsman! a puritan pack!
With psalms on their tongues—but with blood in their track.

XIV

Then Charlie our King was restor'd to his own,
And again the blythe horn in the forest was blown;
Steeds from the desert then cross'd the blue wave
To contend on our turf for the prizes he gave.

XV

Ere Bluecap and Wanton taught fox-hounds to skurry,
With music in plenty—O! where was the hurry?
When each nag wore a crupper, each Squire a pigtail;
When our toast “The Brown Forest,” was drunk in brown ale.

XVI

The fast ones came next, with a wild fox in view,
“Ware hole!” was a caution then heeded by few;
Oppos'd by no cops, by no fences confin'd,
O'er whinbush and heather they swept like the wind.

XVII

Behold! in the soil of our forest once more,
The sapling takes root as in ages of yore;
The oak of old England with branches outspread,
The pine-tree above them uprearing its head.

XVIII

Where, 'twixt the whalebones, the widow sat down,
Who forsook the Black forest to dwell in the Brown,
There, where the flock on sweet herbage once fed,
The blackcock takes wing, and the fox-cub is bred.

XIX

This timber the storms of the ocean shall weather,
And sail o'er the waves as we sail'd o'er the heather;
Each plant of the forest, when launch'd from the stocks,
May it run down a foeman as we do a Fox.

The Dead Hunter.

I

His sire from the desert, his dam from the north,
The pride of my stable stept gallantly forth,
One slip in his stride as the scurry he led,
And my steed, ere his rivals o'ertook him, lay dead.

II

Poor steed! shall thy limbs on the hunting field lie,
That his beak in thy carcase the raven may dye?
Is it thine the sad doom of thy race to fulfil,
Thy flesh to the cauldron, thy bones to the mill?

III

Ah! no.—I beheld thee a foal yet unshod,
Now race round the paddock, now roll on the sod;

Where first thy young hoof the green herbage impress'd,
There, the shoes on thy feet, will I lay thee to rest!

The Spectre Stag.

A LEGEND OF THE RHINE.

I

A baron lived in Germany,
Of old and noble race,
Whose mind was wholly bent upon
The pleasures of the chase.

II

Thro' summer's sultry dog-days,
Thro' winter's frost severe,
This Baron's hunting season
Was twelve months in the year.

III

From dawn till dark he hunted,
And the truth I grieve to speak,
The number of his hunting days
Was seven in the week.

IV

No lands within his seignorie
Was serf allowed to till;

No corn-field in the valley,
No vineyard on the hill.

V

What marvel hungry poachers,
When the Baron was a-bed,
Were bent on stealing venison,
For very lack of bread?

VI

But woe that wretch betided,
Who in the quest was found;
On the stag he would have slaughter'd
Was his naked body bound.

VII

Borne, like Mazeppa, headlong,
From the panting quarry's back
He saw the thirsty blood-hounds
Let loose upon his track.

VIII

The pack, their prey o'ertaken,
On the mangled victims feast;
And, mix'd in one red slaughter,
Flows the blood of man and beast.

IX

The Baron thus his pastime
Pursued until he died;
My tale shall tell how this befell
On the eve of Eastertide.

X

The moon rose o'er the forest,
And the distant village chime
Call'd sinners to confession,
And bespoke a hallow'd time.

XI

When suddenly a strange halloo
Was heard around to ring,
The Hunter seiz'd his bow and plac'd
An arrow on the string.

XII

The cry, the cheer, the tumult
Of the chase—and then, display'd
By the pale light of the moonbeam,
Far adown the forest-glade,

XIII

Was seen, with brow full antler'd,
A Monster Stag—his back
Bestridden by a Huntsman,
Apparell'd all in black.

XIV

Their eyes unto their master
The crouching pack uprais'd,
Their master on his trembling steed
At the sight was sore amaz'd.

XV

“Ye curs,” he cried, “why stir ye not?
A curse upon the breed!
And you, ye loitering varlets,
Where are ye in such need?”

XVI

To summon then his followers,
He grasp'd his hunting horn,
Through the forest's deep recesses
The echoing blast was borne.

XVII

But borne in vain—his retinue
No note in answer gave;
And the silence that succeeded
Was the silence of the grave.

XVIII

His eye in terror glancing
From glade to distant crag,
Nought saw he save the spectre
Goading on that grisly stag.

XIX

The nearer it approach'd him,
The larger still it grew;
Again he seiz'd his hunting horn,
And his gasping breath he drew.

XX

Eye, cheek, and throat distended,
Each fibre strain'd to blow,
His life-breath past in that bugle blast,
And he fell from the saddle bow.

XXI

Where the Baron's chase was ended,
There they laid his bones to rot;
And his heirs, in after ages,
Built a Chapel on the spot.

XXII

And still, they say, that bugle blast,
When Easter-tide comes round,
Disturbs the midnight forest
With a strange unearthly sound.

On the New Kennel, erected on Delamere Forest.

May, 1834.

I

Great names in the Abbey are graven in stone,
Our kennel records them in good flesh and bone;
A Bedford, a Gloster, to life we restore,
And Nelson with Victory couple once more,
Derry down, down, down, derry down.

II

Were the laws of the kennel the laws of the land,
The shillalah should drop from the Irishman's hand;
And journeymen tailors, on “striking” intent,
Should stick to their stitching like hounds to a scent.

III

O! grant, ye reformers, who rule o'er us all,
That our kennels may stand though our colleges fall;
Our pack from long trial we know to be good,
Grey-hounds admitted might ruin the blood.

IV

Fond parents may dote on their pride of thirteen,
Switch'd into Latin and breech'd in nankeen;
A puppy just enter'd a language can speak
More sweetly sonorous than Homer's own Greek.

V

O! clothe me in scarlet! a spur on each heel!
And guardsmen may case their whole bodies in steel!
Lancers in battle with lancers may tilt,
Mine be the warfare unsullied with guilt!

VI

New built, may this kennel continue to rear
A pack still as prime as the old ones bred here;
May the depth of their cry be no check to their pace,
But the ring of their music still gladden the chase.
Derry down, down, down, derry down.

1834.

The Ladie Cunigunda of Kynast.

[_]

TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN. (F. RUCKERT.)

I

“In my bower,” said Cunigunda,
“No longer will I bide,
I will ride forth to the hunting,
Right merrie 'tis to ride.”

II

Said she, “None but a valiant Knight
Shall win me for a bride;
Undaunted must he venture
Round my castle wall to ride.”

III

Then rode a noble Knight along
The Kynast Castle wall;

Her hand that Ladie rais'd not
At the noble Knight's downfall.

IV

Upon that wall another Knight
Rode gallantly and well;
That Ladie's heart misgave her not
When horse and rider fell.

V

Another Knight, and once again
Another dar'd to try,
And both, down rolling headlong,
She beheld with tearless eye.

VI

Thus years and years pass'd on, until
No Knight again drew nigh;
None to ride again would venture,
For to venture was to die.

VII

Cunigunda from the battlement
Look'd out both far and wide:
“I sit within my bower alone,
Will none attempt the ride?

VIII

“O! is there none would win me now,
And wear me for a bride?
Has chivalry turn'd recreant?
Has knighthood lost its pride?”

IX

Out spake Thuringia's Landgrave
(Count Adelbert he hight,)
“This Ladie fair is worthy well
The venture of a Knight.”

X

The Landgrave train'd his war-horse
On the mountain steep to go,
That the Ladie might not glory
In another overthrow.

XI

“'Tis I, O noble Ladie,
Who will on the venture speed;”
Sadly, earnestly, she eyed him,
As he sprang upon his steed.

XII

She saw him mount and onward spur,
She trembled and she sigh'd:
“O woe is me that for my sake
He tries this fearful ride!”

XIII

He rode along the castle wall,
She turn'd her from the sight:
“Woe is me, he rideth straightway
To his grave, that noble Knight!”

XIV

He rode along the castle wall,
On dizzy rampart there;
She dar'd not move a finger
Of her hand, that Ladie fair!

XV

He rode along the castle wall,
O'er battlement and mound;
She dar'd not breathe a whisper,
Lest he totter at the sound.

XVI

He rode around the castle wall,
And down again rode he:
“Now God be prais'd that he hath spar'd
Thy precious life to thee!

XVII

“May God be prais'd thou didst not ride
A death-ride to thy grave!
Now quit thy steed and claim thy bride,
Thou worthy Knight and brave!”

XVIII

Then spake the Landgrave, bending down
Unto the saddle bow:
“That Knight can dare, O Ladie fair,
This morning's ride doth show.

XIX

“Wait thou until another come
To do this feat for thee;
A wife I have and children,
And my bride thou canst not be.”

XX

He spurr'd his steed and went his way,
Light-hearted as he came;
And as he went half dead was she
With anger and with shame.

The Love-Chace.

Fond Lover! pining night and day,
Come listen to a hunter's lay;
The craft of each is to pursue,
Then learn from hunting how to woo.

It matters not to eager hound
The cover where the fox is found,
Whether he o'er the open fly,
Or echoing woods repeat his cry;
And when the welcome shout says “Gone!”
Then we, whate'er the line, rush on.
Seen seated in the banquet-hall,
Or view'd afoot at midnight ball,
Whene'er the beating of your heart
Proclaims a find, that moment start!

If silence best her humour suit,
Then make at first the running mute;
But if to mirth inclin'd, give tongue
In spoken jest or ditty sung;
Let laughter and light prattle cheer
The love-chace, when the maid is near;
When absent, fancy must pursue
Her form, and keep her face in view;
Fond thoughts must like the busy pack
Unceasingly her footsteps track.

The doubt, the agony, the fear,
Are fences raised for you to clear;
Push on through pique, rebuff, and scorn,
As hunters brush through hedge of thorn;
On dark despondency still look
As hunters on a yawning brook,
If for one moment on the brink
You falter, in you fall—and sink.

Though following fast the onward track,
Turn quickly when she doubles back;
Whenever check'd, whenever crost,
Still never deem the quarry lost;
Cast forward first, if that should fail,
A backward cast may chance avail;
Cast far and near, cast all around,
Leave not untried one inch of ground.

Should envious rival at your side
Cling, jostling as you onward ride,
Then let not jealousy deter,
But use it rather as a spur;
Outstrip him ere he interfere,
And splash the dirt in his career.

With other nymphs avoid all flirting,
Those hounds are hang'd that take to skirting:
Of Cupid's angry lash beware,
Provoke him not to cry “Ware hare;”
That winged whipper-in will rate
Your riot if you run not straight.

Though Reynard, with unwearied flight,
Should run from dawn till dusky night,
However swift, however stout,
Still perseverance tires him out;
And never yet have I heard tell
Of maiden so inflexible,
Of one cast in so hard a mould,
So coy, so stubborn, or so cold,
But courage, constancy, and skill
Could find a way to win her still;
Though at the find her timid cry
Be “No! no! no! indeed not I,”
The finish ever ends in this,
Proud beauty caught, at last says, “Yes.”

Hunters may range the country round,
And balk'd of sport no fox be found;
A blank the favourite gorse may prove,
But maiden's heart, when drawn for love,
(Their gracious stars let Lovers thank,)
Was ne'er, when drawn aright, drawn blank.

If any could, that Goddess fair,
Diana, might have scap'd the snare;
That cunning huntress might have laugh'd,
If any could, at Cupid's shaft;
Still, though reluctant to submit,
That tiny shaft the Goddess hit;
And on the mountain-top, they say,
Endymion stole her heart away.

Bear this in mind throughout the run,
“Faint heart fair lady never won;”
Those cravens are thrown out who swerve,
“None but the brave the fair deserve.”

Success will aye the Lover crown,
If guided by these rules laid down;
Then little Cupid, standing near,
Shall greet him with a lusty cheer;
And Hymen, that old huntsman, loop
The couples, while he shouts, “Who-hoop!”

A Recollection.

I WELL remember in my youthful day,
When first of love I felt the inward smart,
How one fair morning, eager all to start,
My fellow hunters chided my delay.
I follow'd listless, for with tyrant sway
That secret grief oppress'd my aching heart,
Till fond Hope whisper'd, ere this day depart
Thy lov'd one thou shalt see—Away! away!

The chace began, I shar'd its maddening glee,
And rode amid the foremost in that run,
Whose end, far distant, Love had well foretold.
Her dwelling lay betwixt my home and me;
We met, still lingering ere it sunk, the sun
O'erspread her blushes with a veil of gold.

The Tantivy Trot.

I

Here's to the old ones, of four-in-hand fame,
Harrison, Peyton, and Ward, Sir;
Here's to the fast ones that after them came,
Ford and the Lancashire Lord, Sir,
Let the steam pot
Hiss till it's hot,
Give me the speed of the Tantivy Trot.

II

Here's to the team, Sir, all harness'd to start,
Brilliant in Brummagem leather;
Here's to the waggoner, skill'd in the art,
Coupling the cattle together.
Let the steam pot, &c.

III

Here's to the dear little damsels within,
Here's to the swells on the top, Sir;
Here's to the music in three feet of tin,
And here's to the tapering crop, Sir.
Let the steam pot, &c.

IV

Here's to the shape that is shown the near side,
Here's to the blood on the off, Sir;
Limbs with no check to their freedom of stride!
Wind without whistle or cough, Sir!
Let the steam pot, &c.

V

Here's to the arm that can hold 'em when gone,
Still to a gallop inclin'd, Sir;
Heads in the front with no bearing reins on!
Tails with no cruppers behind, Sir!
Let the steam pot, &c.

VI

Here's to the dragsmen I've dragged into song,
Salisbury, Mountain, and Co., Sir;
Here's to the Cracknell who cracks them along
Five twenty-fives at a go! Sir.
Let the steam pot, &c.

VII

Here's to Mac Adam the Mac of all Macs,
Here's to the road we ne'er tire on;
Let me but roll o'er the granite he cracks,
Ride ye who like it on iron.
Let the steam pot
Hiss till it's hot,
Give me the speed of the Tantivy Trot.

1834.

Hawkstone Bow-Meeting.

“Celeri certare sagittâ
Invitat qui forte velint, et præmia ponit.”
Æn. lib. v.

I

Farewell to the Dane and the Weaver
Farewell to the horn and the hound!
The Tarporley Swan, I must leave her
Unsung till the season come round;

My hunting whip hung in a corner,
My bridle and saddle below,
I call on the Muse and adorn her
With baldrick, and quiver, and bow.

II

Bright Goddess! assist me, recounting
The names of toxophilites here,
How Watkin came down from the mountain,
And Mainwaring up from the Mere;
Assist me to fly with as many on
As the steed of Parnassus can take,
Price, Parker, Lloyd, Kynaston, Kenyon,
Dod, Cunliffe, Brooke, Owen and Drake.

III

To witness the feats of the Bowmen,
To stare at the tent of the Bey,
Merrie Maidens and ale-drinking Yeomen
At Hawkstone assemble to-day.
From the lord to the lowest in station,
From the east of the shire to the west,
Salopia's whole population
Within the green valley comprest.

IV

In the hues of the target appearing,
Now the bent of each archer is seen;
The widow to sable adhering,
The lover forsaken to green;

For gold its affection displaying,
One shaft at the centre is sped;
Another a love tale betraying,
Is aim'd with a blush at the red.

V

Pride pointing profanely at heaven,
Humility sweeping the ground,
The arrow of gluttony driven
Where ven'son and sherry abound!
At white see the maiden unmated
The arrow of innocence draw,
While the shaft of the matron is fated
To fasten its point in the straw.

VI

Tell, fated with Gessler to grapple
Till the tyrannous Bailiff was slain,
Let Switzerland boast of the apple
His arrow once sever'd in twain;
We've an Eyton could prove to the Switzer,
Such a feat were again to be done,
Should our host and his Lady think fit, Sir,
To lend us the head of their son!

VII

The ash may be graceful and limber,
The oak may be sturdy and true;

You may search, but in vain, for a timber
To rival the old British yew!
You may roam through all lands, but there's no land
Can sport such as Salop's afford,
And the Hill of all Hills is Sir Rowland!
The hero of heroes my Lord!

1835.

The Ball and the Battue.

I

Ye who care to encourage the long-feather'd breed,
To the Ball overnight let the Battue succeed;
For when the heart aches,
Ten to one the hand shakes
And sighs beget curses, and curses mistakes.

II

For the shot-belt of leather, in velveteen drest,
I have doff'd the gold chain and laid by the silk vest,
A pancake so flat
Was my ball-going hat,
But a dumpling to shoot in is better than that.

III

My Manton to concert pitch tun'd for the day,
How the pheasants will reel in the air as I play!

