Though
I can't afford a hunter -more's the pity, I
love a rousing gallop like the rest!- Every
morning as I travel to the city I
have five and forty minutes of the best.
As
we leave our country station there's a holloa (If
it's but the engine whistle, never mind!). By
the window I am sitting, and I follow Where
the horn of fancy tells me of a find.
Through
the rattle of our going comes the chorus, 'Tis
a south wind and a proper scenting day, There's
a topping piece of country spread before us, And
I'll jump it all in fancy on the grey.
How
he dances as I edge him through the others; He
is fond of this finessing for a start, Just
a little bit more eager than his brothers By
a beat, or maybe two beats of his heart
There's
a gap we know of leading from the stubble, And
we have it while the other people pass. A
crash behind us! Some one tasting trouble! We
are over, in the lead, and on the grass.
How
he lays him down to revel in his freedom! How
he snatches at his snaffle as he goes! The
field will have to gallop when we lead 'em! Hark,
behind us! There's another on his nose!
Here's
an oak rail with a trappy ditch behind it, And
I feel the little beggar shortening stride. It's
a big one, but I know he wouldn't mind it Were
it twice as big and half again as wide
So
I catch him by the head a little shorter, And
his answer comes a-thrilling from the bit; Then
I loose him, and he flies it. What a snorter! And
he never made the shadow of a hit!
So
we take those rasping fences -well, perhaps a wee bit faster Than
we'd take 'em if we were not on a train! And
there's not a soul before us but the huntsman and the Master And
a toiling field is squandered once again.
By
a grey suburban station, to the sullen air-brake's grinding, We
kill our dog fox handsomely at last. It
was five and forty minutes to the finish from the finding- And
at fifty miles an hour 'twas pretty fast!
As
I wandered home By
Hedworth Combe I
heard a lone horse whinney, And
saw on the hill Standing
statue-still At
the top of the old oak spinney A
rough-haired hack With
a girl on his back- And
"Hounds!" I said- "for a guinea!"
The
wind blew chill Over
Larchey Hill, And
it couldn't have blown much colder; Her
nose was blue, And
her pigtails two Hung
damply over her shoulder; She
might have been ten, Or
- guessing again - She
might have been twelve months older.
To
a tight pink lip She
pressed her whip By
way of imposing quiet; I
bowed my head To
the word unsaid, Accepting
the lady's fiat, And
noted the while Her
Belvoir style As
she rated a hound for riot.
A
lean form leapt O'er
the fence and crept Through
the ditch with his thief's heart quaking, But
the face of the maid No
hint betrayed That
she noticed the brambles shaking, Till
she saw him clear Of
her one wild fear- The
chance of his backward breaking.
Then
dainty and neat She
rose in her seat That
the better her eyes might follow Where
a shadow of brown Over
Larchley Down Launched
out like a driving swallow; And
she quickened his speed Through
bracken and weed With
a regular Pytchley holloa!
Raging
they came Like
a torrent of flame- There
where nineteen couple and over, And
a huntsman grey Who
blew them away With
the note of a true hound-lover, While
his Whip sat back On
her rough old hack And
called to the last in covert.
Then
cramming down flat Her
quaint little hat, And
shaking the old horse together, She
was off like a bird, And
the last that I heard Was
a "For'ard!" that died in the heather As
she took up her place At
the tail of the chase Like
a ten-season lord of the leather.
Right
and left the leaders wheel,
Seeking
gap and gate,
Catch
his head and give him heel!
Ride
your country straight!
Fences
are by fortune made,
Not
by rule of thumb.
Lash
him at them unafraid!
Take
'em as they come!
Hedges
may be rough and rank,
Thick
and three feet through,
Doubled
with a ditch or bank-
What's
the odds to you!
Some
are standing six feet high,
Twined
and twisted some.
Never
mind 'em! Have a fly !
Take
'em as they come!
Walls
and stiles and cattle-gates,
Ash
and oaken rails-
These
as fashioned by the fates
Slack
the slacker's sails,
Turn
the laggard from his line,
Turn
the timid numb-
All
the better chance to shine!
Take
'em as they come!
When
our paltry years are past,
Triumphs
and regrets,
Whether
we went slow or fast
Soon
the world forgets.
Lucky
if some friend should tell,
Handing
on your fame,
‘Good
'un! Always went like Hell !
Took
'em as they came! '
Now
what do you want to be playing about for,
Reefing
and reaching your head for the bit?
