 | Hunting Songs |  |
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
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 chestnutAs 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 neatAs rider's seat could be;
The buckskin white was button'd tight,
And knotted at the knee;
164
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 upMust 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 soleTo 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
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-upBy 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;
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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 soundThat 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;
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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.
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