While snipes as they fly
Pirouette in the sky,
And rabbits and hares in the gallopade die.

IV

“Once more might I view thee, sweet partner!” “Mark hare!
She is gone down the middle and up again there”—
“That hand might I kiss,
Mark cock!—did I miss?
Ye Gods, who could shoot with a weapon like this?”—

V

In my breast there's a thorn which no doctor can reach,
Ah me!—but what's this that I feel in my breech?—
Overwhelm'd by the pain
Of a love that is vain—
How on earth shall I ever get out of this drain?

VI

Thus a father may rescue his pheasants from slaughter,
The best of preservers his own pretty daughter;

Sad thoughts in the pate,
On the heart a sad weight,
Who, blinded by Cupid, could ever aim straight?

1837.

On the Landlord

OF THE WHITE HORSE INN, AT ALPNACH, IN SWITZERLAND.

I

The white horse by mine host has been brought to the post,
Of his points and his pints he has reason to boast;
To the guests who approach him a welcome he snorts,
While they fill up his quarters and empty his quarts.

II

Neither weak in his Hocks, nor deficient in Beaune,
In his Cote good condition though palpably shown,
There are folk, not a few, who still call him a screw;
If applied to cork-drawing, the term may be true.

III

Altogether reversing the old-fashion'd plan,
Here the horse puts a bit in the mouth of the man;
And so long as not given to running away,
To the roadster who enters he never says “Neigh.”

IV

He sets him, when caught, straight to work at the Carte,
With the cost of it saddles him ere he depart,
Gives him three feeds a day and the run of the bin,
And then makes him fork out for the good of the Inn!

V

They may call the grey mare at his side the best horse,
But they both pull together for better for worse;
Through the heyday of life may they pleasantly pass,
Till by Death, that grim groom, they are turn'd out to grass.

Cheshire Chivalry.

[_]

On the 23rd of December, 1837, the Cheshire Hounds found a fox in the plantation adjoining Tilston Lodge. Running directly to the house, he baffled for a time all further pursuit by leaping through a window pane into the dairy. When captured, he was turned out at Wardle Gorse, and after an unusually quick burst, in the course of which he crossed two canals, was killed at Cholmondeston.

I

Unpunish'd shall Reynard our dairies attack,
His fate unrecorded in song?
Ah! no; when the captive was loos'd from a sack,
There was not, fair milk-maid, a hound in the pack,
But was bent on avenging thy wrong.

II

Would that those who imagine all chivalry o'er,
Had encounter'd our gallant array;
Ne'er a hundred such knights, e'en in ages of yore,
Took the field in the cause of one damsel before,
As were seen in the saddle that day.

III

Their high-mettled courage no dangers appal,
So keen was the ardour display'd;

Some lose a frail stirrup, some flounder, some fall,
Some gallantly stem the deep waters, and all
For the sake of the pretty milk-maid.

IV

For thirty fast minutes Pug fled from his foes,
Nor a moment for breathing allow'd;
When at Cholm'stone the skurry was brought to a close,
The nags that had follow'd him needed repose,
As their panting and sobbing avow'd.

V

There, stretch'd on the greensward, lay Geoffry the stout,
His heels were upturn'd to the sky,
From each boot flow'd a stream, as it were from a spout,
Away stole the fox ere one half had run out,
And away with fresh vigour we fly!

VI

Once more to the water, though harass'd and beat,
The fox with a struggle swam through;
Though the churn that he tainted shall never be sweet,
His heart's blood ere long shall our vengeance complete,
And the caitiff his villany rue.

VII

Stout Geoffry declar'd he would witness the kill
Should he swim in the saddle till dark;
Six horsemen undauntedly follow'd him still,
Till the fate that awaited the steed of Sir Phil
Put an end to this merry mud lark.

VIII

Back, back, the bold Baronet roll'd from the shore,
Immers'd overhead in the wave;
The Tories 'gan think that the game was all o'er,
For their member was missing a minute or more
Ere he rose from his watery grave.

IX

Quoth Tollemache, more eager than all to make fail,
(A soul that abhorreth restraint,)
“Good doctor,” quoth he, “since thy remedies fail,
Since blister, nor bleeding, nor pill-box avail,
Cold bathing may suit my complaint.”

X

When Williams past o'er, at the burden they bore
The waters all trembled with awe;
For the heaving canal, when it wash'd him ashore,
Ne'er had felt such a swell on its surface before,
As the swell from the Leamington Spa.

XI

Harry Brooke, as a bird o'er the billow would skim,
Must have flown to the furthermost brink;
For the moisture had reach'd neither garment nor limb,
There was not a speck the boot polish to dim,
Nor a mudstain to tarnish the pink.

XII

The fox looking back, saw them fathom the tide,
But was doom'd, ere they cross'd it, to die;
Who-whoop may sound sweeter by far on that side,
But, thinks I to myself, I've a twenty-mile ride,
And as yet my good leather is dry.

XIII

Life-guardsman! why hang down in sorrow thy head?
Could our pack such a fast one outstrip?
Looking down at the ditch where his mare lay for dead,
“Pray, which way to Aston,” he mournfully said,
And uptwisted the hair of his lip.

XIV

Though of milk and of water I've made a long tale,
When a livelier liquor's display'd,
I've a toast that will suit either claret or ale,
Good sport to the Kennel! success to the Pail!
And a health to the pretty Milk-maid!

1837.

On the Picture of the Cheshire Hunt,

PAINTED BY H. CALVERT IN 1840.

I

Ere our Kennel a coal-hole envelop'd in smoke,
Blood and bone shall give way to hot water and coke;
Make and shape, pace and pedigree, held as a jest,
All the power of the Stud in a copper comprest;

II

The green collar faded, good fellowship o'er,
Sir Peter and Barry remember'd no more,
From her Tarporley perch ere the Swan shall drop down,
And her death-note be heard through the desolate town,

III

Let Geoffrey record, in the reign of Queen Vic,
How the horse and his rider could still do the trick;
Let his journal, bequeath'd to posterity, show
How their sires rode a hunting in days long ago.

IV

In colours unfading let Calvert design
A field not unworthy a sport so divine;

For when Joe was their Huntsman, and Tom their first Whip,
Who then could the chosen of Cheshire outstrip?

V

Let the Laureate, ere yet he be laid on the shelf,
Say how dearly he lov'd the diversion himself;
How his Muse o'er the field made each season a cast,
Gave a cheer to the foremost, and rated the last.

VI

All the glories of Belvoir let Delamere tell,
And how Leicestershire griev'd when he bade them farewell;
Tell how oft with the Quorn he had liv'd through a burst
When the few were selected, the many dispers'd.

VII

With so graceful a seat, and with spirits so gay,
Let them learn from Sir Richard, erect on his grey,
How the best of all cures for a pain in the back
Is to sit on the pigskin and follow the pack.

VIII

Say, Glegg, how the chace requir'd judgment and skill,
How to coax a tir'd horse over valley and hill;

How his shoe should be shap'd, how to nurse him when sick,
And when out how to spare him by making a nick.

IX

Charley Cholmondeley, make known how, in Wellesley's campaign
When the mail arriv'd loaded with laurels from Spain,
How cheers through the club-room were heard to resound,
While, upfill'd to the brim, the Quasitum went round.

X

Let Wicksted describe and futurity learn
All the points of a hound, from the nose to the stern;
He whose joy 'tis to dance, without fiddle or pipe,
To the tune of Who-whoop with a fox in his gripe,

XI

Say, Dorfold's black Squire, how, when trundling ahead,
Ever close to your side clung the Colonel in red;
He who, charge what he would, never came to a hitch,
A fence or a Frenchman, it matter'd not which.

XII

Let Cornwall declare, though a long absentee,
With what pain and what grief he deserted High Legh;
How he car'd not to prance on the Corso at Rome,
While such sport Winterbottom afforded at home.

XIII

The rules of hard riding let Tollemache impart,
How to lean o'er the pommel and dash at a start;
Emerging at once from a crowd in suspense,
How in safety he rides who is first at the fence.

XIV

How with caution 'tis pleasanter far to advance
Let them learn from De Tabley, Tom Tatton and France;
Who void of ambition still follow the chace,
Nor think that all sport is dependent on pace.

XV

Twin managers! tell them, Smith Barry from Cork,
And Dixon, who studied the science in York,
Though we boast but one neck to our Tarporley Swan,
Two heads in the kennel are better than one.

XVI

Let Entwistle, Blackburne, and Trafford disown
Those Lancashire flats, where the sport was unknown;

Releas'd from St. Stephen's let Patten declare
How fox-hunting solac'd a senator's care.

XVII

Let the bones of the steed which Sir Philip bestrode
'Mid the fossils at Oulton be carefully stow'd;
For the animal soon, whether hunter or war-horse,
Will be rare in the land as an Ichthyosaurus.

XVIII

Still distant the day, yet in ages to come,
When the gorse is uprooted, the fox-hound is dumb,
May verse make immortal the deeds of the field,
And the shape of each steed be on canvas reveal'd.

XIX

Let the pencil be dipt in the hues of the chace,
Contentment and health be pourtray'd in each face;
Let the foreground display the select of the pack,
And Chester's green vale be outstretch'd in the back!

XX

When the time-honour'd race of our gentry shall end,
The poor no protector, the farmer no friend,

They shall here view the face of the old Tatton Squire,
And regret the past sport that once gladden'd our Shire.

The Breeches.

I

When I mention the “Breeches,” I feel no remorse,
For the ladies all know 'tis an evergreen gorse;
They are not of leather, they are not of plush,
But expressly cut out for Joe maiden to brush.

II

Good luck to the 'prentice by whom they were made!
His shears were a ploughshare, his needle a spade;
May each landlord a pair to this pattern bespeak,
The Breeches that lasted us three days a week.

III

The fox is away and Squire Royds made it known,
Setting straightway to work at a pace of his own;
Past him sped Tollemache, as instant in flight
As a star when it shoots through the azure of night.

IV

They who witness'd the pack as it skirted the Spa,
By the head they then carried a struggle foresaw;
At their heels a white horse with his head in the air,
But his bridle was loose, and his saddle was bare.

V

May Peel (near the Breeches at starting o'erthrown,
Where he left the impression in mud of his own;)
When next he thinks fit this white horse to bestraddle,
See less of the Breeches and more of the saddle.

VI

From Spurstow we pointed towards Bunbury Church,
Some rounding that cover were left in the lurch;
By Hurleston we hurried, nor e'er tighten'd rein,
Till check'd for one moment in Baddiley lane.

VII

When we pass'd the old gorse and the meadows beneath,
When, across the canal, we approach'd Aston Heath,

There were riders who took to the water like rats,
There were steeds without horsemen, and men without hats.

VIII

How many came down to the Edlestone brook,
How many came down, not to leap—but to look;
The steeds that stood still with a stitch in their side,
Will remember the day when the Breeches were tried.

IX

The pack, pressing onwards, still merrily went,
Till at Dorfold they needed no longer a scent;
Man and maid rushing forth stood aloft on the wall,
And uprais'd a view hollo that shook the old hall.

X

Too weak for the open, too hot for the drain,
He cross'd and recross'd Ran'moor covers in vain;
When he reach'd the Bull's wood, he lay down in despair,
And we hollow'd whó-hoop, as they worried him there.

XI

Puss in boots is a fable to children well known,
The Dog in a doublet at Sandon is shown,
Henceforth when a landlord good liquor can boast,
Let the Fox and the Breeches be hung on his post.

XII

From Vulpecide villains our foxes secure,
May these evergreen Breeches till doomsday endure!
Go! all ye good squires, if my ditty should please,
Go clothe your bare acres in Breeches like these.

1841.

Inscription on the Handle of a Fox's Brush, mounted and presented by the Author to Wilbraham Tollemache, Esq.

Feb. 20, 1841.

We found our fox at Brindley; thrice that week
The gorse was drawn, and thrice with like success.
For nigh two hours, o'er many a mile of grass,
We chas'd him thence to Dorfold, where he died.
Tollemache! in admiration of thy skill'd
And gallant riding to the pack that day,
To thee I yield the Brush, esteem not thou
The trophy less thus proffer'd by a friend.

The Sawyer.

[_]

The imaginary catastrophe, which is the subject of the following lines, originated in the warning given by one of our party to the Factor at Abergeldie, that, if he persisted in felling timber during the term of our lease, he must hold himself responsible should any one “shoot a Sawyer.”

I

Now Abergeldie gillies, as they range our forest-ground,
See sawing here, see sawing there, see sawpits all around;
In fear and dread, as on they tread no whisky dare they touch,
No! not a drop, lest, neck and crop, they take a drop too much.

II

“Aim straight to-day, my comrades, 'twill be truly a dear hit
If, shooting deer in the forest here, manslaughter you commit;
If feller, fell'd, should in the act of striking be down struck,
Or Sawyer kick the bucket here, mistaken for a Buck.”

III

Vain words! forth came a bounding stag, his antler'd head on high,
And, caring not a whistle for the balls that whistled by,
Away, alive and kicking, to the distant mountain sped;—
Though de'il a bit the deer was hit, the deal-cutter was dead.

IV

His skull was crack'd, his only wage that day was half-a-crown,
He was cutting up a billet when the bullet cut him down;
Many thousand feet of timber had that Sawyer rent in twain,
Now himself was split asunder, very much against the grain.

V

We needed not the Sexton with his pickaxe and his spade
In the sawpit which himself had dug his grave was ready made;
Top Sawyer though he had been, to the bottom he was thrust,
And we binn'd him like a bottle of old Sherry in sawdust.

VI

Full many a railway sleeper had he made since peep of day,
Ere night himself a sleeper in his narrow bed he lay;
No tear-drop unavailingly we shed upon the spot,
But we sprinkled him with whisky to preserve him from dry rot.

VII

Oh no! we never mention him, that shot we never own,
We book'd him in the game book as an “animal unknown!”
We know not how the wife and bairns without his board subsist,
We only know we hit him, and he has not since been miss'd.

1844.

Song, written for and sung by I. H. SMITH BARRY, ESQ.

[_]

OWNER OF THE “COLUMBINE” YACHT, WHEN PRESIDENT OF THE TARPORLEY HUNT MEETING, 1845.

Now riding safe at anchor, idly floats the “Columbine,”
And the perils of the ocean in November I resign;
With other messmates round me, merry comrades every one,
To-night I take command, boys, of the gallant ship, the “Swan.”

Chorus.

Then up, boys! up for action, with a hearty three times three,
What tars are half so jolly as the tars of Tarporley?

'Tis true, though strange, this gallant ship in water cannot swim,
A sea of rosy wine, boys, is the sea she loves to skim;
The billows of that red sea are in bumpers toss'd about,
Our spirits rising higher as the tide is running out!

Chorus.

Still swinging at her moorings, with a cable round her neck,
Though long as summer lasteth all deserted is her deck,
She scuds before the breezes of November fast and free,
O! ne'er may she be stranded in the straits of Tarporley.

Chorus.

By adverse gale or hurricane her sails are never rent,
Her canvas swells with laughter, and her freight is merriment;
The lightning on her deck, boys, is the lightning flash of wit,
Loud cheers in thunder rolling till her very timbers split!

Chorus.

We need not Archimedes with his screw on board the Swan,
The screw that draws the cork, boys, is the screw that drives us on,
And should we be becalm'd, boys, while giving chase to care,

When the brimming bowl is heated we have steam in plenty there.

Chorus.

No rocks have we to split on, no foes have we to fight,
No dangers to alarm us, while we keep the reckoning right;
We fling the gold about, boys, though we never heave the lead,
And long as we can raise the wind our course is straight a-head.

Chorus.

The index of our compass is the bottle that we trowl,
To the chair again revolving like the needle to the pole;
The motto on our glasses is to us a fixed star,
We know while we can see it, boys, exactly where we are.

Chorus.

To their sweethearts let our bachelors a sparkling bumper fill,
To their wives let those who have 'em fill a fuller bumper still;

O! never while we've health, boys, may we quit this gallant ship,
But every year, together here, enjoy this pleasure trip.

Chorus.

Behind me stands my ancestor, Sir Peter stands before,
Two pilots who have weather'd many a stormy night of yore;
So may our sons and grandsons, when we are dead and gone,
Spend many a merry night, boys, in the cabin of the Swan.

Chorus.

Then up, boys! up for action, with a hearty three times three,
What tars are half so jolly as the tars of Tarporley?

1845.

Tarwood.

A RUN WITH THE HEYTHROP.

He waited not—he was not found—
No warning note from eager hound,
But echo of the distant horn,

From outskirts of the covert borne,
Where Jack the Whip in ambush lay,
Proclaim'd that he was gone away.