This
is the gentlest of canters you're out for,
And
neither yourself nor your rider is fit ;
I,
who have lazed . While
the summer sun blazed,
At
ease in a hammock with cool things to drink;
You,
late a rover
In
cocksfoot and clover,
With
mud on your mane-locks and loose shoes a-clink.
This
is too soon to be prancing and sidling;
The
elm is still green and the ditches are blind;
The
sun is still strong and suggestive of idling-
So,
Biddy, be kind!
Time
and enough when they're drawing the gorses
To
put up your back with those ominous squeals,
To
plunge when they pass you on cantering horses,
To
flaunt your red ribbon and fling up your heels.
Slippy
and tarred
Is
the highway, and hard;
A
fall is the last thing on earth I desire;
By
all means be sprightly, But do it politely
With
not too much fervour and not too much fire.
The
season's too young yet for trying a tussle;
Rough-riding
at present is not to my mind;
Just
wait a few weeks till we work up our muscle-
Come,
Biddy, be kind!
There's
colour in the woodlands as far as eye can reach, Pale
gold upon the elm-tree and bronze upon the beech;
To
witch the world with beauty a hundred hues ally -
But
bonniest is the scarlet when a Whip rides by.
On
towers of brown and crimson, on roofs of royal gold
The
banners of the autumn their splendid tints unfold,
And
no one will their wonder, their magic lure deny -
Yet
dearer is the scarlet when a Whip rides by.
Ah!
Bright September woodlands, your magic only means
That
summer’s life is ebbing on the bed your beauty screens;
Not
all your painted pennons on all your towers so high Can
match one patch of scarlet when a whip rides by!
If
I call, will you hear me, O comrades of mine,
When
the sky in the East holds the grey of the dawn,
When
the soft wind is stirring the plumes of the pine
And
the shadow goes gliding beneath like a fawn?
If
I call, will you hear me, 0 long-ago friends,
As
you pass to the stockyard with bridle on arm,
Where
the song of the magpie to Heaven ascends
And
the buddah-bush blooms with its delicate charm?
If
I call, will you hear me? Heart calling to heart
Across
the wide water, across the long years.
In
the life that you live have I, too, not a part ?
Do
I share not its laughter, its hopes and its fears
If
my saddle hangs idle, if no more I bind
The
spurs of adventure to gleam on the heel,
Along
Memory's paths may I stray not and find
The
beat of bare hoofs and the jingle of steel?
Where
we rode shall I ride not? Through scrubs where we raced
With
the rein lying loose as some favourite flew
Through
the ragged grey stems, through the boughs interlaced
Have
ye ridden one ride where I rode not with you?
If
I call, will you hear ? - Nay; for Time will be king,
And
the wind on wide water bears voices away.
The
spurs as they glisten, the hoofs where they ring,
Are
the servants of Youth at the dawn of the day.
Come, horsemen all, from every field And taste this rare delight, And see what English pastures yield To those whose hearts beat right! Come, haste and quaff the stirrup-cup! Turn down the empty glass! The horn is blown, the hunt is up, And here's our English grass!
And here are foxes swift to find And fences strong to break, And here are doubles steep and blind That try the best to take, And dappled hounds to keep in sight And rivals you must pass Before the long December night Enshrouds the English grass!
And think it not a lightsome thing Or feat to wake your scorn To follow where the Pytchley swing Or lead them with the Quorn ; For men have hacked the mulga trail And packed the mountain pass, Yet found the boldest heart may fail To ride the English grass.
The meadows stretch from stream to stream, Close-bitten, firm, and sound; No stubble stands, no plough man's team Rips up the ravaged ground; But level far as eye can see Like smooth green-tinted glass, A battle-ground for bravery, Is spread the English grass.
Though thorns be thick, though binders lace, Though stout be stile and rail, Though nought but blood can live the pace, And nought but pluck prevail, The call's to all, the field is fair To every creed and class; So draw your girths, all ye who dare, And ride the English grass!
Great big lolloping
lovable things! Rolling and tumbling on
every lawn, Tearing at slippers and
bones and wings- Wonderful loot from the
ash-heap drawn: Foxhound
puppies Contented
puppies Dipping your ears in the
dews of dawn!
Lapping your porridge at
farm-house doors, Cracking a biscuit,
robbing a nest Printing your tracks upon
kitchen floors, Dodging a broom when the
cooks protest; Foxhound
puppies, Delinquent
puppies, Cursed for a moment and
then caressed!
Wandering out where the
spaniels walk, Following slow when the
guns go by, Streaking for home when
the twelve-bores talk, Clumsy and puzzled and
suddenly shy; Foxhound
puppies Bewildered
puppies Lone and unwanted and
wondering why!
