 | The Irish Poems of Alfred Perceval Graves |  |
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SONGS OF SPORT
THE FOX HUNT
The first morning of March in the year '33,
There was frolic and fun in our own country:
The King's County hunt over meadows and rocks,
Most nobly set out in the search of a fox.
Hullahoo! harkaway! hullahoo! harkaway!
Hullahoo! harkaway, boys! away, harkaway!
There was frolic and fun in our own country:
The King's County hunt over meadows and rocks,
Most nobly set out in the search of a fox.
Hullahoo! harkaway! hullahoo! harkaway!
Hullahoo! harkaway, boys! away, harkaway!
When they started bold Reynard he faced Tullamore,
Through Wicklow and Arklow along the seashore;
There he brisked up his brush with a laugh, and says he,
“'Tis mighty refreshing, this breeze from the sea!”
Hullahoo! harkaway! hullahoo! harkaway!
Hullahoo! harkaway, boys! away, harkaway!
Through Wicklow and Arklow along the seashore;
There he brisked up his brush with a laugh, and says he,
“'Tis mighty refreshing, this breeze from the sea!”
Hullahoo! harkaway! hullahoo! harkaway!
Hullahoo! harkaway, boys! away, harkaway!
With the hounds at his heels every inch of the way,
He led us by sunset right into Roscrea;
Here he ran up a chimney and out of the top,
The rogue he cried out for the hunters to stop
From their loud harkaway! hullahoo! harkaway!
Hullahoo! harkaway, boys! away, harkaway!
He led us by sunset right into Roscrea;
Here he ran up a chimney and out of the top,
The rogue he cried out for the hunters to stop
From their loud harkaway! hullahoo! harkaway!
Hullahoo! harkaway, boys! away, harkaway!
“'Twas a long thirsty stretch since we left the seashore,
But, lads, here you've gallons of claret galore;
Myself will make free just to slip out of view
And take a small pull at my own mountain dew.”
So no more hullahoo, hullahoo! harkaway!
Hullahoo! harkaway, boys! away, harkaway!
But, lads, here you've gallons of claret galore;
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And take a small pull at my own mountain dew.”
So no more hullahoo, hullahoo! harkaway!
Hullahoo! harkaway, boys! away, harkaway!
One hundred and twenty good sportsmen went down,
And sought him from Ballyland into B'lyboyne;
We swore that we'd watch him the length of the night,
So Reynard, sly Reynard, lay hid till the light.
Hullahoo! hullahoo! harkaway, harkaway!
Hullahoo! harkaway, boys! away, harkaway!
And sought him from Ballyland into B'lyboyne;
We swore that we'd watch him the length of the night,
So Reynard, sly Reynard, lay hid till the light.
Hullahoo! hullahoo! harkaway, harkaway!
Hullahoo! harkaway, boys! away, harkaway!
But the hills they re-echoed right early next morn
With the cry of the hounds and the call of the horn,
And in spite of his action, his craft, and his skill,
Our fine fox was taken on top of the hill.
Hullahoo! harkaway! hullahoo! harkaway!
Hullahoo! harkaway, boys! away, harkaway!
With the cry of the hounds and the call of the horn,
And in spite of his action, his craft, and his skill,
Our fine fox was taken on top of the hill.
Hullahoo! harkaway! hullahoo! harkaway!
Hullahoo! harkaway, boys! away, harkaway!
When Reynard he knew that his death was so nigh,
For pen, ink, and paper he called with a sigh;
And all his dear wishes on earth to fulfil,
With these few dying words he declared his last will.
While we ceased harkaway! hullahoo! harkaway!
Hullahoo! harkaway, boys! away, harkaway!
For pen, ink, and paper he called with a sigh;
And all his dear wishes on earth to fulfil,
With these few dying words he declared his last will.
While we ceased harkaway! hullahoo! harkaway!
Hullahoo! harkaway, boys! away, harkaway!
“Here's to you, Mr. Casey, my Curraghmore estate,
And to you, young O'Brien, my money and plate,
And to you, Thomas Dennihy, my whip, spurs and cap,
For no leap was so cross that you'd look for a gap.”
And of what he made mention they found it no blank,
For he gave them a cheque on the National Bank.
And to you, young O'Brien, my money and plate,
And to you, Thomas Dennihy, my whip, spurs and cap,
For no leap was so cross that you'd look for a gap.”