Away! ere yet that blast was blown,
The fox had o'er the meadow flown;
Away! away! his flight he took,
Straight pointing for the Windrush brook!

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.

A “Meet” at the Hall, and a “Find” in the Wood.

I

The wind in the south, and the first faint blushes
Of morn amid clouds dispers'd,
As a stream in its strength through a floodgate rushes,
The hounds from their kennel burst.

II

The huntsman is up on his favourite bay,
The whips are all astride,
Leisurely trotting their onward way
To the distant cover side.

III

Sweetly the blackbird, and sweetly the thrush,
Greeting them, seem to say,
In the chorus that rings from each hawthorn bush,
“Good sport to the pack to-day.”

IV

Lads from the village now after them race,
Asking with eager shout,
And ruddy with joy at the thoughts of a chace,
“Where do the hounds turn out?”

V

Now masking the slope with its dusky screen,
A wood in front appears,
And a Hall high-gabled the glittering sheen
Of its vane-deck'd turret rears.

VI

The chimney-shafts, wreathed with smoke, betoken
Full many a guest within,
While words of welcome in honesty spoken
The heart of each stranger win.

VII

A white hand unlatches her casement bar;
A murmur of joy resounds:

They're coming! they're coming! see, yonder they are!
They're coming! the hounds! the hounds!

VIII

A cloud, so it seem'd, might have dropp'd from the sky
When the sun was in the west,
To clothe with a mantle of crimson dye
The lawn by those riders prest.

IX

Steadily, steadily, to and fro,
Old hunters pace the ground;
Heads high in air the young ones throw,
Pawing and plunging round.

X

See! to unkennel a noisier pack,
The school-gate open flung,
By the desk-weary pedant, whose heart leaps back
To the day when himself was young.

XI

Drest in the pride of her Sunday array,
The huswife stands aloof,
Timidly plucking her child away
From the lunge of uplifted hoof.

XII

Curb'd for that hand which the casement unbarr'd,
To the porch is a palfrey led,
The trim gravel court by the prancing scarr'd
Of his proud and impatient tread;

XIII

A fair-hair'd youth to the portal flew,
And stood by her bridle-rein;
He lifts her light foot to the stirrup-shoe,
And they follow the hunting-train.

XIV

His saddle-bow hung with a silver horn,
All eyes on the master gaze,
Lord of the hunting-field! monarch, this morn,
Of all that he surveys!

XV

The Huntsman has drunk to the health of the Squire
From the depth of the leathern jack,
And lifting his cap, as the gentry admire
His well-condition'd pack,

XVI

He speeds, with sure hope, to the cover hard by—
Streaking the greenwood now,
Red coats bright with the berries vie
That hang on the holly bough.

XVII

Hark! from the cover a fox halloo'd;
The hounds to the open fly;
Horses and men, as they crash through the wood,
Made mad by the merry cry.

XVIII

Fainter and fainter in distance died
The tumult of the chace;
Till silent as death was the green hill-side,
The Hall a deserted place.

XIX

I follow them not; the good fox they found
Sped many a mile away;
That run was the talk of the country round
For many an after day.

XX

The brush by that youth who had ridden hard,
Brought home in the twilight hour,
A gift for the hand which the casement unbarr'd,
Was hung in the maiden's bower.

Song.

I

Stags in the forest lie, hares in the valley-o!
Web-footed otters are spear'd in the lochs;
Beasts of the chace that are not worth a Tally-ho!
All are surpass'd by the gorse-cover fox!
Fishing, though pleasant,
I sing not at present,
Nor shooting the pheasant,
Nor fighting of cocks;
Song shall declare a way
How to drive care away,
Pain and despair away,
Hunting the fox!

II

Bulls in gay Seville are led forth to slaughter, nor
Dames, in high rapture, the spectacle shocks;
Brighter in Britain the charms of each daughter, nor
Dreads the bright charmer to follow the fox.
Spain may delight in
A sport so exciting;
Whilst 'stead of bull-fighting
We fatten the ox;
Song shall declare a way, &c.

III

England's green pastures are graz'd in security,
Thanks to the Saxon who car'd for our flocks!
He who reserving the sport for futurity,
Sweeping our wolves away left us the fox.
When joviality
Chases formality,
When hospitality
Cellars unlocks;
Song shall declare a way
How to drive care away,
Pain and despair away,
Hunting the fox!

Sport in the Highlands.

WRITTEN AT TOLLY HOUSE IN ROSS-SHIRE.

I

Up in the morning! the river runs merrily,
Clouds are above and the breezes blow cool,
Tie the choice fly now, and casting it warily,
Fish the dark ripple that curls o'er the pool;

Steadily play with him,
On through the spray with him,
Gaff, and away with him
On to the shore!
Pastime at Tolly now,
Oh! it is jolly now,
Sad melancholy now
Haunts us no more!

II

Up in the morning! young birds in full feather now,
Brood above brood on the mountain side lie;
Setters well broken are ranging the heather now,
Bird after bird taking wing but to die!
Home then to number
The grouse that encumber
Our gillies, where slumber
To toil gives relief.
Pastime at Tolly now,
Oh! it is jolly now,
No melancholy now,
Sorrow, or grief.

III

Up! up! at peep-o-day, clad for a tussle now!—
Keen eyes have mark'd the wild hart on the hill;

Toil for the stalker!—wind, sinew and muscle, now
All will be needed, ere testing his skill!
Gillies now frolicking,
Roaring and rollicking,
Hey! for a grollocking,—
Rip up the deer,
Pastime at Tolly now,
Oh! it is jolly now,
No melancholy now
Haunteth us here.

IV

Up! up! at peep-o-day; what may your pleasure be?
Black-cock or ptarmigan, roebuck or hare?
Bright with delight let each moment of leisure be,
Left in the lowlands, a fig for dull care!
Wood, stream, and heather now,
Yielding together now,
Sport for all weather now,—
Up in the morn!
Pastime at Tolly now,
Oh! it is jolly now,
Sad melancholy, now
Laugh her to scorn!

1845.

“Importation of Vermin.”

[_]

“A steam ship arrived yesterday from Boulogne with a cage of live foxes, consigned to order.”—Daily News, Feb. 1st, 1848, at which time there was much talk of the possibility of a French invasion.

I.

“Imported Vermin:”—say, thou scribbler, when
Those fiercer vermin on our coast alight,
Who bark with drumstick and with bayonet bite,
As daily threat thy brethren of the pen;
When England summons her true-hearted men,
(Whether invader to the chace invite
With foes or foxes, putting both to flight,)
Say, of these twain which best will serve her then.

The joyous hunter, he who cheers the pack,
His fleet steed urging over vale and hill,
Who shuns no hardship and who knows no fear,

Or he, who bending o'er the desk his back,
In gas-lit office drives the flippant quill,
And talks of “vermin imports” with a sneer?

Bowmeeting Song.

ARLEY HALL, SEPTEMBER 4, 1851.

I

The tent is pitch'd, the target rear'd, the ground is measured out,
For the weak arm sixty paces, and one hundred for the stout!
Come, gather ye together then, the youthful and the fair,
And poet's lay, to future day, the victor shall declare!

II

Let busy fingers lay aside the needle and the thread,
To prick the golden canvas with a pointed arrowhead;
Ye sportsmen quit the stubble, quit, ye fishermen, the stream,
Fame and glory stand before you, brilliant eyes around you beam.

III

All honour to the long-bow which many a battle won,
Ere powder blaz'd and bullet flew, from arquebus or gun;

All honour to the long-bow, which merry men of yore,
With hound and horn at early morn, in greenwood forest bore.

IV

O! famous is the archer's sport, 'twas honour'd long ago,
The God of Love, the God of Wit, bore both of them a bow;
Love laughs to-day in beauty's eye and blushes on her cheek,
And wit is heard in every word, that merry archers speak;

V

The archer's heart, though, like his bow, a tough and sturdy thing,
Is pliant still and yielding, when affection pulls the string;
All his words and all his actions are like arrows, pointed well
To hit that golden centre, where true love and friendship dwell.

VI

They tell us in that outline which the lips of beauty show,
How Cupid found a model for his heart-subduing bow;

The arrows in his quiver are the glances from her eye,
A feather from love's wing it is, that makes the arrow fly!

Farmer Dobbin.

A DAY WI' THE CHESHUR FOX DUGS.

I

“Ould mon, it's welly milkin toim, where ever 'ast 'ee bin?
Thear's slutch upo' thoi coat, oi see, and blood upo' thoi chin;”
“Oiv bin to see the gentlefolk o' Cheshur roid a run;
Owd wench! oiv been a hunting, an oiv seen some rattling fun.

II

“Th' owd mare was i' the smithy when the huntsman, he trots through,
Black Bill agate o' ammering the last nail in her shoe;
The cuvver laid so wheam loik, an so jovial foin the day,
Says I, ‘Owd mare, we'll tak a fling and see 'em go away.’

III

“When up, an oi'd got shut ov aw the hackney pads an traps,
Orse dealers an orse jockey lads, and such loik swaggering chaps,
Then what a power o' gentlefolk did I set oies upon!
A reining in their hunters, aw blood orses every one!

IV

“They'd aw got bookskin leathers on, a fitten 'em so toight,
As roind an plump as turmits be, an just about as whoit;
Their spurs wor maid o' siller, and their buttons maid o' brass,
Their coats wor red as carrots an their collurs green as grass.

V

“A varment looking gemman on a woiry tit I seed,
An another close besoid him, sitting noble on his steed;
They ca' them both owd codgers, but as fresh as paint they look,
John Glegg, Esquoir, o' Withington, an bowd Sir Richard Brooke.

VI

“I seed Squoir Geffrey Shakerley, the best un o' that breed,
His smoiling feace tould plainly how the sport wi' him agreed;
I seed the 'Arl ov Grosvenor, a loikly lad to roid,
I seed a soight worth aw the rest, his farencly young broid.

VII

“Zur Umferry de Trafford an the Squoir ov Arley Haw,
His pocket full o' rigmarole, a rhoiming on 'em aw;
Two Members for the Cointy, both aloik ca'd Egerton;—
Squoir Henry Brooks and Tummus Brooks, they'd aw green collurs on.

VIII

“Eh! what a mon be Dixon John, ov Astle Haw, Esquoir,
You wudna foind, and measure him, his marrow in the shoir;
Squoir Wilbraham o' the Forest, death and danger he defoies,
When his coat be toightly button'd up, and shut be both his oies.

IX

“The Honerable Lazzles, who from forrin parts be cum,
An a chip of owd Lord Delamere, the Honerable Tum;
Squoir Fox an Booth an Worthington, Squoir Massey an Squoir Harne,
An many more big sportsmen, but their neames I didna larn.

X

“I seed that great commander in the saddle, Captain Whoit,
An the pack as thrung'd about him was indeed a gradely soight;
The dugs look'd foin as satin, an himsel look'd hard as nails,
An he giv the swells a caution not to roid upo' their tails.

XI

“Says he, ‘Young men o' Monchester an Livverpoo, cum near,
Oiv just a word, a warning word, to whisper in your ear,
When, starting from the cuvver soid, ye see bowd Reynard burst,
We canna 'ave no 'unting if the gemmen go it first.’

XII

“Tom Rance has got a single oie, wurth many another's two,
He held his cap abuv his yed to show he'd had a view;
Tom's voice was loik th' owd raven's when he skroik'd out ‘Tally-ho!’
For when the fox had seen Tom's feace he thoght it toim to go.

XIII

“Ey moy! a pratty jingle then went ringin through the skoy,
Furst Victory, then Villager begun the merry croy,
Then every maith was open from the oud'un to the pup,
An aw the pack together took the swellin chorus up.

XIV

“Eh moy! a pratty skouver then was kick'd up in the vale,
They skim'd across the running brook, they topp'd the post an rail,
They didna stop for razzur cop, but play'd at touch an go,
An them as miss'd a footin there lay doubled up below.

XV

“I seed the 'ounds a crossing Farmer Flareup's boundary loin,
Whose daughter plays the peany an drinks whoit sherry woin,
Gowd rings upon her finger and silk stockings on her feet;
Says I, ‘it won't do him no harm to roid across his wheat.’

XVI

“So, toightly houdin on by'th yed, I hits th' owd mare a whop,
Hoo plumps into the middle o'the wheatfield neck an crop;
And when hoo floinder'd out on it I catch'd another spin,
An, missis, that's the cagion o'the blood upo' my chin.

XVII

“I never oss'd another lep, but kep the lane, an then
In twenty minutes' toim about they turn'd toart me agen;
The fox was foinly daggled, an the tits aw out o' breath,
When they kilt him in the open, an owd Dobbin seed the death.

XVIII

“Loik dangling of a babby, then the Huntsman hove him up,
The dugs a bayin roind him, while the gemman croid, ‘Whoo-hup!’
As doesome cawves lick fleetings out o'th' piggin in the shed,
They worried every inch of him, aw but his tail an yed.

XIX

“Now, missis, sin the markets be a doing moderate well,
Oiv welly maid my moind up just to buoy a nag mysel;
For to keep a farmer's spirits up 'gen things be gettin low,
Theer's nothin loik Fox-huntin and a rattling Tally-ho!”

1853.

The Blooming Evergreen.

I

Ere the adventurers, nicknamed Plantagenet,
Buckled the helm on, their foes to dismay,
They pluck'd a broom-sprig which they wore as a badge in it,
Meaning thereby they would sweep them away.

Long the genista shall flourish in story,
Green as the laurels their chivalry won;
As the broom-sprig excited those heroes to glory,
May the gorse-plant encourage our foxes to run.

II

Held by Diana in due estimation,
Bedeck with a gorse-flower the goddess's shrine;
Throughout the wide range of this blooming creation,
It has but one rival, and that one the vine.
Pluck me then, Bacchus, a cluster and, squeezing it,
Pour the red juice till the goblet o'erflows;
Then in the joy of my heart, will I, seizing it,
Drink to the land where this Evergreen grows.

Cheshire Jumpers.

I

I ask'd in much amazement, as I took my morning ride,
“What means this monster meeting, that collects at Highwayside?
Who are ye? and what strange event this gathering crowd excites?
Are ye scarlet men of Babylon, or mounted Mormonites?”

II

A bearded man on horseback answered blandly with a smile,—
“Good Sir, no Canters are we, though we canter many a mile;
Nor will you find a Ranter here amongst our merry crew,
Though if you seek a Roarer, there may chance be one or two.

III

“With Shakers and with Quakers no connection Sir, have we;
We are not Plymouth Brothers, Cheshire Jumpers though we be;
'Tis mine between two champions bold to judge, if judge I can,
And settle which, o'er hedge and ditch, will prove the better man.

IV

“Mark well these two conditions, he who falls upon the field,
Or he whose horse refuses twice, the victory must yield.”
As thus he spake he strok'd his beard, and bade the champions go;
His beard was black as charcoal, but their faces white as snow.

V

The ladies wave their kerchiefs as the rival jumpers start,
A smile of such encouragement might nerve the faintest heart;
The crowd that follow'd after with good wishes cheer'd them on,
Some cried, “Stick to it, Thomas;” others shouted, “Go it, John!”

VI

Awake to competition, and alive to any game,
From Manchester and Liverpool the speculators came;
They calculated nicely every chance of loss or gain;
Some stak'd their cash on cotton, some preferr'd the sugar-cane.

VII

Bold Thomas took precedence, as a proper man to lead,
And straightway at a hedgerow cop he drove his gallant steed;
He's off—he's on—he's over—is bold Thomas in his seat?
Yes, the rider's in his saddle, and the horse is on his feet!

VIII

Make way for John! the Leicester Don! John clear'd it far and wide,
And scornfully he smil'd on it when landed t'other side;
The prelude thus accomplish'd without loss of life or limb,
John's backers, much embolden'd, offer two to one on him.

IX

Now John led off; the choice again was fix'd upon a cop,
A rotten ditch in front of it, a rail upon the top;
While shouts of “Bono Johnny!” to the echoing hills were sent,
He wink'd his eye, and at it, and right over it he went.

X

Hold him lightly, Thomas, lightly, give him freedom ere he bound,
Why shape your course with so much force, to run yourself aground?
Thus against a Russian rampart goes a British cannon ball:
Were Thomas at Sebastopol, how speedily 'twould fall

XI

Would you gain that proud pre-eminence on which your rival stands,
Upraise your voice, uprouse your horse, but slacken both your hands;
'Tis vain, 'tis vain, his steed again stands planted in the ditch,
The game is o'er, he tries no more, who makes a second hitch.