Never mind puppies, your
day will come; By distant coverts your
kingdoms wait, When the spaniels doze and
the guns are dumb And hoofs are loud by the
bridle gate; Foxhound
puppies, Yet scarcely
puppies, Raised as you are to a
hound's estate.
Lost will your lolloping
ways be then, Your timid glance and your
shrinking pose, As you shoulder the gorse
in glade and glen, Lifting the line that your
tongues disclose; Foxhound
puppies, No longer
puppies, But trusted names that the
huntsman knows!
‘ He's away ! '- With a quickened wild beat of the heart Every horseman responds, riding hard for a start,
While back on the breeze with insistence is borne
The clamour of hounds and the call of the
horn.
What crowding and crossing! What foaming and fret!
'Don't pull, you old duffer,' we'll get to them yet I
'- ‘ Confound that slow tailor up there on the bay!
Does the fellow not know that a fox is away?
'
Hark! Something like music! Ye gods, how they
chime ! 'Excuse me ! '_
‘ Go on, then ! ' 'Oh, dash it, take time ! ' Don't cross me, confound you I '-' They're running some clip ! '- 'Look out for that pony ! '-' Way, there, for the Whip ! '
There's some one got kicked, and he's stopping to curse;
But we're clear of the crowd and it might have been
worse. The pick of the vale is the line he has gone.
‘ Gar'r away on to him ! Gar' away on !'
Hands! Gentle Hands! When the Field at covert stands, When your four-rear-old is sweating, Foamed and fidgety and fretting As a stray hound jumps the netting - You can steady him and soothe him with your
Hands!
Hands! Clever Hands! When your tiring hunter lands Over wall or ditch or double With his noseband in the stubble, That's the moment you're in trouble If you have not got the saving gift of Hands!
Hands! Steady Hands! When your reins seem useless bands, With a mad brute going faster And a toss-up which is master, You may still avoid disaster If Providence has given to you Hands!
Hands! Talking Hands! At the fence below the Stands, When you call on him to lead them, That's the moment when you need them, That's the time a horse will heed them As you bring him up and help him with your
Hands!
Hands! Horseman's Hands! When the stooping fairy stands At the cradle of a baby, She has richer gifts, it may be, But she never brought a better one than Hands!
There is music on disc and on wireless, Band-music, dance-tunes for the tireless, Sweet music from day unto day; But the music a man will remember Shakes down the last leaves of November, And speeds the wild geese in December, And greets the first oak-bud in May.
What string with such beauty can tremble? What bugle such raptures assemble? What trumpet can sound such a call? Is there ever a melody nearer The quick-beating heart of the hearer? Is there ever a tune that is dearer As it chooses a dance for us all?
No song is so sweet in the setting, No lilt so forbids all forgetting Or lingers so long by the way; When the shadows of night gather o’er us, And the scarlet has faded before us, The ring of that ravishing chorus Dies not with the death of the day.
Rustle of feet in the roadside grass, Trample of horses' hoofs, and - Hark! Blast of an anxious horn! Hounds pass; Hounds going home in the dark.
Bold was our huntsman galloping free On a difficult line to the hills to-day, But his hand is trembling against his knee At the hint of a light on the King's Highway.
‘ Car!' And the gold spreads over the sky ; ‘ Keep to the front there! Stop them, Mark! ' Toot-toot-too-oot ! - ' Halloo, there !-Hi ! ‘-
Hounds going home in the dark.
Crack of a whip as the headlights near- Blind in the blaze they group and grope. ‘ Curse the feller, and can't he hear? Put 'em across, there I-Cope, boys, cope! '
When never a star is hung in the sky, With never a lamp or a lantern spark, Huntsman and Whips go groping by, Blowing them home in the dark.
Once we went gaily with never a care, And the bigger the fences, the bolder we were;
Once the wild wind was our spur and our lash,
Once we would laugh at the splinter and crash
As the rails broke behind us, and thrill to the call
Of twelve foot of water or five foot of wall.
Once we could cope with the bucker's demands,
Once the hard puller came back to our hands; Once the green four-year-old, fretting and free,
Flinging the foam in white flecks to his knee,
Bent to our bidding and held us our place, O'er the stiffest of country whatever the
pace.
To blood running hotly, to hearts beating strong,
Not the longest of days was a moment too long;
‘Till the evening drew over its mantle of stars
We would ride to the hoof-beat and rattle of bars.
