Historical & Legendary Ballads & Songs By Walter Thornbury. Illustrated by J. Whistler, F. Walker, John Tenniel, J. D. Watson, W. Small, F. Sandys, G. J. Pinwell, T. Morten, M. J. Lawless, and many others |
 |
 |
Shooting for the Silver Cup.
|
|
 | Historical & Legendary Ballads & Songs |  |
213
Shooting for the Silver Cup.
Red in the sun the danger flag
Rises above the green turf bank;
High up, the fir-trees watchful stand,
Ranged in their silent, level rank;
And now, like anvils at each blow,
Ting! tang! the iron targets go.
Rises above the green turf bank;
High up, the fir-trees watchful stand,
Ranged in their silent, level rank;
And now, like anvils at each blow,
Ting! tang! the iron targets go.
We moor our carts up in the gorse
We tap the stone jars, large and cool;
Then sling our rifles, and run fast,
Like boys just broken out from school;
For now, in yonder sunshine-glow,
Ting! tang! the merry bullets go.
We tap the stone jars, large and cool;
Then sling our rifles, and run fast,
Like boys just broken out from school;
For now, in yonder sunshine-glow,
Ting! tang! the merry bullets go.
We pinch the cartridge-paper off;
Quick slides the powder, coarse of grain;
Down drives the little cone of lead;
On goes a shining cap again—
And now, though ruffling winds may blow,
Rap! rap! the flying bullets go.
Quick slides the powder, coarse of grain;
Down drives the little cone of lead;
On goes a shining cap again—
And now, though ruffling winds may blow,
Rap! rap! the flying bullets go.
White, and no larger than a card,
An “Ace of Clubs,” stands out the mark;
Rings out the ramrod's rapid steel;
Streams out each fiery gushing spark—
Like beaten anvils, at each blow,
Ting! tang! the echoing targets go.
An “Ace of Clubs,” stands out the mark;
Rings out the ramrod's rapid steel;
Streams out each fiery gushing spark—
Like beaten anvils, at each blow,
Ting! tang! the echoing targets go.
Yet blackbirds whistle from the hill,
Where wild doves brood upon their nests;
They know the bullet's not for them,
But only for our foemen's breasts.
Look! down the valley in the glow,
The thistle-seeds in clusters blow.
Where wild doves brood upon their nests;
They know the bullet's not for them,
But only for our foemen's breasts.
Look! down the valley in the glow,
The thistle-seeds in clusters blow.
Fate, send me centres, closer still,
And drive my bullet through the black;
Oh, what will Lucy say, if he
She loves without the cup go back?
“A miss!” “Hurrah! a bull's-eye? “No;”
So echoes answer from below.
And drive my bullet through the black;
Oh, what will Lucy say, if he
She loves without the cup go back?
“A miss!” “Hurrah! a bull's-eye? “No;”
So echoes answer from below.
We've little time, for twilight grey
Come stealing over miles of down;
Through jets of fire, the bullets skim
Over the grass so scorched and brown,
And glimmering through the after-glow,
The whitened targets ghastly show.
Come stealing over miles of down;
Through jets of fire, the bullets skim
Over the grass so scorched and brown,
And glimmering through the after-glow,
The whitened targets ghastly show.
Fly, bullet, swiftly, staunch and straight,
To the full centre of the black;
Thou, wind, breathe softly from the west,
And scatter every rising rack;
And, targets, at my last good blow,
With clear full cadence echoing go.
To the full centre of the black;
Thou, wind, breathe softly from the west,
And scatter every rising rack;
And, targets, at my last good blow,
With clear full cadence echoing go.
Over the notch so sharply cut
I glance an eager, watchful eye;
I pull with slow and patient care;
Hurrah! I hear the marker's cry.
Now let the brown beer frothing flow;
The silver cup is mine, you know!
I glance an eager, watchful eye;
I pull with slow and patient care;
Hurrah! I hear the marker's cry.
Now let the brown beer frothing flow;
The silver cup is mine, you know!
I'll drive home with it in my hand,
Display it at the turnpike-gate,
And wave it to my passing friends;
And when I reach home, tired and late,
And see my Lucy's candle shine,
I'll shout: “The silver cup is mine!”
Display it at the turnpike-gate,
And wave it to my passing friends;
And when I reach home, tired and late,
And see my Lucy's candle shine,
I'll shout: “The silver cup is mine!”
| Historical & Legendary Ballads & Songs | |