XII

Thus, unlike the wars of Lancaster and York, in days of yore,
The Chester strife with Leicester unexpectedly was o'er;
We else had learnt which method best insures us from a fall,
The Chester on-and-off step, or the Leicester, clearing all?

XIII

Whether breeches white, or breeches brown, the more adhesive be,
And which the more effective spur, Champagne or Eau-de-vie?
These, alas! and other problems which their progress had reveal'd,
Remain unsettled questions for the future hunting field.

100

XIV

One lesson learn, young ladies all, who came to see the show,
Remember, in the race of life, once only to say “No;”
This moral, for your warning, to my ditty I attach,
May ye ne'er by two refusals altogether lose a match!

1854.

Tarporley Hunt Song.

I

The Eagle won Jupiter's favour,
The Sparrow to Venus was dear,
The Owl of Minerva, though graver,
We want not its gravity here;
The Swallow flies fast, but remember
The Swallow with Summer is gone,
What bird is there left in November
To rival the Tarporley Swan?

II

Though scarlet in colour our clothing,
Our collars though green in their hue,
The red cap of liberty loathing,
Each man is at heart a True Blue;

101

Through life 'tis our sworn resolution,
To stick to the pig-skin and throne;
We are all for a good constitution,
Each man taking care of his own.

III

Though the Sailor, who rides on the ocean,
With cheers may encounter the foe;
Wind and steam, what are they to horse motion?
Sea cheers, to a land Tally ho?
The canvas, the screw, and the paddle
The speed of a thorough-bred lack,
When fast in the fox-hunting saddle,
We gallop astern of the pack.

IV

Quæsitum, that standard of merit,
Where each his true level may know,
Checks pride in the haughty of spirit,
Emboldens the timid and slow;
The liquor that sparkles before us,
The dumb when they drink it can speak,
While the deaf in the roar of our chorus
A cure for their malady seek.

V

Forget not that other Red Jacket,
Turn'd up with green laurel and bay!
The tri-colour'd banners that back it!
The might of their mingled array!

102

Forget not the deeds that unite 'em
As comrades, though rivals in fame;
But fill to the brim that quæsitum
Which Friendship and Chivalry claim.

1855.

A Remonstrance on Lord Stanley's Suggestion that the Session of Parliament should be held during the Winter Months.

Joy! when November bids our sport begin,
When ringing echoes through the vale resound,
When light of heart we to the saddle bound,
And health and pleasure from the pastime win.
These must I barter for the Senate's din?
Forego the music of the tuneful hound
For midnight rant in adverse clamour drown'd?
Lay by the whip to be myself whipp'd in?
Debaters! listen, while the Chace propounds
Her precepts—words too many work delay;
Your babblers draft, as we our tonguey hounds;
Rate without mercy those who riot run;
Let those speak only who have aught to say,
Speak to the point, and stop when they have done.

1855.

103

Highwayside.

A FAVOURITE FIXTURE DURING THE CHESHIRE DIFFICULTY.

I

Rare luck for the Cheshire, warn'd out from the field,
That the Highway such endless diversion can yield;
That the Huntsman can still with no covers to draw,
Blow his horn on the road without breaking the law.

II

'Twixt highways and byeways still ringing the change,
From gravel and sand to McAdam they range;
When quite on the pavé their gallop restrain,
And a jogtrot enjoy down a hard Cheshire lane.

III

Steeds good in dirt, let the feather-weights urge
Slapdash through the mud that encumbers the verge,

104

Let heavy ones follow the track of the 'Bus,
Shouting, Ibis in medio tutissimus.

IV

They may jump on and off o'er the broken stone heap,
In triangular fenders find timber to leap,
The towing path too may afford them a run
Just to keep the game going and vary the fun.

V

No alarm the most timid old gentleman feels,
Babes may perambulate, hunting on wheels;
Dyspepsy and gout the amusement may share,
So go it, ye cripples! and take a Bath chair.

VI

The use of the milestone, now coaching is done,
Is to measure exactly the length of a run;
While each tap on the road they alternately try,
Till Tom sees two double with only one eye.

VII

With such sport has this mud-larking lately supplied 'em,
The Huntsman has call'd his crack horse Rodum-Sidum,

105

Who dare say these hounds have had nothing to do,
Highwayside for their fixture the whole season through?

1856.

Count Warnoff.

I

When the war with our Muscovite foemen was o'er,
Then the Offs and the Koffs came to visit our shore;
Their hard and stern features your heart would appal,
But the face of Count Warnoff was sternest of all;
A terrible man was Count Warnoff!
As cold as the snow
That envelopes Moscow
Was the heart of this horrid Count Warnoff!

II

Woe! woe! to the sport of the fox-hunting Squire
When the Count set his foot in this peaceable shire!
So clean his own hands, his own morals so strict,
A hole in each Redcoat he presently pick'd;

106

Such a virtuous man was Count Warnoff;
Without speck of dirt
You must ride with clean skirt
If the wrath you'd avert of Count Warnoff!

III

The Count could not tolerate foible or folly,
He never made love, and he never got jolly;
He vow'd that fox-hunting he'd have at no price
Unless horses and men were alike free from vice;
Such a virtuous man was Count Warnoff!
We must all be good boys
Or farewell to the joys
Of the chace, if we nettle Count Warnoff!

IV

Low whisper'd the huntsman (lest mischief befall him),
“I don't like the look of that Count What-d'ye-call him?”
Tom wink'd his blind eye as he lifted his cap,
“He's a rum 'un, sir, ain't he, that Muscovy chap?”
Such a terrible bugbear was Warnoff!
Not a brush, nor a pad
In the shire could be had,
Such a terrible bugbear was Warnoff!

107

V

He lock'd all the gates and he wir'd all the gaps,
And the woods were all planted with spikes and steel traps;
No more the earth-stoppers were dragg'd their warm beds off,
The nags in the stable stood eating their heads off;
Such a terrible man was Count Warnoff!
Little children grew pale
As their nurse told the tale
Of this terrible ogre, Count Warnoff!

VI

Cheer up, my good fellows, Count Warnoff is gone!
Gone back to the banks of the Volga and Don;
He may warn us, and welcome, from off his own snow,
From the land where no fox-hunter wishes to go;
But to bother our pack
May he never come back
To this peaceable county, Count Warnoff!

1857.

108

Le Gros-Veneur.

[_]

SUNG AT THE TARPORLEY HUNT MEETING, NOVEMBER, 1858.

I

A mighty great hunter in deed and in name
To our shire long ago with the Conqueror came;
A hunting he went with his bugle and bow,
And he shouted in Normandy-French “Tally-Ho!”
The man we now place at the head of our Chace
Can his pedigree trace from Le Gros-Veneur!

II

'Tis a maxim by fox-hunters well understood,
That in horses and hounds there is nothing like blood;
So the chief who the fame of our kennel maintains
Should be born with the purest of blood in his veins!
The man we now place at the head of our Chace
Can his pedigree trace from Le Gros-Veneur!

III

Old and young with delight shall the Gros-Veneur greet,
The field once again in good fellowship meet,

109

The shire with one voice shall re-echo our choice,
And again the old pastime all Cheshire rejoice!
May the sport we ensure many seasons endure,
And the Chief of our Chace be Le Gros-Veneur!

IV

Though no more, as of yore, a long-bow at his back,
Now a Gros-Veneur guides us and governs our pack;
Again let each earth-stopper rise from his bed,
This year they shall all be well fee'd and well fed.
May the sport we ensure many seasons endure,
And the Chief of our Chace be Le Gros-Veneur!

V

Let Geoffrey with smiles and with shillings restore
Good humour when housewives their poultry deplore,
Well pleas'd, for each goose on which Reynard has prey'd
To find in their pockets a golden egg laid!
May the sport we ensure many seasons endure,
And the Chief of our Chace be Le Gros-Veneur!

VI

Should our Chief with the toil of the senate grow pale,
The elixir of life is a ride o'er the vale;

110

There, of health, says the song, he shall gain a new stock
“Till his pulse beats the seconds as true as a clock.”
May the sport we ensure many seasons endure,
And the Chief of our Chace be Le Gros-Veneur!

VII

I defy Norman-dy now to send a Chasseur
Who can ride alongside of our own Gros-Veneur!
And, couching my lance, I will challenge all France
To outvie the bright eye of the Lady Constance!
Long, long, may she grace with her presence our Chace,
The Bride and the Pride of Le Gros-Veneur!

The Keeper.

I

Rufus Knox, his lordship's keeper, is a formidable chap,
So at least think all who listen to his swagger at the tap;
Ain't he up to poachers? ain't he down upon 'em too?
This very night he'd face and fight a dozen of the crew.

111

II

With the Squire who hunts the country he is ever in disgrace,
For “Vulpicide” is written in red letters on his face;
His oath that in one cover he a brace of foxes saw,
Is the never-failing prelude that foretokens a blank draw.

III

The mousing owl he spares not, flitting through the twilight dim,
The beak it wears, it is, he swears, too hook'd a one for him;
In every woodland songster he suspects a secret foe,
His ear no music toucheth, save the roosting pheasant's crow.

IV

His stoppers and his beaters, for the battue day array'd,
Behold him in his glory at the head of the brigade;
That day on which a twelvemonth's toil triumphantly is crown'd,
That day to him the pivot upon which the year turns round.

112

V

There is a spot where birds are shot by fifties as they fly,
If envious of that station you must tip him on the sly;
Conspicuous on the slaughter card if foremost you would be,
That place like other places must be purchas'd with a fee.

A Railway Accident with the Cheshire.

February 5th, 1859.

I

By the side of Poole cover last Saturday stood
A hundred good horses, both cocktail and blood;
Nor long stood they idle, three deep in array,
Ere Reynard by Edwards was hollo'd away.

II

Away! over meadow, away! over plough,
Away! down the dingle, away! up the brow!
“If you like not that fence, sir, get out of the way,
If one minute you lose you may lose the whole day.”

113

III

Away! through the evergreens,—laurel and box,
They may screen a cock-robin but not a run fox;
As he pass'd the henroost at the Rookery Hall,
“Excuse me,” said pug, “I have no time to call.”

IV

The rail to our left and the river in front
Into two rival parties now sever'd the hunt;
I will tell by-and-by which were right and which wrong,
Meanwhile let us follow the fox with our song.

V

Away! to the Weaver, whose banks are soft sand,
“Look out, boys, ahead, there's a horse-bridge at hand.”
One by one the frail plank we cross'd cautiously o'er,
I had time just to count that we number'd a score.

VI

Though fast fox and hounds, there were men, by my troth,
Whose ambition it was to go faster than both;
If that grey in the skurry escap'd a disaster,
Little thanks the good animal ow'd to its master.

114

VII

Now Hornby went crashing through bullfinch and rail
With Brancker beside him on Murray's rat tail;
Two green collars only were seen in this flight,
Squire Warburton one, and the other John White.

VIII

Where was Massey, who found us the fox that we run?
Where Philip the father? where Philip the son?
Where was Grosvenor our Guide? where was bold Shrewsberie?
We had with us one Earle, how I wish we'd had three!

IX

Where Talbot? where Lyon? though sailing away
They were both sadly out of their bearings that day;
Where Lascelles, De Trafford, Brooke, Corbet and Court?
They must take return tickets if bent upon sport.

X

Sailors, railers and tailors! what can you now do?
If you hope to nick in, the next station is Crewe;

115

Second-class well dispers'd, it was only class first
Which, escaping the boiler, came in for the burst!

XI

Away! with red rowel, away! with slack rein
For twenty-five minutes to Wistaston Lane,
Where a check gave relief both to rider and horse,
Where again the split field re-united its force.

XII

From that point we turn'd back and continued our chace
To the gorse where we found, but more sober the pace;
Reynard, skirting Poole Hall, trying sand-earth and drain,
Was at length by the pack, who deserv'd him, o'erta'en.

XIII

While they worry their fox a short word I would say,
Of advice to those riders who rode the wrong way,
Who were forc'd to put up with skim-milk for their fun,
For the skurry had skimm'd off the cream of the run:

116

XIV

“As a coverside hack you may prudently stick
“To the line of the rail, it is easy and quick;
“But when fox and fast hounds on a skurry are bent,
“The line you should stick to is that of the scent.”

Tarporley Hunt Song.

1859.

I

Names, honour'd of old, on our Club-book enroll'd,
It were shame should their successors slight 'em,
They who Horace could quote, and who first of all wrote
On our Tarporley glasses “Quæsitum;”
O, famous Quæsitum!
Famous in story Quæsitum!
There has pass'd very nigh a full century by
Since our fathers first fill'd a Quæsitum.

II

Old Bacchus so jolly, who hates melancholy,
Our founders, how can he requite 'em?
From the land of the vine let the best of his wine
Be reserv'd to o'erflow the Quæsitum;

117

O, famous Quæsitum!
Jolly Bacchus, fill up the Quæsitum!
Whether claret or port, it must be the best sort,
If it fit be to fill a Quæsitum.

III

The goblet, methinks, from which Jupiter drinks,
With thunder-cheer ter repetitum,
Since when Juno was gone he turn'd into the Swan,
Should be chang'd for a crystal Quæsitum;
O, famous Quæsitum!
Fit for Olympus, Quæsitum!
Cup-bearer Hebe, how happy would she be
With nectar to fill a Quæsitum.

IV

Those who dar'd with rude eye at Diana to spy,
She unkennel'd her pack to affright 'em;
She who smiles with delight on our banquet tonight,
Bids us fill to the chace a Quæsitum;
Fill, fill the Quæsitum!
To the heart-stirring chace a Quæsitum;
She who sheds her bright beam upon fountain and stream
With her smile shall make bright the Quæsitum.

118

V

One bumper still let all fox-hunters fill,
'Tis a toast that will fondly excite 'em,
Since the brave can alone claim the fair as their own,
Let us drink to our loves a Quæsitum;
Fill, fill the Quæsitum!
A glowing o'erflowing Quæsitum!
From Beauty's sweet lip he who kisses would sip,
With his own must first kiss the Quæsitum.

VI

Again ere I end, all who foxes befriend,
Let a bumper thrice honour'd delight 'em,
May the forward and fast still be up at the last,
Give the slow ones another Quæsitum;
Fill, fill the Quæsitum!
To good fellows all a Quæsitum!
Let him fast be or slow, each shall prove ere we go,
An excuse for another Quæsitum.

119

A “Burst” in the Ball Week.

January 19, 1860.

I

We had danc'd the night through,
Till the candles burnt blue,
But were all in the saddle next morn;
Once again with Tom Rance,
In broad daylight to dance
To the music of hollo and horn.

II

We were all giddy still
With the waltz and quadrille,
When arous'd by the loud “Tallyho!”
I must tune my fast rhyme
Up to double-quick time,
For the movement was prestissimo.

III

The fox by one hound
Near the Smoker was found—
As he wip'd that dog's nose with his brush,
“I don't mean to die,”
Said bold Reynard, “not I;
Nor care I for Edwards one rush.”

120

IV

With a fox of such pluck,
'Twas a piece of rare luck
That no ploughboy to turn him was near;
That no farmer was there
At the gem'men to swear,
No tailor to head his career.

V

Some, to lead off the ball,
Get away first of all,
Some linger too long at poussette;
Down the middle some go,
In the deep ditch below,
Thrown out ere they up again get.

VI

One, pitch'd from his seat,
Was compell'd, with wet feet,
His heels in the gutter to cool;
While his horse, in full swing,
Danc'd a new Highland fling,
He himself stood and danc'd a pas seul.

VII

“Tell me, Edwards,” said one,
When the skurry was done,
“How long were we running this rig?”

121

“To keep time, indeed, sir,
I little take heed, sir,
When dancing the Tallyho jig.”

VIII

But the time I can tell,
And the spot I know well,
Where the huntsman his fox overtook;
Twenty-five minutes good,
When he reach'd Arley Wood,
Where he died on the banks of the brook.

IX

I could name the few first
Who went best in this burst;
I could tell how the steady ones rac'd;
But since all were content
With the pace themselves went,
What matters it where they were plac'd?

X

If a live fox should run,
As that dead one has done,
O'er this country again, by good chance,
May I have my fleet bay
For a partner that day,
And be just where I was in the dance.

122

Farmer Newstyle and Farmer Oldstyle.

I

“Good day,” said Farmer Oldstyle, taking Newstyle by the arm;
“I be cum to look aboit me, wilt 'ee show me o'er thy farm?”
Young Newstyle took his wideawake, and lighted a cigar,
And said, “Won't I astonish you, old-fashioned as you are!

II

“No doubt you have an aneroid? ere starting, you shall see
How truly mine prognosticates what weather there will be.”
“I aint got no such gimcrack, but I knows there'll be a slush
When I sees th' oud ram tak' shelter wi' his tail agen a bush.”