There was song in the gale, there was kiss in the rain;
Ah! Once we went gaily-but never again!
For the harsh years have stolen that magical zest
When with confident courage we rode with the best.
Now swift and unchallenged the braver may pass
On their reefing blood horses, hard held, on the grass;
The nerve is departed, the rapture denied, And the chase must be left to the young ones to
ride.
This is our heritage; the far-flung grass, The golden stubble and the dark-red moor; Men pass and perish as the swift years pass, But wide and wind-swept still the fields
endure.
This is our heritage; the love of sport, A fair ambition and a friendly strife, The rivalry of farm and camp and court, The keen endeavour of a clean, hard life.
The hoofs of horses on the trampled lea, The crash and rattle of the broken rail Where the first flight ride reckless, knee to knee,
And bold men face the dangers of the vale.
The cry of hounds, the holloa and the horn ; The lean red shadows where the foxes run; To these and all their challenge we were born,
And these we leave behind us, sire to son.
This is the heritage that none can take, The gift we hold, the gift we give again, And this the spirit that no Time can break, So long as England and her fields remain.
You that run the reddened ditch among the drifted leaves
May set the pace to conquerors and guide the sons of
kings! You that on your stealthy feet go through the wood like
thieves May lead your troop, a hundred horse, when once a holloa
rings!
You that, if you lay in death, the poorest churl would
pass- You whose brush and mask and pads there's not a tramp
would take- Can set the pride of England riding jealous on the
grass And captains, earls, and countesses contending in your
wake!
You're vermin to a vast of folk, but glory to a few.
What is it in your creeping stride that calls and calls
and calls? What is it, when the racing pack runs on from scent to
view, That rallies us to ride our best - dead straight - and
chance the falls?
He dusk is down on the river meadows, The moon is climbing above the fir, The lane is crowded with creeping shadows, The gorse is only a distant blur; The last of the light is almost gone, But hark! They're running! They're running on !
The count of the years is steadily growing; The Old give way to the eager Young; Far on the hill is the horn still blowing, Far on the steep are the hounds still strung.
Good men follow the good men gone; And hark! They're running! They're running on !
He loves all games that good men play- And plays them clean and straight- But most the chase of foxes With all its turns of fate. When far behind him in the vale Strings out our beaten hunt With easy grace he keeps his place, His rightful place, in front.
He always seems to lead us Whate'er the pace may be- ‘ He's always on the skyline! ' As some one said to me. ‘Tis true his horses are the best, ‘Tis true he steals his start, But none could hold a line so bold Without a gallant heart.
So here's to Skyline Tommy, The bravest of our guides! In all the scattered counties No finer horseman rides; Not soon shall we, the laggards, The cheering sight forget Of Tommy high against the sky In splendid silhouette!
He stands at no easel, he mixes no paint, He colours no canvas to gladden the eye, Yet the picture he makes will not fade or grow faint
Till our love of the chase shall desert us and die.
He's an artist of parts Who appeals to the hearts That can thrill to good hunting and hounds in full cry.
By his seat in the saddle, his touch on the reins,
His skill and his mastery, who can gainsay That here is an artist in all that pertains To the horse and his handling - a real R.A. ?
An artist 'twould irk Not to cut out the work When the hats are crammed down and a fox is
away.
You will find him no centre of salon or crush,
No letters attached to his name may he sign, But there's no one so eager to handle the Brush
And there's none so consistently found on the Line.
If an artist you ask, Here's the man for the task, Making pictures where keenness and courage combine!
The mark of a stake in the shoulder, The brand of a wall on the knee, Are scars to the careless beholder And blemishes. So it may be ; But every such blemish endorses The pluck of a steed unafraid, And the heart of a lover of horses Goes out to the Battered Brigade.
Their knocks have been gathered in duty, Their scars in the front of the fray; It isn't your cleanest-legged beauty That's first at the end of the day. When five foot of timber before us Has half of the pretty ones stayed, If you want to catch up to the chorus Come on with the Battered Brigade!
Turned out in the finest of fettle 'Tis sometimes the soundest that fails And would rather hear hoofs on the metal Than follow the rattle of rails; But out on the grass with hounds racing And fences as big as they're made The cream of the gay steeple-chasing Is left to the Battered Brigade.
Their line is the line of the foxes, Their pace is the pace of the pack, Though to-morrow they stand in their boxes As stiff as the props of a stack; And I 'll lay you my cheque at the banker's They're forward next week undismayed. Good luck to the blemished front-rankers! Hats off to the Battered Brigade!
