 | Weeping-Cross and Other Rimes by A. H. Bullen |  |
16
CAPTAIN DOVER AND THE COTSWOLD GAMES
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[“Captain” Robert Dover, 1575-1641, an attorney, migrated from Barton-on-the-Heath to Stanway, in the Cotswolds. He founded the Cotswold Games— sometimes styled the “Olympick Games”—in 1604 and continued to preside over them till his death in 1641. Annalia Dubrensia, a collection of poems by various hands (famous and obscure) in praise of Dover and descriptive of the games, appeared in 1636; 2nd ed. by Dr. Thomas Dover, in 1700; reprinted by Grosart and others in recent times. The hill where the Games were held, near Chipping Campden, is still called “Dover's Hill.” Excellent cyder is made in the neighbourhood. “Dover Castle” was a wooden erection that turned on a pivot; an umpire's observation post, fitted with culverins.]
By Dover's Hill are orchards fine
With golden apples gleaming,
And there was crusht the juice divine
That sets us all a-dreaming.
With golden apples gleaming,
And there was crusht the juice divine
That sets us all a-dreaming.
Fill up, fill up
Each lad his cup
With foxwhelp brimming over,
And drink with me
To the memory
Of gallant Captain Dover!
Each lad his cup
With foxwhelp brimming over,
And drink with me
To the memory
Of gallant Captain Dover!
17
The Cotswold Games for voice and pen
A worthy theme afforded;
By Randolph, Heywood, Drayton, Ben
Were Dover's deeds recorded.
A worthy theme afforded;
By Randolph, Heywood, Drayton, Ben
Were Dover's deeds recorded.
Folk rode at quintain; they wrestled; they hurled;
With cudgel and staff they battled;
'Twas the merriest, maddest sport in the world
When the raps round their sconces rattled.
With cudgel and staff they battled;
'Twas the merriest, maddest sport in the world
When the raps round their sconces rattled.
Broad quoits were whirling or gamesters keen
Their luck at bowls would be proving;
And archers trim in Lincoln Green
At butts were pricking and roving.
Their luck at bowls would be proving;
And archers trim in Lincoln Green
At butts were pricking and roving.
Some fell to barley-brake and some
Their Irish-hays were dancing;
The Morris tripped it to bagpipe and drum,
And Wyhy! came hobby-horse prancing.
Their Irish-hays were dancing;
The Morris tripped it to bagpipe and drum,
And Wyhy! came hobby-horse prancing.
Now racing nags swept over the field
With a musical mirthful clatter;
While from Dover Castle the culverins peeled
A volley the welkin to shatter.
With a musical mirthful clatter;
While from Dover Castle the culverins peeled
A volley the welkin to shatter.
And Captain Dover, admired of all,
With ruff and yellow favour,
His white horse rode majestical,
Not the Persian Sophy graver.
With ruff and yellow favour,
His white horse rode majestical,
Not the Persian Sophy graver.
18
Oh, rich and rare his accoutrement
As he rode in the Whitsun weather,
For the King from his own wardrobe had sent
The cloak, the beaver, and feather.
As he rode in the Whitsun weather,
For the King from his own wardrobe had sent
The cloak, the beaver, and feather.
For two score years with mickle praise
He at the Games presided,
Then stoopt to Fate ere civil frays
The hapless realm divided.
He at the Games presided,
Then stoopt to Fate ere civil frays
The hapless realm divided.
Yet lives he unforgotten still
In Cotswold rime and story;
His kindly phantom haunts the hill
Where once he rode in glory.
In Cotswold rime and story;
His kindly phantom haunts the hill
Where once he rode in glory.
My song is done, my throat is dry,
There's liquor yet before us;
So once again lift glasses high
And sing we all in chorus—
There's liquor yet before us;
So once again lift glasses high
And sing we all in chorus—
Fill up, fill up
Each lad his cup
With foxwhelp brimming over,
And drink with me
To the memory
Of gallant Captain Dover!
Each lad his cup
With foxwhelp brimming over,
And drink with me
To the memory
Of gallant Captain Dover!
| Weeping-Cross and Other Rimes by A. H. Bullen | |