III

“Allow me, first, to show you the analysis I keep,
And the compounds to explain of this experimental heap,

123

Where hydrogen, and nitrogen, and oxygen abound,
To hasten germination and to fertilize the ground.”

IV

“A pratty soight o' larning you have pil'd up of a ruck;
The only name it went by in my feyther's time was muck;
I knows not how that tool you calls a nollysis may work;
I turns it, when it's rotten, pretty handy wi' a fork.”

V

“A famous pen of Cotswolds! Pass your hand along the back—
Fleeces fit for stuffing the Lord Chancellor's woolsack!
For premiums e'en Inquisitor would own these wethers are fit;
If you want to purchase good 'uns you must go to Mr. Garfit.

VI

“Two bulls first-rate, of different breeds—the judges all protest
Both are so super-excellent, they know not which is best;

124

Fair, could he see this Ayrshire, would with jealousy be ril'd,
That hairy one's a Welshman, and was bred by Mr. Wild.”

VII

“Well, well, that little hairy bull he shanna be so bad;
But what be yonder beast I hear a bellowing like mad,
A snortin fire and smoke out?—be it some big Roosian gun?
Or be it twenty bullocks squz together into one?”

VIII

“My steam Factotum that, sir, doing all I have to do—
My ploughman, and my reaper, and my jolly thrasher, too;
Steam's yet but in its infancy, no mortal man alive
Can tell to what perfection modern farming will arrive.”

IX

“Steam, as yet, is but an infant”—He had scarcely said the word
When through the tottering farmstead was a loud explosion heard;

125

The engine dealing death around, destruction and dismay;
Though steam be but an infant, this indeed was no child's play.

X

The women scream'd like blazes as the blazing hayrick burn'd,
The sucking pigs were in a crack all into crackling turn'd;
Grill'd chickens clog the hen-coop, roasted ducklings choke the gutter,
And turkeys round the poultry-yard on devil'd pinions flutter.

XI

Two feet deep in buttermilk the stoker's two feet lie,
The cook, before she bakes it, finds a finger in the pie;
The labourers for their lost legs were looking round the farm,
They could not lend a hand because they had not got an arm.

XII

Oldstyle, all soot from head to foot, look'd like a big black sheep;
Newstyle was thrown upon his own experimental heap:

126

“That weather-glass,” said Oldstyle, “canna be in proper fettle,
Or it might as well a tou'd us there was thunder in the kettle.”

XIII

“Steam is so expansive.” “Ay,” said Oldstyle, “so I see;
So expensive, as you call it, that it wunna do for me;
According to my notion, that's a beast that canna pay,
Who champs up for his morning feed a hundred ton o' hay.”

XIV

Then to himself, said Oldstyle, as he homewards quickly went,
“I'll tak' no farm where th' doctor's bill be heavier than the rent;
I've never in hot water been; steam shanna speed my plough,
I would liefer thrash my oats out by the sweat of my own brow.

XV

“I neether want to scald my pigs, nor toast my cheese, not I,
Afore the butcher sticks 'em, or the factor comes to buy;

127

They shanna catch me here again to risk my limbs and loif;
I've nought at whoam to blow me up, except it be my woif.”

Home with the Hounds; or, the Huntsman's Lament.

I

Over-ridden! over-ridden!
All along of that the check;
When the ditch that gemman slid in,
Don't I wish he'd broke his neck.
I to hunt my hounds am able,
Would the field but play me fair;
Mobb'd at Smithfield by the rabble,
Who a fox could follow there?

II

Let the tinker ride his kettle,
Let the tailor ride his goose,
How can hounds to hunting settle
With the like o' them let loose?
What's the use on't when he scrambles
Through a run that butchers tit?
Butcher'd foxhounds for the shambles
They be neither fat nor fit.

128

III

What's the use o' jockies thumping
Wi' their 'andwhips bits of blood?
Tits by instinct shy of jumping,
For they could not if they would;
Though the snob, who cannot guide her,
Mounts the mare as draws his trap;
'Taint the red coat makes the rider,
Leathers, boots, nor yet the cap.

IV

They who come their coats to show, they
Better were at home in bed;
What of hounds and hunting know they?
Nothing else but “go ahead;”
At the Kennel I could train 'em,
If they would but come to school,
Two and two in couples chain 'em,
Feed on meal, and keep 'em cool.

V

Gemmen, gemmen, shame upon 'em,
Plague my heart out worse than all,
Worse than Bowdon mobs at Dunham,
Worse than cobblers at Poole Hall;
Spurring at a fence their clippers,
When the hounds are in the rear!
Reg'lar gemmen! self and whippers
Tipping reg'lar once a year!

129

VI

Well! soft solder next I'll try on,
Rating only riles a swell;
Mister Brancker! Mister Lyon!
Mister Hornby!—hope you're well;
'Taint the pack that I'm afraid on,
And I likes to see you first,
But when so much steam be laid on
Beant you fear'd the copper'll burst?

VII

Rantipole, I see'd him sprawling
Underneath a horse's hoof;
Prudence only heerd me calling
Just in time to keep aloof;
Vulcan lam'd for life! Old Victor
Ne'er again will he show fight;
Venus, sin that gelding kick'd her,
Aint he spoilt her beauty quite?

VIII

Gentlemen, unto my thinking,
Should behave themselves as sich;
'Tik'lar when the scent is sinking,
And the hounds are at a hitch;
How my temper can I master,
Fretted till I fume and foam?
I can only backwards cast, or
Blow my horn and take 'em home.

130

On hearing that “The Cheshire” were to hunt Five Days a Week.

“There's luck in odd numbers,” says Rory O'More,
“Five days,” says squire Corbet, “good sport will ensure;”
So, All-fours out of fashion, the game is now Fives,
But who cares what they call it while Fox-hunting thrives?

We are all of us Tailors in Turn.

I

I will sing you a song of a fox-hunting bout,
They shall tell their own tale who to-day were thrown out;
For the fastest as well as the slowest of men,
Snobs or top-sawyers, alike now and then,
We are all of us tailors in turn.

II

Says one, “From the cover I ne'er got away,
Old Quidnunc sat quoting The Times on his Grey,
How Lord Derby was wrong, and Lord Aberdeen right,
And the hounds, ere he finish'd were clean out of sight.”
We are all of us tailors in turn.

131

III

Says one, “When we started o'er fallow and grass,
I was close at the tail of the hounds, but, alas!
We came down to a drain in that black-bottom'd fen,
O had I but been on my brook-jumper, then!”—
We are all of us tailors in turn.

IV

“Dismounting,” says one, “at a gate that was fast,
The crowd, pushing through, knock'd me down as it pass'd;
My horse seized the moment to take his own fling,
Who'll again do, out hunting, a good-natured thing!”
We are all of us tailors in turn.

V

“Down the lane went I merrily sailing along,
Till I found,” says another, “my course was all wrong;
I thought that his line toward the breeding-earth lay,
But he went, I've heard since, just the opposite way.”
We are all of us tailors in turn.

132

VI

From the wine-cup o'er night some were sorry and sick,
Some skirted, some cran'd, and some rode for a nick;
Like whales, in the water, some flounder'd about,
Thrown off and thrown in, they were also thrown out.
We are all of us tailors in turn.

VII

“You will find in the field a whole ton of lost shoes.”—
A credulous blacksmith, believing the news,
Thought his fortune were made if he walk'd o'er the ground;—
He lost a day's work, but he ne'er a shoe found!
We are all of us tailors in turn.

VIII

What deeds would one hero have done on his Grey,
Who was nowhere at all on his Chestnut to-day!
All join in the laugh when a braggart is beat,
And that jest is lov'd best which is aim'd at conceit.
We are all of us tailors in turn.

133

IX

Good fellows there are, unpretending and slow,
Who can ne'er be thrown out, for they ne'er mean to go;
But, when the run's over, these oftentimes tell
The story far better than they who went well.
We are all of us tailors in turn.

X

How trifling a cause will oft lose us a run!
From the find to the finish how few see the fun!
A mischance, it is call'd, when we come to a halt;
I ne'er heard of one who confess'd it a fault,
Yet we're all of us tailors in turn.

A Word ere we Start.

I

Boys, to the hunting field! though 'tis November,
The wind's in the south;—but a word ere we start.—
Though keenly excited, I bid you remember
That hunting's a science, and riding an art.

134

II

The order of march and the due regulation
That guide us in warfare, we need in the chace—
Huntsman and Whip, each his own proper station,
Horse, hound and fox, each his own proper place.

III

The fox takes precedence of all from the cover;
The horse is an animal purposely bred
After the pack to be ridden, not over—
Good hounds are not rear'd to be knock'd on the head.

IV

Strong be your tackle, and carefully fitted,
Breast-plate and bridle, girth, stirrup, and chain;
You will need not two arms, if the mouth be well bitted,
One hand lightly us'd will suffice for the rein.

V

Buckskin's the only wear fit for the saddle;
Hats for Hyde Park, but a cap for the chace;
In tops of black leather let fishermen paddle,
The calves of a fox-hunter white ones incase.

135

VI

If your horse be well bred and in blooming condition,
Both up to the country and up to your weight,
O, then give the reins to your youthful ambition,
Sit down in your saddle and keep his head straight!

VII

Pastime for princes!—prime sport of our nation!
Strength in their sinew and bloom on their cheek;
Health to the old, to the young recreation;
All for enjoyment the hunting-field seek.

VIII

Eager and emulous only, not spiteful;—
Grudging no friend, though ourselves he may beat;
Just enough danger to make sport delightful!
Toil just sufficient to make slumber sweet!

Hard-riding Dick.

I

From the cradle his name has been “Hard-riding Dick,”
Since the time when cock-horse he bestraddled a stick;

136

Since the time when, unbreech'd, without saddle or rein,
He kick'd the old donkey along the green lane.

II

Dick, wasting no time o'er the classical page,
Spent his youth in the stable without any wage;
The life of poor Dick, when he enter'd his teens,
Was to sleep in the hay-loft and breakfast on beans.

III

Promoted at length, Dick's adventures began:—
A stripling on foot, but when mounted a man;
Capp'd, booted, and spurr'd, his young soul was on fire,
The day he was dubb'd “Second Whip” to the Squire.

IV

See, how Dick, like a dart, shoots a-head of the pack!
How he stops, turns, and twists, rates, and rattles them back!
The laggard exciting, controlling the rash,
He can comb down a hair with the point of his lash.

V

O! show me that country which Dick cannot cross—
Be it open or wood, be it upland or moss,

137

Through the fog or the sunshine, the calm or the squall,
By day-light or star-light, or no light at all!

VI

Like a swallow can Dick o'er the water-flood skim,
And Dick, like a duck, in the saddle can swim;
Up the steep mountain-side like a cat he can crawl,
He can squeeze like a mouse through a hole in the wall!

VII

He can tame the wild young one, inspirit the old,
The restive, the runaway, handle and hold;
Sharp steel or soft-solder, which e'er does the trick,
It makes little matter to Hard-riding Dick.

VIII

Bid the chief from the Desert bring hither his mare,
To ride o'er the plain against Dick if he dare;
Bring Cossack or Mexican, Spaniard or Gaul,
There's a Dick in our village will ride round them all!

IX

A whip is Dick's sceptre, a saddle Dick's throne,
And a horse is the kingdom he rules as his own;
While grasping ambition encircles the earth,
The dominions of Dick are enclosed in a girth.

138

X

Three ribs hath he broken, two legs, and one arm,
But there hangs, it is said, round his neck a life-charm;
Still long odds are offer'd that Dick, when he drops,
Will die, as he lived, in his breeches and tops.

Thompson's Trip to Epsom.

I

Kind friends! delighted Thompson! on the night he came to town
They said: “If up to Epsom, we will call and take you down.”
Next morn, ere Boots awoke him, there was seen at Thompson's door
The coach the ladies sat in and the satin that they wore.

II

Poor Thompson's had no breakfast! how could he his bacon save,
How cut his mutton-chops up when his own he could not shave?
Poor Thompson's had no breakfast! “Waiter, say we cannot wait;”
With friends so fast his fate it was to fast upon a fête!

139

III

“We're full inside, for empties there's an empty dicky free,”
Alas! ere long with Thompson's heart all dicky will it be;
Her beaming eye who tied his veil pierc'd thro' him like a lance,
Of what avail was such a veil to shield from such a glance?

IV

Forgetting soon his breakfast spoon he takes a spoony turn,
His heart feels hot within him like a heater in the urn;
A sudden slip 'twixt cup and lip to Beauty from Bohea,
His tea no more he misses, thinks no more of Mrs. T.

V

A lottery they needs must have upon the Derby day,
Fair fingers cut the tickets, so of course it was fair play;
My Lord, who draws the favourite, o'erwhelms them with his thanks,
Poor Thompson's had no breakfast! so they hand him all the blanks.

140

VI

Poor Thompson's had no breakfast! it was whisper'd in a tone
Which meant, if words a meaning have, “How hungry we are grown!”
Poor Thompson sigh'd as they untied the hamper, Thompson's sigh,
Say was it for his ladie-love or for the pigeon pie?

VII

Poor Thompson's had no breakfast! looking down he now surveys
The fair insiders filling their inside with mayonnaise;
For the luncheon stakes disqualified was Thompson, they declare,
A stomach twice as empty as their own would not be fair.

VIII

Poor Thompson's had no breakfast! “Super-excellent this ham.”
Poor Thompson's had no breakfast! “What a tender bit of lamb.”
Poor Thompson's had no breakfast! “I prefer the dry champagne.”
Poor Thompson's had no breakfast! “May I trouble you again?”

141

IX

When done at last their own repast poor Thompson, better late
Than never, got possession of the hamper and a plate,
With two rejected drumsticks on a hollow dish he drums,
And chirps are heard as dicky-bird picks up the scatter'd crumbs.

X

Once more at home see Thompson, in his breakfast parlour chair,
He knew better than to quarrel with his bread and butter there;
His wife with indignation of his aching stomach heard,
Of the heartache which had troubled him he never said a word.

A Modern Stable.

I

Behold the new stable his lordship has built,
Its walls and its stalls painted, varnish'd and gilt;

142

No prince in his palace, King, Sultan, or Czar,
Was e'er lodg'd in such state as these quadrupeds are.

II

Pitchfork and bucket, chain, buckle and rack,
Burnish'd up till they shine like the coats on their back;
I scarce know on which most applause to bestow,
On the gildings above or the geldings below.

III

What I marvell'd at most, in the front of each stall
Why a slab of blue slate should be fix'd in the wall?
Why a horse (and the query still puzzles my pate)
Like a schoolboy should stand with his eyes on a slate?

IV

Must the heads of our horses be cramm'd now a-day
With learning as well as their bellies with hay?
Must our yearlings be coach'd till their little go won,
The trainer has taught them “to read as they run.”

143

On Reading in the “Times,” April 9th, 1860, a Critique on the Life of Asheton Smith.

The mighty Hunter taken to his rest,
His cherish'd sport now points the critic's jest,
Pleas'd of a sect facetiously to tell
A “meet” their heaven and a frost their hell,
Who blindly follow, clad in coats of pink,
A beast whose nature is to run and stink;
When view'd, with shouts of frantic joy they greet him,
Forbearing still, when they have kill'd, to eat him,
His head enshrin'd within a crystal case,
His “brush,” a relic, on their walls they place.
In mad devotion to this beast unclean,
Encountering “Bullfinches” (whate'er that mean)
They ride to fall and rise again forthwith,
A sect whose great high-priest was Asheton Smith.

Let him who laughs our noble sport to scorn,
Meet me next year at Melton or at Quorn;

144

Let the fast train by which his bolts are sped
Bring down the Thunderer himself instead,
My cover hack (not Stamford owns a finer)
Can canter glibly like a penny-a-liner;
Free of my stable let him take the pick,
Not one when mounted but can do the trick;
Fast as his pen can run, if he can ride,
The foremost few will find him at their side;
His leader left unfinish'd on the shelf,
To prove a leading article himself!

With closing daylight, when our pastime ends,
Together dining, we will part good friends;
And home returning to his gas-lit court,
His mind enlighten'd by a good day's sport,
Of hounds and hunting some slight knowledge then
Shall guide the goose-quill, when he writes again.

Tarporley Swan-Hopping.

November 6th, 1862.

I

When a Swan takes to singing they say she will die,
But our Tarporley Swan proves that legend a lie;

145

For a hundred years past she has swung at this door,
May she swing there and sing there a thousand years more!