Gold and green the elm leaves lean and interlace,
All the coloured woodlands are calling to the Chase.
Dew is on the stubble field, ruddy grows the thorn,
All the withered meadowland is listening for the
horn.
Lures of lawn and hammock, rod and bat and ball,
Fade before the coming of a stronger lure than all,
Faint before the whisper of the padding feet that pass,
Fail before the witchery of hoof-beats on the
grass.
England in her summer sleep turns about and stirs,
Hears the click of bridle rings, hears the clink of
spurs, Sees the gleam of spotted flanks moving in the gorse,
Sees the flashing scarlet of a Whip upon his
horse.
Rippling water charms no more, nor the lazy noon,
Spent among the lime trees where a wild bee makes the
tune; Something fiercer tugs the heart, fans the Wood to fire,
Sets the pulses galloping, and wakes the old desire.
Girths are buckled, reins are drawn, stirrups caught
again; Women turn to sterner play, men go forth like men.
Where the storm-clouds gather, where the strong winds
stride, Autumn calls to England and bids her bravest ride.
While there's one on his feet with
a tale to repeat And another is sampling a
drink, The eager First Flight have a
girth to draw tight Or a chain to let out by a
link; While the boisterous laugh in that
circle of chaff The opening music has
drowned, You will hear the First Flight as
they whisper 'That's right!' To the note of a favourite
hound.
When a holloa makes sure that his
start is secure And dispels every doubt of a
run, When the crowd gallops straight to
the obvious gate With the latch that is never
undone, You will see the First Flight cram
a topper on tight, Catch a willing old nag by the
head And clapping on sail at the
blackthorn or rail, Take the line of the robber in
red.
They thunder away over stubble and
clay, Over roots or the level o'
lea, The gallant First Flight that are
soon out of sight While the slow ones are sadly at
sea. The crash of a rail in the cream
of the vale Is to them but a matter of
mirth, And the avalanche fall of a
hoof-rattled wall But the merriest music on
earth.
There are gaps, there are gates
for the coward who waits, There are roads for the fellow who
fears; To left nor to right go the
gallant First Flight Save to veer with the chase as it
veers. No field has a fence so
dark-looming and dense Or a rail so unyielding and
stout But if once the First Flight have
got in it all right You may trust them to find a way
out.
Now the men who ride first may be
frequently cursed As they press on the faltering
pack, But we're all of us loth to pull
up for an oath When it comes from a field or two
back; And the Master may blame and the
jealous declaim But the weakest must go to the
wall, And it's plain the First Flight
have the premier right If the hounds may be hustled at
all.
Come drink with me, then, to the
big-hearted men Who have pluck to sit down and go
straight! Whether farmer or squire may they
keep out of wire And be spared a lift home on a
gate! Fill your glasses tonight to the
gallant First Flight, Let us wish them the luck of the
line And tomorrow's recall to the best
game of all, And the wind that is better than
wine!
This is the game of our
hearts! Foot to the stirrup!
Away! Care with the night
departs, Joy comes in with the
day. A good horse tossing his
rings, A light rime decking the
thorn: And the heart of the horseman
sings For love of a hunting
morn.
This is the game of our
hearts! Mottled flanks in the
fern; Rate where a rabbit
starts, Cheer to a waving
stern; Call that we rush to
obey From a Whip at his post
outside: Gone away! Gone
aw-a-a-ay! And we sit down to
ride.
This is the game of our
hearts! Crash and rattle of
rail; Lean hounds driving like
darts Into the breast of the
vale. Tried Age taking the
lead, Rash Youth coated with
clay; Glory and glamour of
speed, And a right fox away.
This is the game of our
hearts, Whatever luck may
ensue-- This, where a Master of
Arts May fail and a dunce get
through! This, where the confident
thrust; This, where the cowardly
crane; This, where there's nothing to
trust But fate and the feel of the
rein.
This is the game of our
hearts! Squire and lawyer and
lord, Men of the farms and the
marts, Men of the pen and the
sword; Comrades we jog to the
meet, Rivals we ride the
line, And the sound of the hoofs is
sweet And the taste of the wind is wine.
The happiest man in England rose an hour before the
dawn; The stars were in the purple and the dew was on the
lawn; He sang from bed to bathroom-he could only sing ‘John
Peel' ; He donned his boots and breeches and he buckled on his
steel.
He chose his brightest waistcoat and his stock with care
he tied, Though scarce a soul would see him in his early morning
ride. He hurried to the stable through the dim light of the
stars, And there his good horse waited, clicking rings and
bridle-bars.
