 | Hunting Songs |  |
1
The Woore Country.
I
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,
2
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 metreMay 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.
3
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 cheeryTo 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;
4
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;
5
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.
| Hunting Songs | |