II

Rara avis in terris our Swan though not black,
Though white her own pinions and white her own back,
Still her flock, in November full-feather'd, are seen
Resplendent in plumage of scarlet and green.

III

Heralds say she is sprung from that White Swan of yore
Which our Sires at Blore Heath to the battlefield bore;
When, Quæsitum meritis, loyal and true,
Their swords Cheshire men for Queen Margaret drew.

IV

To and fro in her flight she has travers'd the Vale,
She has lov'd on an ocean of claret to sail;
Whate'er takes her fancy she thinks it no sin,
So her dancing-days, now she's a hundred, begin.

V

You have heard in your youth of the Butterfly's Ball,
How the birds and the beasts she invited them all;

146

So the Tarporley Swan, not a whit less gallant,
Invites all her friends to a Soirée dansante.

VI

Lest her flock at the Ball should themselves misbehave,
The old Swan thus a lecture on etiquette gave:
“Though, my sons, o'er the Vale you make light of a fall,
Beware how you make a false step at the Ball.

VII

“You must all in good feather be drest for the night,
Let not the Swan neck-tie be tied over-tight;
Each his partner may fan with the tip of his wing,
Patent pumps for web feet will be quite the right thing.

VIII

“Expand not your pinions, 'twere folly to try,
In vain would their vastness with crinoline vie;
Let no rude neck outstretch'd o'er the table be seen,
Nor stand dabbling your bills in the supper tureen.

IX

“When you sail down the middle, or swim through a dance,

147

With grace and with stateliness, Swan-like, advance,
Let your entrance, your exit no waddle disclose,
But hold all your heads up, and turn out your toes.

X

“To the counsel convey'd in these motherly words
Give heed, and I trust you will all be good birds;
I give you my blessing and bid you begone,
So away to the Ball with you, every one.”

Killing no Murder.

I know not—search all England round,
If better Huntsman can be found,
A bolder rider or a neater,
When mounted for the field, than Peter;
But this I know, there is not one
So bent on blood as Collison.
Hear now the doctrine he propounds,
All ye who love to follow hounds:—

Says he, “Since first my horn was blown,
This maxim have I made my own;
Kill if you can with sport;—but still—
Or with it or without it,—kill.

148

A feather in my cap to pin,
A fresh one every brush I win!
That fox is doom'd who seeks for rest
In gorse or spinney when distrest;
Though far and fast he may have sped,
He counts for nothing till he's dead.
I hold that Whip not worth his pay,
Who fails to keep him there at bay;
When round and round the coverside
The mounted mob, like madmen, ride,
Now cross him here, now head him there,
While shouts and clamour rend the air.
Spare him, the gentle folk may say,
To live and fight another day;
Upon my coat conspicuous seen,
All know me by my collar green,
I should myself be greener still,
Were I to spare when I could kill;
Excuse me, gentlemen, I say
My hounds have had but two to-day.

“When April ends the hunting year,
How then should I in Bell appear?
Or how my brother Huntsmen face
If short of booking fifty brace?
There's nothing, I maintain, absurder
Than to say that killing's Murder.”

1865.

149

On Peter Collison's late Fall.

1868.

Bad luck betide that treacherous spot
Where Peter's horse, though at a trot,
Roll'd over, hurling headlong there
A Huntsman whom we ill could spare;
As there he lay and gasp'd for breath,
Unconscious quite and pale as death,
The clinging hounds around him yell,
And wailing moans their sorrow tell.
Let ------, who over-rides them all,
Take warning by our Huntsman's fall;
When such shall be that rider's fate
(And his it will be soon or late),
They o'er the downfal of their foe
Will not upraise the voice of woe;
When prostrate, if the pack should greet him
With open mouths, 'twill be to eat him.

150

Riding to Hounds.

No inconsiderate rashness, or vain appetite
Of false encountering formidable things;
But a true science of distinguishing
Ben Jonson.

As when two dogs in furious combat close,
The bone forgotten whence the strife arose,
Some village cur secures the prize unseen,
And, while the mastiffs battle, picks it clean;
So when two horsemen, jostling side by side,
Heed not the pack, but at each other ride,
More glorious still the loftier fences deem,
And face the brook where widest flows the stream;
One breathless steed, when spurs no more avail,
Rolls o'er the cop, and hitches on the rail;
One floundering lies—to watery ditch consign'd,
While laughing school-boy leaves them both behind,
Pricks on his pony 'till the brush be won,
And bears away the honours of the run.

Newby Ferry.

I

The morning was mild as a morning in May,
Slingsby on Saltfish was out for the day;

151

Though the Ure was rain-swollen, the pack, dashing in,
Follow'd close on the fox they had found at the Whin.

II

They have cross'd it full cry, but the horsemen are stay'd,
The ford is too deep for the boldest to wade;
So to Newby they sped, like an army dispers'd,
Hoping each in his heart to be there with the first.

III

Lloyd, Robinson, Orvis, and Slingsby the brave,
Pressing on to that ferry to find there a grave;
Little thought the four comrades when, rivals in pace,
With such haste they spurr'd on that they rode a death-race.

IV

Orvis now cries, in a voice of despair,
“They're away far ahead, and not one of us there!
Quickly, good ferrymen, haul to the shore,
Bad luck to your craft if we catch 'em no more!”

V

Thus shouting, old Orvis leapt down to the bank,

152

And with Lloyd alongside led his horse to the plank;
There stood they, dismounted, their hands on the rein,
Never more to set foot in the stirrup again!

VI

Eleven good men in the laden boat,
Eleven good steeds o'er the ferry float;
Alas! ere their ferrymen's task was done,
Two widows were weeping o'er father and son!

VII

What meaneth that sudden and piercing cry
From the horsemen who stood on the bank hard by?
The shadow of death seem'd to darken the wave,
And the torrent to pause as it open'd a grave.

VIII

Slingsby is sinking—his stretch'd arm had clung
To the rein of his horse as he overboard sprung;
The barque, overburden'd, bends down on her side,
Heels o'er, and her freight is engulf'd in the tide.

IX

In that moment an age seem'd to intervene
Ere Vyner was first on the surface seen;

153

The plank scarcely won ere his arm he extends
To reach and to rescue his sinking friends.

X

Whips knotted fast, in the haste of despair,
Reach not the doom'd who were drowning there;
Swimmers undauntedly breasted the wave,
Till themselves were nigh sunk in their efforts to save.

XI

Robinson (he who could bird-like skim
O'er fence and o'er fallow) unpractis'd to swim,
Hopeless of aid in this uttermost need,
Save in the strength of his gallant steed!

XII

Slowly that horse from the river's bed,
Still back'd by his rider, uprais'd his head;
But the nostrils' faint breath and the terror-glaz'd eye
Tell how vain is all hope with its fury to vie.

XIII

Unappall'd, who could gaze on the heart-rending sight?
His rider unmov'd, in the saddle upright,

154

Calm for one moment, and then the death scream
As down, still unseated, he sank in the stream!

XIV

Slingsby meanwhile from the waters uprose,
Where deepest and strongest the mid-current flows;
Manfully stemming its onward course,
He struck for the boat with his failing force.

XV

Then feebly one arm was uplifted, in vain
Striving to snatch at the chestnut's mane;
For that faithful steed, through the rolling tide,
Had swum like a dog to his master's side.

XVI

At length by the stream he can buffet no more,
Borne, bleeding and pale, to the farther shore,
There, as the Slingsbys had ofttimes lain,
Lay the last of that House in his harness slain!

XVII

Sprung from a knightly and time-honour'd race,
Pride of thy county, and chief of her chace!
Though a stranger, not less is his sorrow sincere,

155

Who now weeps o'er the close of thy gallant career.

XVIII

Let Yorkshire, while England re-echoes her wail,
Bereft of her bravest, record the sad tale,
How Slingsby of Scriven at Newby fell,
In the heat of that chace which he lov'd so well.

Hunting Song.

I

Of all the recreations with which mortal man is blest,
Go where he will, fox-hunting still is pleasantest and best;
The hunter knows no sorrow here, the cup of life to him,
A bumper bright of fresh delight fill'd sparkling to the brim.
Away, away we go,
With a tally, tally ho,
With a tally, tally, tally, tally, tally, tally-ho!

O! is it not—O! is it not—a spirit-stirring sound,

156

The eager notes from tuneful throats that tell a fox is found?
O! is it not—O! is it not—a pleasant sight to see
The chequer'd pack, tan, white, and black, fly scudding o'er the lea?

Chorus.

How keen their emulation in the bustle of the burst,
When side by side the foremost ride, each struggling to be first;
Intent on that sweet music which in front delights their ear,
The sobbing loud of the panting crowd they heed not in the rear.

Chorus.

The field to all is open, whether clad in black or red,
O'er rail and gate the feather-weight may thrust his thorough-bred;
While heavier men, well mounted, though not foremost in the fray,
If quick to start and stout of heart, need not be far away.

Chorus.

157

And since that joy is incomplete which Beauty shuns to share,
Or maid or bride, if skill'd to ride, we fondly welcome there;
Where woodland hills our music fills and echo swells the chorus,
Or when we fly with a scent breast high, and a galloping fox before us.

Chorus.

1868.

Tarporley Song.

1870.

I

Recalling the days of old Bluecap and Barry,
Of Bedford and Gloster, George Heron and Sir Harry,
A bumper to-night the Quæsitum shall carry,
Which nobody can deny.

II

Tho' his rivals by Meynell on mutton were fed,

158

When the race o'er the Beacon by Bluecap was led,
A hundred good yards was the winner ahead,
Which nobody can deny.

III

The gentry of Cheshire, whate'er their degrees,
Stanleys or Egertons, Leycesters or Leghs,
One and all with green ribbons have garter'd their knees,
Which nobody can deny.

IV

Their breeches were green and their stockings were white,
Tho' oft in queer plight they were tuck'd up at night,
Next morn they were all in their stirrups upright,
Which nobody can deny.

V

Over grass while the youngsters were skimming the vale,
Down the pavement away went the old ones full sail,
Each green collar flapp'd by a powder'd pigtail,
Which nobody can deny.

VI

When foxes were flyers and gorse covers few,
Those hounds of Sir Harry, where thickest it grew,

159

How they dash'd into Huxley and hustled it through,
Which nobody can deny.

VII

The sport they began may we still carry on,
And we forty good fellows, who meet at the Swan,
To the green collar stick, tho' our breeches are gone,
Which nobody can deny.

VIII

Still, whether clad in short garments or long,
With a Cotton to sing us a fox-hunting song,
And a Corbet to lead us, we cannot go wrong,
Which nobody can deny.

A Growl from the Squire of Grumbleton.

I

I was born and bred a Tory,
And my prejudice is strong,
Young men, bear with me kindly,
If you think my notions wrong.

II

I learnt them from my father,
One whose pride it was to sit,

160

Ere the ballot-box was thought of,
By the side of Billy Pitt.

III

I love the gabled mansion
By my ancestors uprear'd,
Where the stranger-guest is welcome,
And the friend by time endear'd.

IV

I love the old grey bell-tower,
And its ivy-muffled clock;
And I love the honest Parson
As himself he loves his flock.

V

Fresh youth I feel within me
When a morning fox is found,
And I hear the merry music
Through the ringing woods resound.

VI

And I love, when evening closes,
And a good day's sport is o'er,
Thrice to pour into the wine-cup
Ruddy port of thirty-four.

VII

I have told you what I love—now
Let me tell you what I hate—

161

That accurs'd Succession Duty
On the heir to my estate.

VIII

Old Nelson to the Frenchman
In a voice of thunder spoke,
What would Nelson say to Gladstone
With his tax on British oak?

IX

Hounds I hate which, shy of stooping,
Must be lifted still and cast,
Like many a fool who follows,
Far too flashy and too fast.

X

Iron engines which have silenc'd
In the barn the thresher's flail;
Iron wires, a modern makeshift
For the honest post and rail.

XI

Knaves and blacklegs, who have elbow'd
From the Turf all honest men,
Blasted names and ruin'd houses
Fallen ne'er to rise again.

XII

Cant and unwhipp'd swindlers—
Rant and rivalry of sect—

162

Pride and working wenches
In silk and satin deck'd.

XIII

Song from the green bough banish'd,
The voiceless woodlands still,
The sparkle of the trout stream
Foul'd and blacken'd by the mill.

XIV

A Unionist each craftsman,
A poacher every clown,
Brawl and beerhouse in the Village,
Lust and ginshop in the Town.

XV

Though with all thy faults, dear England,
In my heart I love thee still,
These are plague-spots on thy beauty
Which mine eyes with sorrow fill.

The Coverside Phantom.

I

One morning in November,
As the village clock struck ten
Came trooping to the coverside
A field of hunting men;

163

'Twas neither Quorn nor Pytchley horn
That summon'd our array;
No; we who met were a homely set,
In a province far away.

II

As there we stood, conversing,
Much amazement seiz'd the Hunt,
When, spick and span, an unknown man
Rode onwards to the front;
All whisper'd, gazing wonderstruck,
“Who can the stranger be?”
Forsooth they were, that man and mare,
A comely sight to see.

III

The mare a faultless chestnut
As was ever strapp'd by groom;
Nor fault could in the man be found,
Nor flaw in his costume;
A silk cord loop'd the hunting hat,
The glove's consummate fit
No crease disturb'd, and burnish'd bright
Shone stirrup, chain, and bit.

IV

The rider's seat was firm and neat
As rider's seat could be;
The buckskin white was button'd tight,
And knotted at the knee;

164

Above the boots' jet polish
Was a top of tender stain,
Nor brown nor white, but a mixture light,
Of rose-leaves and champagne.

V

The heart that waistcoat buttons up
Must be a heart of steel,
As keen as the keenest rowel
On the spur that decks his heel;
We look'd the stranger over,
And we gravely shook our heads,
And we felt a sad conviction
He would cut us into shreds.

VI

A glance I stole from my double sole
To my coat of faded red;
The scarlet which had once been there
My countenance o'erspread;
I blush'd with shame—no wonder!
So completely was the shine
By the man and mare beside me
Taken out of me and mine.

VII

How his portrait, sketch'd for “Baily,”
Would the sporting world enchant,
By the pen of a Whyte-Melville,
Or the pencil of a Grant!

165

An Adonis, scarlet-coated!
A glorious field Apollo,
May we have pluck and the rare good luck,
When he leads the way, to follow!

VIII

So intense my admiration
(What I thought I dare not say),
But I felt inclin'd in my inmost mind,
To wish for a blank day,
Lest a piece of such rare metal,
So elaborately gilt,
Should expose its polish'd surface
To a scratch by being spilt.

IX

Sad to think, should such a get-up
By a downfal come to grief;
That a pink of such perfection
Should become a crumpled leaf!
Sad to think this bird of Paradise
Should risk its plumage bright
By encounter with a bullfinch,
Or a mudstain in its flight!

X

But all that glitters is not gold,
However bright it seem;
Ere long a sudden change came o'er
The spirit of my dream;

166

No defeat ourselves awaited
From the man nor from his mount;
No ground for the discomfort
We had felt on his account.

XI

A fox was found; the stirring sound
That nerv'd us for the fray—
That hallo burst the bubble,
And the phantom scar'd away;
We cross'd the vale o'er post and rail,
Up leaps and downward drops;
But where, oh where, was the chestnut mare
And the man with tinted tops?

XII

He was not with the foremost,
As they one and all declare;
Nor was he with the hindmost,—
He was neither here nor there;
The last, they say, seen of him
Was in front of the first fence,
And no one e'er could track the mare,
Or spot the rider thence.

XIII

All turquoise and enamel,
Like a watch trick'd up for show,
Though a pretty thing to look at,
Far too beautiful to go;

167

He, the man at whose appearance
We had felt ourselves so small,
Was only the ninth part of one—
A tailor after all!

XIV

His own line, when he took it,
Was by railway ticket ta'en;
First-class, a rattling gallop,
As he homeward went by train;
A horse-box for his hunter,
And a band-box for himself,
One was shunted into hidlands,
T'other laid upon the shelf.

XV

He has not since been heard of,
Should we ever see him more,
He will stand, the model fox-hunter,
At Moses and Son's door;
If not found there, I know not where,
Unless, encas'd in glass,
Both man and mare in that window flare,
Which Nicolls lights with gas.

168

The Ladie of the Castle of Windeck.

[_]

Translated from the German. (Adelbert Chamisso.)

I

“Fated Horseman! onward speeding,
Hold!—thy panting courser check;—
Thee the Phantom Stag misleading,
Hurrieth to the lone Windeck!”

II

Where two towers, their strength uprearing,
O'er a ruin'd gateway rise,
There the quarry disappearing
Vanish'd from the Hunter's eyes.