The happiest man in England took a grey lock in his
hand And settled in his saddle like a seagull on the
sand. Then from the shadowy kennel all the eager pack
outpoured, And the happiest man in England saw them scatter on the
sward.
He trotted through the beeches long before the east was
red, Then he turned across the pasture and he gave the grey
his head; And the hounds swept on beside him in a merry mottled
crowd, And he blew them down the valley with a horn-blast, good
and loud.
The happiest man in England turned down the stony lane,
The heart of him was singing as he heard the hoofs
again; And where the blind ditch narrows and the deep-set gorse
begins He waved his pack to covert, and he cheered them through
the whins.
He heard old Gladstone whimper, then Merryman give
tongue; He saw the green gorse shaking as the whole pack checked
and swung; Then through the ditch came creeping a shy cub lithe and
lean, And nothing but a cocked grey ear betrayed that he was
seen.
But once beyond the brambles and across the heath and
clear With half a league of open ground and not a whinbush
near, The happiest man in England blew the freedom of the
pass, And two-and-twenty couple backed his music on the
grass.
He holds no brief for slaughter, but the cubs must take
their chance; The weak must first go under that the strong may lead
the dance; And when the grey strides out and shakes the foam-
flecks from his rings The happiest man in England would not change his place
with kings.
When you've ridden a four-year-old half of the day
And, foam to the fetlock, they lead him away,
With a sigh of contentment you watch him depart
While you tighten the girths on the horse of your heart.
There is something between you that both understand
As it thrills an old message from bit-bar to hand.
As he changes his feet in that plunge of desire
To the thud of his hoofs all your courage takes
fire.
When an afternoon fox is away, when begins The rush down the headland that edges the whins,
When you challenge the Field, making sure of a start,
Would you ask any horse but this horse of your heart?
There's the rasping big double a green one would shirk,
But the old fellow knows it as part of his work;
He has shortened his stride, he has measured the task,
He is up, on, and over as clean as you'd ask.
There's the water before you-no novice's test,
But a jump to try deeply the boldest and best;
Just a tug at the leather, a lift of the ear,
And the old horse is over it-twenty foot clear.
There is four foot of wall and a take-off in plough,
And you're glad you are riding no tenderfoot now
But a seasoned campaigner, a master of art, The perfect performer-the horse of your heart.
For here's where the raw one will falter and baulk,
And here's where the tyro is pulled to a walk,
But the horse of your heart never dwells or demurs
And is over the top to a touch of the spurs.
To you who ride young ones half-schooled and half-broke,
What joy to find freedom a while from your yoke!
What bliss to be launched with the luck of the start
On the old one, the proved one, the horse of your heart
!
Thegalloping seasons have slackened his pace,
And stone wall and timber have battered his knees
It is many a year since he gave up his place To live out his life in comparative ease.
No more does he stand with his scarlet and white
Like a statue of marble girth deep in the
gorse; No more does he carry the Horn of Delight That called us to follow the huntsman's old horse.
How many will pass him and not understand, As he trots down the road going cramped in his stride,
That he once set the pace to the best in the land
Ere they tightened his curb for a lady to
ride!
When the music begins and a right one's away,
When hoof-strokes are thudding like drums on the ground,
The old spirit wakes in the worn-looking grey
And the pride of his youth comes to life at a bound.
He leans on the bit and he lays to his speed,
To the winds of the open his stiffness he throws,
And if spirit were all he'd be up with the lead
Where the horse that supplants him so easily goes.
No double can daunt him, no ditch can deceive,
No bank can beguile him to set a foot wrong, But the years that have passed him no power can
retrieve - To the swift is their swiftness, their strength to the
strong!
To the best of us all comes a day and a day When the pace of the leaders shall leave us forlorn,
So we'll give him a cheer - the old galloping grey -
As he labours along to the lure of the Horn.
When the last fence looms up, I am ready And I hope when the rails of it crack There'll be nothing in front but the Master, The huntsman, the fox, and the pack; And I hope when fate bids me go under In this last of my manifold spills, That we're riding the line of a hill fox With half a mile start to his hills.
I hope that last fence is a stiff one; I hope, for the sake of our name, They may say, ' If the task was beyond them
They both of them went at it game! ' And when the white girths flash above me, And darkness comes down on the field, Let them carry me home on a hurdle As the Spartan went home on his shield.