And of what he made mention they found it no blank,
For he gave them a cheque on the National Bank.
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THE IRISH REEL
While ould Phelim o'er his fiddle
Flourishes his famous bow,
Lad and lass along the middle
All salute and rank in row.
“Are yez full arranged and ready?”
“Ready, Phelim, heart and heel!”
“Off then, all!” and, smart and steady,
Twenty couple step the reel.
Flourishes his famous bow,
Lad and lass along the middle
All salute and rank in row.
“Are yez full arranged and ready?”
“Ready, Phelim, heart and heel!”
“Off then, all!” and, smart and steady,
Twenty couple step the reel.
Whisper, Phelim, from the fairies
Underneath the midnight moon
Leadin' up their light vagaries
Have you stole that lovely tune?
Since each dancer's foot it follows
Up and down the magic chime,
For the world like slender swallows
Racin' in the meadow rime.
Underneath the midnight moon
Leadin' up their light vagaries
Have you stole that lovely tune?
Since each dancer's foot it follows
Up and down the magic chime,
For the world like slender swallows
Racin' in the meadow rime.
At the double, at the treble,
How the lads they leap and slide,
Whilst the women wid their skimmin'
Teach the very swans to glide.
Glancin' shyly, blushin' coyly,
Arm to waist, around we wheel,
Boys, between us all and Venus,
What could best our Irish Reel?
At the double, at the treble,
We go dancin', heart and heel.
Boys, between us all and Venus,
What could best our Irish Reel?
How the lads they leap and slide,
Whilst the women wid their skimmin'
Teach the very swans to glide.
Glancin' shyly, blushin' coyly,
Arm to waist, around we wheel,
Boys, between us all and Venus,
What could best our Irish Reel?
At the double, at the treble,
We go dancin', heart and heel.
Boys, between us all and Venus,
What could best our Irish Reel?
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THE KILLARNEY HUNT
The hunt is up! and hound and pup
Are tunin' round Killarney;
The hunt is out! O there's a shout!
You'd hear it down to Blarney.
There goes the stag along the crag,
A Royal now, I warrant,
See how he sails across the rails
And flies the foaming torrent.
Are tunin' round Killarney;
The hunt is out! O there's a shout!
You'd hear it down to Blarney.
There goes the stag along the crag,
A Royal now, I warrant,
See how he sails across the rails
And flies the foaming torrent.
Away to Tork they wind and work,
Among the whorts and heather.
The scent's in doubt, now all are out,
Now, hark! they're all together.
For old Jack Keogh he marked him go
And waved 'em with his wattle.
A full George crown they've thrown him down,
With that he'll moist his throttle.
Among the whorts and heather.
The scent's in doubt, now all are out,
Now, hark! they're all together.
For old Jack Keogh he marked him go
And waved 'em with his wattle.
A full George crown they've thrown him down,
With that he'll moist his throttle.
A fine view spot up here we've got,
A fine mixed lot within it.
Like ould No'hs Ark, above the Park
We're packed this blessed minute.
The Parson's pasted to the Priest,
The farmer to the flunkey,
Between the fool upon his mule,
The cripple on his donkey.
A fine mixed lot within it.
Like ould No'hs Ark, above the Park
We're packed this blessed minute.
The Parson's pasted to the Priest,
The farmer to the flunkey,
Between the fool upon his mule,
The cripple on his donkey.
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Yoicks! tally ho! now off they go!
See, there the stag is skimmin'!
He's through the brake, he's in the lake,
And after him they're swimmin'.
Their floatin' ranks are on his flanks,
They're closin' now behind him;
He feels the land! he's up the strand!
Now mind him! oh, now mind him!
See, there the stag is skimmin'!
He's through the brake, he's in the lake,
And after him they're swimmin'.
Their floatin' ranks are on his flanks,
They're closin' now behind him;
He feels the land! he's up the strand!
Now mind him! oh, now mind him!
Hul-hullahoo! they flash in view
Along the shinin' shingle,
In lengthenin' row they streamin' go,
Now with the shades they mingle;
While underneath the evening star
A phantom hunt seems flyin',
Now swelling near, now falling far,
Now down the darkness dyin'.
Along the shinin' shingle,
In lengthenin' row they streamin' go,
Now with the shades they mingle;
While underneath the evening star
A phantom hunt seems flyin',
Now swelling near, now falling far,
Now down the darkness dyin'.
| The Irish Poems of Alfred Perceval Graves | |