III

Lone and still!—no echo sounded;
Blaz'd the sun in noonday pride;
Deep he drew his breath astounded,
And his streaming forehead dried.

IV

“Precious wine lies hid below, in
Ruin'd cellar here, they say;
O! that I, with cup o'erflowing,
Might my scorching thirst allay!”

169

V

Scarcely by his parch'd lip spoken
Wingèd words the wish proclaim,
Ere from arch, with ivy broken,
Forth a fair hand-maiden came.

VI

Light of step, a glorious maiden!
Robe of shining white she wore;
With her keys her belt was laden,
Drinking horn in hand she bore.

VII

Precious wine, from cup o'erflowing,
With an eager mouth he quaff'd;
Fire he felt within him glowing,
As he drain'd the magic draught.

VIII

Eyes of deep blue, softly glancing!—
Flowing locks of golden hue!—
He with claspèd hands advancing
'Gan the Maiden's love to sue.

IX

Fraught with strange mysterious meaning,
Pitying look she on him cast;
Then, her form the ivy screening,
Swiftly, as she came, she past.

170

X

From that hour enchanted ever,
Spellbound to the Windeck lone,
From that hour he slumber'd never,
Rest, and peace, and hope unknown.

XI

Night and day that ruin'd portal
Pale and wan he hovers nigh,
Though unlike to living mortal,
Still without the power to die.

XII

Once again the maid, appearing,
After many a year had past,
Prest his lip with kiss endearing,
Broke the spell of life at last.

The Two Wizards.

Give ear, ye who dwell in the Tarporley Vale,
While I tell you of Beeston a wonderful tale;
Where its crag, castle-crown'd, overhanging the steep,
Noddles down like the head of an old man asleep,
A cavern is scoop'd, though unseen by the eye,
In the side of that rock, where it stands high and dry.

171

There has dwelt for long ages, and there dwelleth still,
A Magician—believe it or not, as you will;
He was there when Earl Blundevill laid the first stone
Of those walls, now with ivy and moss overgrown;
He was there when King Henry proclaim'd himself Lord,
When he belted his son with the Palatine sword;
He to King Richard gave up this stronghold,
Therein to deposit his jewels and gold;
He was there when the Puritans mounted the steep,
And defied the king's troops from its garrison'd keep;
And there stood this Wizard to witness the fight,
When Rupert's good sword put those rebels to flight.

For two centuries then it was left to decay,
And its walls, weather-beaten, fell piece-meal away,
And his home grew so dull when the fighting was o'er,
The Wizard declar'd he could live there no more;
Till the thought cross'd his brain that to cheer his lone days
Some playmates the power of his magic might raise.

172

So at sunrise one morn stepping forth from his cell,
He uplifted his wand and he mutter'd a spell,
Each wave of that wand was seen life to infuse,
And the stones that it touch'd, all became kangaroos.
He had hung round the walls of his cavern inside
The armour of those who had fought there and died;
Transforming those plates which long rust had worn thin,
He fitted each beast with a jacket of skin;
Then pluck'd from each sword blade its black leather sheath,
Which he twisted and stuck as a tail underneath.

And there, as a shepherd sits watching his flock,
Sits this kangaroo keeper a-perch on his rock,
Invisible still, but his care night and day
Is to feed them and watch left they wander astray.
Ever anxious, he guards them more tenderly still,
When the huntsman his pack has let loose on the hill;
And those hounds, terror stricken, all riot eschew,
When they hear a strange voice crying, “Ware Kangaroo!”

To this Wizard invisible bidding farewell,
Of another I yet have a story to tell;

173

No invisible sprite! when he stands full in view,
You will own him a man, and a goodly man too.
He it is who by dint of his magical skill
Uplifted the stones from the high Stanna hill;
Nor paus'd till those fragments, pil'd up to the sky,
Assum'd the fair form of that castle hard by;
He brandish'd his spade, and along the hill-side
The ascent, by a roadway, made easy and wide;
Unlike the hid portal I spoke of before,
Very plain to the eye is his wide open door;
Where the tiles of the pavement, the stones of the wall
Unceasingly echo a welcome to all.
There are stables where steeds stand by tens in a row,
There are chambers above, and vast cellars below;
Each bed in those chambers holds nightly a guest,
Each bin in that cellar is fill'd with the best.

When this Wizard wends forth from his turreted walls,
Four horses are bitted and led from their stalls,
He mounts and looks down on a team from his box,
All perfect in shape from their heads to their hocks;
The coats that they carry are burnish'd like gold,
Their fire by a touch of his finger controll'd;

174

A whip for his wand, when their paces he springs,
You might fancy their shoulders were furnish'd with wings;
Away! rough or smooth, whether up hill or down,
Through highway and byeway, through village and town!
With that ease and that grace with which ladies can wheedle
Stubborn silk through the eye of a delicate needle,
Through the arch with huge portal on either side hung,
He his leaders can thrust whether restive or young;
O'er the bridge at Bate's Mill he can twist at full speed,
Charioteering—which proves him a Wizard indeed.

Faint harp-strings at night o'er his castle resound;
Their tone when first heard by the country-folk round,
They fancied (so far it surpass'd human skill)
That angels were tuning their harps on the hill;
It was strung, I knew well, by an angel inside,
The fingers that swept it were those of his bride.

Ofttimes they who deal in these magical arts
Bear hatred and malice to man in their hearts;
But to enmity ne'er was this Wizard inclin'd,

175

A well-dispos'd being to all human kind
To console the afflicted, the poor to befriend,
Of his magic, is still the sole object and end;
And each cottager's prayer is, that spells such as these
He may long live to work in this Valley of Cheese.

On a Tame Fox,

A PARLOUR PET AT DALEFORD, THE RESIDENCE OF THE MASTER OF THE CHESHIRE HOUNDS.

I

Squire Corbet! at all seasons
A fox is his delight,
A wild one for the morning,
And a tame one for the night;

II

For the fox that scours the country
We a green gorse cover raise,
But parlour pug lies warm and snug
In a cover of green baize.

III

Or in his chair reposing,
Or o'er the saddle bent,
Corbet, wide awake or dozing,
Is never off the scent.

176

IV

He needs no kirtled housemaid,
The carpet on the stairs
Is dusted by the sweeping
Of the brush that Reynard wears.

V

This hunting man's housekeeper,
She, without distress of nerves,
Oft amongst the currant jelly
Finds a fox in her preserves.

VI

Bones of chicken ever picking,
This pet, so fed and nurs'd,
Though he never gave a gallop,
He may finish with a burst.

The Mare and her Master.

I

Though my sight is grown dim, though my arm is grown weak,
Grey hairs on my forehead, and lines on my cheek;

177

Though the verdure of youth is now yellow and sere,
I feel my heart throb when November draws near.

II

I could pardon the wrongs thou hast done me, Old Time!
If thy hand would but help me the stirrup to climb;
The one pleasure left is to gaze on my mare,
Her with whom I lov'd best the excitement to share.

III

Sound wind and limb, without blemish or speck,
Her rider disabled, her owner a wreck!
Unstripp'd and unsaddled, she seems to ask why;
Unspurr'd and unbooted, I make no reply.

IV

Remembrance then dwells on each hard-ridden run,
On the country we cross'd, on the laurels we won;
Fleet limbs once extended, now cribb'd in their stall,
They speak of past triumphs, past gallops recall.

178

V

I remember, when baulk'd of our start at the find,
How we slipp'd, undismay'd, through the rabble behind;
No check to befriend us, still tracking the burst,
Till by dint of sheer swiftness the last became first.

VI

And that day I remember, when crossing the bed
Of a deep rolling river, the pack shot ahead;
How the dandies, though cas'd in their waterproof Peals,
Stood aghast as we stemm'd it, and stuck to their heels.

VII

How ere Jack with his hammer had riven the nail,
And unhing'd the park-gate, we have skimm'd the oak pale;
Over bogs where the hoof of the cocktail stuck fast,
How her foot without sinking Camilla-like pass'd.

VIII

I remember, though warn'd by the voice of Tom Rance—
“Have a care of that fence”—how we ventur'd the chance;

179

How we fac'd it and fell—from the depth of the drain
How we pick'd ourselves up, and were with 'em again.

IX

Over meadows of water, through forests of wood,
Over grass-land or plough, there is nothing like blood;
Whate'er place I coveted, thou, my good mare,
Despite of all hindrances, landed me there.

X

The dearest of friends I that man must account,
To whom on her saddle I proffer a mount;
And that friend shall confess that he never yet knew,
Till he handled my pet, what a flyer could do.

XI

Should dealers come down from the Leicestershire vale,
And turn with good gold thy own weight in the scale,
Would I sell thee? not I, for a millionaire's purse!
Through life we are wedded for better for worse.

180

XII

I can feed thee, and pet thee, and finger thy mane,
Though I ne'er throw my leg o'er thy quarters again;
Gold shall ne'er purchase one lock of thy hair,
Death alone shall bereave the old man of his mare.

1871.

Farewell to Tarporley.

I

To comrades of the hunting field, tho' sad to say farewell,
'Tis pleasant still on olden days at Tarporley to dwell:
On friends for whom, alive or dead, our love is unimpair'd,
The mirth and the adventure and the sport that we have shar'd.

II

The feelings of good fellowship which Tarporley unite,
The honour'd names recorded which have made its annals bright,

181

Old Charley Cholmondeley's portrait and the fashion of our clothes,
In the days of padded neckcloths, breeches green and silken hose.

III

The upright form of Delamere, Sir Richard's graceful seat,
The brothers three from Dorfold sprung whom none of us could beat;
The fun with which Bob Grosvenor enliven'd every speech,
The laugh of Charley Wicksted lengthen'd out into a screech.

IV

The classical Quæsitum and the President's hard chair,
Each year's succeeding Patroness whose charms were toasted there;
The inevitable wrangle which the Farmer's cup provokes,
Sir Watkin cracking biscuits, and Sir Harry cracking jokes.

V

The match in which though Adelaide but held a second place,
No judge was there to certify that Go-by won the race,

182

The stakes withheld—the winner told jocosely by the Hunt,
With nothing else to pocket he must pocket the affront.

VI

Earl Wilton ever foremost amid Leicestershire high flyers,
Coming down from Melton Mowbray to enlighten Cheshire Squires;
Belgrave who unbreech'd us, and one fatal afternoon
First cloth'd us to the ankle in the modern pantaloon.

VII

The foxes which from Huxley gorse have led us many a dance,
Joe Maiden best of huntsmen, best of whips old Tommy Rance;
That good old soul, John Dixon, and his lengthy draught of ale,
That mirthful day when “Little Dogs” came home without a tail.

VIII

The glory of that gallop which old Oulton Low supplied,
The front-rank men of Cheshire charging onward side by side;

183

The Baron with his spurs at work in rear of the advance,
When Britain, in the field for once, ran clean away from France.

IX

The find at Brindley cover and at Dorfold Hall the kill,
The Breeches left behind us but the brush before us still;
The fox that skimm'd the Tilston cream—forget we never shall
The score of hunting breeches that were wash'd in that canal.

X

And that ill-starr'd disaster when, unconscious of the leap,
I dropp'd into the water of a marl-pit six feet deep;
Enough to damp the keenest—but conceive the fearful sight,
When I found that underneath me lay the body of Jack White.

XI

The harmony infus'd into the rhymes which I have strung,
When first I heard the “Columbine” by James Smith Barry sung;

184

While canvas the remembrance of Sir Peter shall prolong,
May the name of his successor be endear'd to you in song.

XII

The carving of the venison when it smok'd upon the board,
The twinkling eye of Johnny Glegg, the chaff of Charley Ford;
The opening of the oysters, and the closing of the eyes
In slumber deep—that balmy sleep which midnight cup supplies.

XIII

Sir Humphrey and Geof. Shakerley whose friendship never fails,
Tho' long of two opinions which was heaviest in the scales;
In love of sport as in their weight an even race they run,
So here's a health to both of them and years of future fun.

XIV

Old Time, who keeps his own account, however well we wear,
Time whispers “to the old ones you must add another pair,”

185

May Lascelles in his chosen home long, long a dweller be,
To Philo gorse a bumper, to Sir Philip three times three.

XV

Young inheritors of hunting, ye who would the sport should last,
Think not the chace a hustling race, fit only for the fast;
If sport in modern phrase must be synonymous with speed,
The good old English animal will sink into a weed.

XVI

Accept the wish your Laureate leaves behind him ere we part,
That wish shall find an echo in each Cheshire sportsman's heart,
May Time still spare one favour'd pair, tho' other creatures fail,
The Swan that floats above us, and the Fox that skims the Vale!

XVII

The snobs who haunt the hunting field, and rouse the master's ire,
The fence of fair appearance masking lines of hidden wire;

186

A straight fox mobb'd and headed by the laggards in the lane,
A good one dug and murder'd, I have seen such sights with pain.

XVIII

I never kill'd save once a hound, I saw him on his back
With deep remorse—he was, of course the best one in the pack;
The thought ofttime has griev'd me with a wild fox well away,
That friends right worthy of it should have miss'd the lucky day.

XIX

If e'er my favourite cover unexpectedly was blank,
Then silent and dispirited my heart within me sank;
But never till this moment has a tear bedimm'd mine eye,
With sorrow such as now I feel in wishing you Good Bye.

1872.

187

The Pheasant and the Fox.

A FABLE.

I

October strips the forest, we have pass'd the equinox,
It is time to look about us,” said the Pheasant to the Fox;
“I cannot roost in comfort at this season of the year,
The volleys of the battue seem to thunder in my ear.”

II

“Time indeed it is,” said Reynard, “for the fray to be prepar'd,
For open war against us has already been declar'd;
Two cubs, last week, two hopeful cubs, the finest out of five,
Within their mother's hearing chopp'd, were eaten up alive.

III

“Within our woodland shelter here, two winter seasons through,
You and I have dwelt together in a friendship firm and true;

188

Still, I own it, to my yearning heart one envious feeling clings,
Cock-pheasant! what I covet is the privilege of wings.

IV

“To you the gift is perilous, in safety while you run,
It is only when uprising that you tempt the levell'd gun;
Would that I could rid you of those wings you rashly wear,
And plant upon my back instead, a well-proportioned pair.

V

“Think of Victory defeated, as to triumph on she sped,
Think of Boaster, terror-stricken, as my pinions I outspread;
Think of Crafty's baffled cunning, think of Vulpecide's despair,
Think of Leveller's amazement, as I mounted in mid-air!

VI

“To the Huntsman, when at fault, then I jeeringly would cry,
‘Not gone to ground is the fox you found, but lost in a cloudy sky!’

189

Or, perch'd upon some tree-top, looking downwards at the group,
And, lifting to one ear a pad, would halloo there, ‘Who whoop!’”

VII

“Thank you, kindly,” said the Pheasant, “true it is that, while I run,
No worthy mark I offer to attract the murderous gun;
But say, should hunger pinch you, could a Pheasant-cock rely
On the abstinence of friendship, if he had not wings to fly?”

MORAL.

Self, Self it is that rules us all—when hounds begin to race,
To aid a friend in grief would you resign a forward place?
When planted at the brook, o'er which your rival's horse has flown,
Don't you wish the rider in it, and the rider's luck your own?

190

The Stranger's Story.

PART I.—THE BREAKFAST.

Four friends, all scarlet-coated,
Eager all to join the pack,
At the breakfast board were seated,
Jem and Jerry, Ned and Jack.

Giant Jem, a ponderous horseman,
With a bull-like head and throttle,
O'er each boot a calf expanding,
Like a cork in soda bottle;

Still to add Jem never scrupled,
When the beef was on his plate,
To the four stone he quadrupled,
Many a pound of extra weight.

Jerry, bent on competition,
Spread his napkin underneath,
But the tongue's untiring motion
Check'd the action of his teeth.

He told them what he had done
On his chestnut and his grey,
And when that tale was ended,
What he meant to do to-day.

191

Ned was booted to perfection,
Better rider there was none,
But jealousy, when mounted,
Was the spur that prick'd him on.

To him the run was wormwood,
No enjoyment in the burst,
Unless he led the gallop,
And was foremost of the first.

Jack, who never said, like Horner,
“How good a boy am I,”
Sat listening at the corner
Of the table meek and shy;

No word he spoke, till question'd
On what horse he rode to-day?
Then modestly he answer'd,
“I have nothing but the Bay.”

Breakfast over on they canter,
Till the covert-side they reach;
When you hear my story ended,
You will know the worth of each.

PART II.—THE DINNER.