And when I am out of the running Let the good men go on with the pack; I would not one comrade should falter, I would not one friend should turn back; And whether it be on the grass-land, The hill-side, the heath or the loam, Let the gallant ones keep going for'ard- The slow ones can carry me home.
Let them bury me down in the churchyard, But lay my good horse where he fell; When the ditches are blind in the autumn Some friend may remember and tell, While under the thong of the west wind The day-nettle trembles and stirs: 'Twas from here that a horseman undaunted Went Home in his boots and his spurs.'
Apart from the crowd with its banter and mirth,
Sitting loose on his mare with an eye to the whins,
He has looked to his curb, he has tightened his girth,
He has marked out a place where the big double thins.
Here's a good one to follow, To follow, to follow- A good one to follow when business begins.
'Mid the murmur of meeting, the laugh and the joke,
'Mid the trampling of horses, the cheer and the rate,
He has caught the low whimper when Challenger
spoke And has seen the raised hat of the man by the gate.
He's the right one to follow, To follow, to follow, The right one to follow and trust with your fate.
When they tumble from covert, each hound giving tongue,
When they carry it, confident, over the plough,
When the hurrying Field down the headland is strung,
Here's the man for your money! You follow him now!
He's the right one to follow, To follow, to follow, So bundle and after him! Never mind how!
Ere the gay coffee-housers are into their stride
He is over the hedge with a trifle to spare And down in his saddle and ready to ride, For whoever may miss it he means to be there!
This right one to follow, To follow, to follow, This lean lashing lad on the bonny blood mare.
If you're riding a horse that can gallop and jump,
That can creep through a cat-hole or spread at a ditch,
If you don't mind a thorn-scratch, a bruise, or a bump,
A drain or a double and Devil care which, Here's the right one to follow, To follow, to follow- The man that's a wizard, the mare that's a witch!
I don't know any tune from any other, I couldn't sing a song if I were paid, I couldn't for the ransom of a brother, Hum a single thing that anybody played. But I know one melody That can stir the heart of me- It's the mad and merry challenge of the horn !
With the chime of hounds that follow, And the cheer and rate and holloa That can shake the very dewdrops from the
thorn!
I couldn't make a fortune with a fiddle, I scarce can sing a psalm-tune in a pew, I couldn't lead a partner 'down the middle' With a more than sporting chance of getting
through. I couldn't for my life Play a cornet or a fife And the flute was never any friend of mine; But I do appreciate When a yokel on a gate Gives a holloa that can hold us to the line!
For everything is music when you hunt, From the guttural ' Gar'r' on there!' of the Whip
To the' Tally-ho !' of some one up in front Or the holloa of a herdsman in the dip; The crash of post and rail In a sort of running scale, The thunder as the gallopers go by, The ringing' For'ard on ! ' That is swallowed up anon In the chorus of the pack against the sky !
So let others swear by Melba if they will, By Crossley, Tetrazzini, and the rest; I 'll be happy if I hear upon the hill The voices of the ladies I love best- The voices of a pack Running hot upon his track, And the cheer of one that saw the way he went!
When they hustle him along Is there any grander song Than the song of sixteen couple on a scent?
The
rain-sodden grass in the ditches is dying, The berries
are red to the crest of the thorn ; Coronet-deep
where the beech leaves are lying The hunters
stand tense to the twang of the horn ; Where rides
are re-filled with the green of the mosses, All
foam-flecked and fretful their long line is strung, You can see
the white gleam as a starred forehead tosses,
You can hear
the low chink as a bit-bar is flung.
The world's
full of music. Hounds rustle the rover Through
brushwood and fern to a glad 'Gone away!' With a
'Come along, Pilot! '-one spur-touch
and over- The huntsman
is clear on his galloping grey; Before him the
pack's running straight on the stubble- Toot-toot-too-too-too-oot ! ,_,
Tow-row-ow-ow-ow ! ' The leaders
are clambering up through the double And glittering
away on the brown of the plough.
The front
rank, hands down, have the big fence's measure; The faint
hearts are craning to left and to right; The Master
goes through with a crash on TheTreasure, The grey takes
the lot like a gull in his flight. There's a
brown crumpled up, lying still as a dead
one. There 's a
roan mare refusing, as stubborn as sin, While the
breaker flogs up on a green underbred one And smashes
the far-away rail with a grin.
The chase
carries on over hilltop and hollow, The life of
Old England, the pluck and the fun; And who would
ask more than a stiff line to follow With hounds
running hard in the Opening Run?
Time was when the sportsman, with chivalrous care,
Would find a safe line for his follower fair,
And clearing the double stiff-planted and strong
, Would turn in his saddle to cheer her along.