At night again they gather'd
Round a board of ample fare,

192

And though myself a stranger guest,
They bade me welcome there.

Jem, Jerry, Ned, swashbucklers
You'd have thought by their discourse,
Each alternately extolling
First himself and then his horse.

Giant Jem, a road-abider,
One who seldom risk'd a fall,
The line the fox had taken,
He describ'd it best of all.

Told them where he cross'd the river,
Told them where he fac'd the hill,
Told them too, and thought it true,
That he himself had seen the kill.

Jerry's tongue still faster prattled
As the wine-cup wet his lips;
Had the pack apace thus rattled,
'Twould have baffled an Eclipse.

Nought I felt would baffle Jerry,
From the find until the death,
No rate of speed would e'er succeed
To put him out of breath.

Ned was far in commendation
Of himself ahead of each,

193

Still there lurk'd amari aliquid
Beneath his flowers of speech.

Still jarr'd some note discordant,
As he blew the trumpet loud,
Still dimm'd the radiant glory
Of the day some little cloud.

At each daring deed of horsemanship
Amazement I express;
'Mid such mighty men of valour
Which the mightiest? who could guess?

Till at length a tell-tale offer
Set the question quite at rest;
Nor could I doubt which, out and out,
Of the four had seen it best.

Jack had never said, like Horner,
“How good a boy am I,”
But I saw within the corner
Of his lid a twinkle sly;

When to Jack, though in a whisper,
Ned was overheard to say,
“If you'll take four hundred for him,
You shall have it for the Bay.”

194

The Lovers' Quarrel.

For a maid fair and young to the portal was led,
For her pastime one morning, a bay thoroughbred;
At once with light step to the saddle she bounds,
Then away to the crowd which encircled the hounds.

'Mid the many who moved in that bustle and stir,
There was one, one whose heart lay a-bleeding for her;
One who thought, tho' as yet he approach'd not her side,
With what care, if need were, he would guard her and guide.

To and fro waves the gorse as the hounds are thrown in,
'Tis a fox, and glad voices the chorus begin;
That maiden's keen eye, o'er the crest of her bay,
Was the first to detect him when stealing away.

195

As she shot through the crowd at the covert-side gate,
“'Tis the same gallant fox that outstripp'd us of late;
The darling old fox!” she exclaimed, with delight,
Then away like a dart to o'ertake the first flight.

Tho' he took the old line, the old pace was surpass'd,
(He will own a good steed, he who lives to the last,)
Her own she press'd on without fear, for she knew
She was mounted on one that would carry her through.

She had kept her own place with a feeling of pride,
When her ear caught the voice of a youth alongside,
“There's a fence on ahead that no lady should face,
Turn aside to the left—I will show you the place.”

Women mostly, they say, love to take their own line,

196

Giving thanks for advice which they mean to decline;
Whether women accept the advice or oppose it,
Depends, I think, much on the man who bestows it.

That voice seem'd to fall on her ear like a spell,
She turn'd, for she thought she could trust it right well;
To the field on the left they diverted their flight—
At that moment the pack took a turn to the right.

“Persevere,” said the youth, “let us gain the beechwood,
The old fox will assuredly make his point good;”
Knowing scarce what she did, she still press'd on the bay,
Nor found out till too late, they were both led astray.

Youth and maid they stood still when they reach'd the wood-side,
Forlorn, then, the hope any further to ride;
In despair they look round, but no movement espy,
Not a hound to be seen either distant or nigh.

197

Both silent there stood they—indignant the maid,
The youth stung with grief at the part he had play'd;
Still he thought, from the wreck he had made of the day,
That some treasure of hope he might yet bear away.

Thus the silence he broke: “Until hunting were done
I had hop'd, dearest maid, this avowal to shun,
Till the season were over to practise restraint,
Nor to vex you till then with a lover's complaint.

But the moment is come, and the moment I seize,
Those glances of anger let pity appease,
Leave me—leave me no longer in anguish and doubt,
While I live you shall never again be thrown out.”

“Is it thus,” she exclaimed, “that a bride can be won?
Wretched man that you are, you have lost me my run!

198

Farewell! nor the hand of a huntress pursue,
When the whip which it grasps is deservedly due.”

Though that lover rode home the most wretched of men,
Though that maid vow'd a vow they should ne'er meet again,
Love laughs at the quarrels of lovers they say,
When the season was o'er, they were married in May.

'Tis Sixty Years Since.

Your heart is fresh as ever, Ned,
Although your head be white;
We must crack another bottle, Ned,
Before we say good-night;
Our legs across the saddle
Though we fling them never more,
We may rest them on the fender
While we talk our gallops o'er.”

“By you 'tis somewhat hard, Jack,
Old Grizzle to be called,
You know that head of yours, Jack,
Is altogether bald.
Still I'm good, my jolly fellow,

199

For another flask of port,
In memory of those merry days
When fox-hunting was sport.”

“How sorely, Ned, our Eton odes
Tormented those who scann'd 'em,
The traces were our longs and shorts,
Our gradus was the tandem;
Bob Davis for our tutor,
With that colt—still four years old,
Though ten since he was leader,
And ten more since he was foal'd.

“Unaw'd by impositions,
While the lecture-room we shirk'd,
At our little go in hunting
With what diligence we work'd;
When from Canterbury gateway
We spurr'd the Oxford hack,
A shilling every milestone
Till we reach'd the Bicester pack;

“Right welcome there the sport to share,
Himself so much enjoyed,
How kindly were we shaken
By the hand of old Griff Lloyd;
How we plunged into the river,
Led and cheer'd by Jersey's call:

200

‘Come on!’ he cried, ‘the stream is wide
And deep enough for all.’

“How intense the admiration
Which to Heythrop's Duke we bore,
Riding royally to covert
In his chariot-and-four;
Cigars, as yet a novelty,
His Grace's ire provoking,
‘What chance to pick the scent up,
Filthy fellows! they are smoking.’

“The cheer of Philip Payne as he
The echoing woodlands drew,
The scarlet coats contending
With the coats of buff and blue;
Stone walls o'er which without a hitch
The thoroughbred ones flew,
While blown and tir'd the hunter hir'd
Roll'd like a spent ball through.”

“Well, Jack, do I remember
With what glee we sallied forth
To the fixtures of Ralph Lambton
When our home was in the North;
How, when the day was over,
We around the Sedgefield fire,
Sang ‘Ballinamoniora’
In honour of the Squire.

201

“And that week with old Sir Harry
Which at Tarporley we spent,
Where Chester's dewy pastures
Are renown'd for holding scent;
Where Dorfold's Squire o'er saddle flaps
Unpadded threw his leg,
Where stride for stride, rode side by side,
Sir Richard and John Glegg.

“That Rupert of the hunting-field,
Tom Smith the lion-hearted,
Where grew the fence, where flow'd the stream,
Could baffle him when started?
A game-cock in the battle ring,
An eagle in his flight,
A shooting star when mounted,
But a fixed one in the fight.

“Where now that manly science
Which we witness'd in the match,
When Crib by swarthy Molyneux
Was challeng'd to the scratch?
Where now those ruddy rectors
Who the field so often led?
Youth needs must chase the steeple
Since the parson hides his head.”

“Though no longer what we were, Ned,
Ere the reign of good Queen Vic,

202

Methinks we still could teach them
How their fathers did the trick;
I hold the young ones cheap, Ned—”
“Hush, your son is at the door,
With his pipe of Latakia,
We had better say no more.”

The Close of the Season.

Spring! I will give you the reason in rhyme
Why for hunting I hold it the pleasantest time,
When the gorse 'gins to blossom, the hazel to sprout,
When Spring flowers and Spring captains together come out.

When with smiles and with sunshine all nature looks gay,
When the fair one, equipped in fresh hunting array,
No splash of mud dirt to encumber the skirt,
Though no fox should be found, may find leisure to flirt.

When assured of success, ere the steeplechase day,
Jones writes to his tailor imploring delay,

203

When the silk jacket wins he will pay for the pink,
Is the promise, when written, worth paper and ink?

November's young fox, as yet timid and shy,
O'er a country unknown will scarce venture to fly;
One spared through the winter to wander astray,
Leads the pack stoutly back to his home far away.

Chill'd by checks and wrong casts, which the scurry impede,
You may chance in December to lose a good steed;
And what rider unvex'd can his temper restrain,
Urging home a tired hunter through darkness and rain!

Trotting homeward in Spring on the hope we rely
That we reach it ere dark with our hunting-coat dry;
The horse undistress'd by the work he has done,
The rider well pleased with his place in the run.

204

This world, can it show such a picture of woe
As a frozen-out Master imprison'd in snow?
His feet on the fender he rides his arm-chair,
Even ‘Baily’ avails not to soothe his despair.

Old steeds there may be, showing signs of decay,
Lagging last in the field where they once led the way,
With the glory o'er-burthen'd of gallops bygone,
Less of spring in their action as Spring cometh on.

Good sport with good cheer merry Christmas may bring,
But the joy of all joys is a gallop in Spring,
By the thought, when a brook we encounter made bold,
That the stream is less rapid, the water less cold.

When each cheer is by song of sweet birds echoed back,
Their music a prelude to that of the pack;
When clouds soft and southerly streak the blue sky,
When the turf is elastic and scent is breast high.

Pleasure's sweetness, says Moore, is so slow to come forth,
That ne'er till it dies do we know half its worth;

205

What the joy which first welcomes the sport when begun,
To the keenness inspired by the season's last run!

Postscript.

Exceptions there will be, and Spring, as we know,
On her face will sometimes wear a mask of white snow,
A note of this fact we may henceforth affix
To March eighteen hundred and seventy-six.

Such grieves us the more, since to visit our shore
And to share in our sport, a fair Empress came o'er;
Still, howe'er chill and cheerless our climate this year,
Warm hearts are not wanting to welcome her here.

Oft again may her presence our hunting field grace,
When Spring more invitingly smiles on the chase;
Well indeed in that sport may all England take pride,
Which can lure such a guest here a-hunting to ride.

206

Lines

ON READING AN EXTRACT FROM THE HUNTING DIARY OF VERNON DELVES BROUGHTON, ESQ., SHOWING HOW AND WHERE THE DUKE OF GRAFTON'S HOUNDS KILLED THEIR GOOSEHOLME FOX ON 29TH NOVEMBER, 1872.

A fox, by the pack sorely press'd in his flight,
Reaching Marston St. Lawrence began to take fright;
In the housekeeper's room how alarming the crash,
As he shot like a thunderbolt in at the sash!
They screech'd with one voice when he first came in view,
But the halloa they gave was a hullaballoo;
Such a dust was ne'er rais'd in that parlour before
As now rais'd by the brush which was sweeping the floor;
Too late the old butler indignantly cried
‘Not at home,’ the whole pack was already inside;
Though the housewife's preserves harbour'd mice by the score,
No fox until now had set foot in her store.

207

Array'd in her best, the last perquisite gown,
Alas! for the lady's maid, poor Mrs. Brown,
Much distress'd by the worry, the gown which she wore
Like the fox torn to pieces still worried her more;
The table o'erturn'd, and the teacups dispers'd,
Such a break-up before never ended a burst;
The servants pick'd up broken platter and bowl;
They call'd ever after that parlour Pug's hole,
And a pad, which next morning was found on the floor,
By the Page as a trophy was nail'd to the door.

Lines

FOR INSCRIPTION ON THE STONE INTENDED TO MARK THE SPOT WHERE THE TWO GENTLEMEN, WHOSE BOAT WAS UPSET ON LOCHQUOICH, WERE FORTUNATELY LANDED.

[_]

“Mr. Allsopp and Mr. Burton, of Burton-on-Trent, have had a narrow escape from drowning. On Friday last they went out fishing on Lochquoich, the boat was upset and they were thrown into the water. Clinging to the side of the boat they were drifted ashore on M'Phee's Island, a distance of about 1,000 yards from the scene of the accident. They were much exhausted, and experienced great difficulty in wading ashore through the heavy surf.”

208

Malt and Hops while here afloat
Together in a fishing-boat,
On which of them to lay the fault
We know not, whether Hops or Malt;
But though oppos'd to heavy wet,
Between them they the boat upset;
Hops and Malt it little suited
To be to such extent diluted;
For who would of the brew partake
When moisten'd by a whole Scotch lake!
Scarce left was any spirit more
In either, when they reach'd the shore,
Most thankful that they both had not
By this disaster gone to pot;
The strength which bitter ale supplied
The bitterness of death defied,
Or they, by water carried here,
Had hence been carried on their bier.

Beyond the Tweed on fishing bent,
Or brewing on the banks of Trent,
We trust their boat may like their ale
Henceforth maintain a steady sail.

209

Epitaph

[_]

On the Duke of Wellington's Charger, “Copenhagen,” so named from the circumstance of his having been foaled in the year of that battle. He was buried at Strathfieldsaye, February, 1836.

With years o'erburden'd, sunk the battle steed;—
War's funeral honours to his dust decreed;
A foal when Cathcart overpower'd the Dane,
And Gambier's fleet despoil'd the northern main,
'Twas his to tread the Belgian field, and bear
A mightier chief to prouder triumphs there!
Let Strathfieldsaye to wondering patriots tell
How Wellesley wept when “Copenhagen” fell.

Epitaph on A. B. C. by X. Y. Z.

I laid his bones beneath the greenwood tree,
And wept, like schoolboy, o'er my A. B. C.

210

On a Thorn Tree planted over the Grave of “Miss Miggs,” a Brood Mare.

With a thorn in her side the old mare we inter,
Though alive she ne'er needed the prick of a spur.
Six colts and eight fillies the stock that she bred,
Each in turn first and foremost the hunting field led.
This thorn if it rival the produce she foal'd,
Will be hung in due season with apples of gold;
But whate'er fruit it bear it will not bear a sloe,
For no thorn save a quick thorn can out of her grow.

The Roebuck at Toft.

AN OLD WAYSIDE INN REMOVED IN 1864.

On the Mail have I travell'd times many and oft,
Looking out for the sign of the Roebuck at Toft;
Or and gules was the blazonry, party per pale,
The head was attir'd like the haunches and tail,

211

In his muzzle an olive branch proper was stuck,
And the villagers call'd him the bloody-tail'd Buck.

The Chestnut-tree well I remember whose shade
Overhung the bright tints which the Roebuck display'd;
And the bench which invited the weary to rest,
And mine Host who came out with a mug of his best!
They have fell'd the old tree, they have stopp'd the old mail,
And alas! the old cellar is empty of ale;
And now from the post, where he swung high and dry,
They have pull'd down the Roebuck—I wish I knew why—
I dare not inquire at the Jerryshop near,
Or the man might insist on my tasting his beer.

Charade.

The Squire, on his Grey,
Has been hunting all day,
So at night let him drown his fatigue in the bowl;
But ere quenching his thirst,
To get rid of my first,
Let him call for my second to bring him my whole.

212

Welsh Hunting.

[_]

A most singular freak of a pack of hounds was witnessed at Pontypridd last week. The pack belonged to Mr. George Thomas, Ystradmynach, and were returning from the hunt, when, on coming into the town, they ran into the shop of Mr. Jenkins, grocer, and out again immediately, but with no less than seven pounds of tallow candles, which they ravenously devoured in the street.— Court Journal.

1869.

I

Where Jenkins, in Wales,
Soap and candles retails,
The pack, in despite of their Whip,
They took up the scent,
And away they went,
Each one with a tallow dip.

II

With a good seven pounds
These hungry hounds,
Away! and away! they go,
While joining the chace
Follow'd Jenkins' best pace,
Shouting “Tallow! Tallow-Ho!”

213

Paraphrase by a Master of Hounds.

Si j'avance suivez moi; si je recule
Tuez moi; si je tombe vengez moi.
Henri de la Rochejaquelein.

Follow, when I take the lead;
Pass me, when I fail in speed;
But I pray you, one and all,
Jump not on me when I fall!

Epigram on a hard-riding Youth named Taylor.

Taylor by name, but in no other sense,
No tailor is he when he faces a fence;
To one Taylor alone can I fitly compare him, he
Reminds me, out hunting, of good Bishop Jeremy;
For when fences are stiff, and the field does not fancy 'em,
Ductor he then may be call'd Dubitantium;
And, when pitch'd from the saddle, he falls on his crown,
He reminds me again of the Bishop of Down.

214

Inscription

ON A GARDEN SEAT FORMED FROM THE BONES OF AN OLD RACER.

I

Still, tho' bereft of speed,
Compell'd to carry weight;
Alas! unhappy steed,
Death cannot change my fate.

II

Upon the turf still ridden,
Denied a grave below,
My weary bones forbidden
The rest that they bestow.