But now we've for pilot a damsel astride On a stud-book and blood one, determined to ride,
With an eye for a country and vowed to the van;
And the slow ones may keep her in sight if they
can.
As she lashes along in the wake of the pack Not a man need expect her to pause or look back,
And the laggards who ride on her resolute trail
Need not wait for her cheer over bullfinch or
rail.
To those who may follow not hers to give heed
So long as no rival shall challenge her lead!
If she levels a gap, if she smashes a bar, They may take it or leave it, whoever they
are.
As she rips at her fences our ears she may shock
With the' Damn you, come up !' of the steeplechase jock;
Should we choose her picked panel, avoiding a worse,
We may find ourselves warned with a suitable
curse.
Yet later, at tea, she's all glamour and charm,
Low-voiced, with a laughter and smile that disarm ;
And, witched by her grace, we forget what we heard,
While we only remember she went like a bird.
We have hustled that litter in Heatherlie Whin,
Two crouch in the bracken, two dodge in the corn,
But the fifth one as swift as the shadow of sin
Was away when he heard the first note of the horn.
He skimmed the broad meadow in front of us all
With his brush in the air and his mask to the moor,
Looking back with a grin from the top of the wall
Ere he dropped to the heather cool, safe, and secure.
His brothers and sisters will fall by the way;
They'll be harried and headed and chopped in a ride;
But this one will live for a galloping day And lead us and pound us and scatter us wide.
Let him travel! – a good one. We’ll meet him
again When the fields in the dusk of December are
dressed; We shall need all our courage to follow him
then, When he steals o’er the open, a fox of the
best.
Now, gatherin' 'ounds is a job I like W'en the winter day draws in, W'en shadows are lyin' by every dyke An' creepin' out o' the whin ; W'en 'Armony 's missin' an' Houtcast too, An' the Master 'e says to me- 'Jim, you go back to that gorse we drew, For it's there them beggars 'll be ! '
Oh, gatherin' 'ounds is the job I love, W'en the dark comes down on the thorn An' the moon is 'ung in the sky above Like a glitterin' 'untin' 'orn W'en I ride the banks like a glidin' ghost An' the dips like a witch o' fear- This is the job wot I loves the most In the darkest days o' the year.
Though it's me that knows that the cunnin' old rags
Will be 'alfway 'ome by now, 0' course if you're sent for a 'ound wot lags
You must do as you're ordered 'ow; An' it's allus the custom, so I've found, With a pack worth callin' a pack That a Whip goes back for the missin' 'ound- An' it's mostly me goes back!
Though I know the beggars is runnin' the road
On a breast-high scent o' soup, Will I use my brains ? - No, I 'll be blowed If I 'd ever so 'umble stoop; If they think that a fox'ound don't have wits,
Let 'em think so, then, I say! Some folk must gather up sense by bits As a fed 'oss gathers 'is 'ay.
No, I don't 'alf mind keepin' long late hours,
For it's all in the day for me, An' I know there's a glass to be 'ad at the Towers,
An' there's Oakwood Farm for tea, With a pail o' gruel all mixed, I guess, An' a stall that the old 'oss knows, An' a seat by the kitchen fire wi' Bess W'en the cook an' the 'ousemaid goes!
An' that's wy I ride so cheery back W'en the Master says to me - 'Jim ' - wi' 'is keen heye hover the pack - ,
I am two' ounds short, or three.' An' that's wy I 'm Houtcast's honly friend An' 'Armony's life-long pal, Because if they kept wi' the pack to the end,
Well - 'ow would I see my gal?
The last red rose on the arch has faded, The border has mourned for its last white flower;
The dahlias droop where the frost has raided,
The grass is wet with an autumn shower; Dull are the paths with their leaf-strewn gravel,
Cold is the wind as it wanders by, Still there's a path that a man can travel ' Happy at heart though the roses die.
The path to the stable!- Though summer be ended,
Though down through the garden no bird be astir,
This path has new melodies tunefully blended-
The flick of a whip with the clink of a spur!
So-on through the yew-trees where shadows strike
chiller, Across the paved courtyard, at last to the stall
Where, pawing in eagerness, chained on the pillar
Stands, champing his bit-bars, the Pearl of them All !
The ringing, hanging hen-roost thief-we have no use for
him; When they tear him up and eat him not a single eye grows
dim; But when a straight-necked traveller goes gallantly
away We grieve not if we lose him, for he'll run some other
day.
The loafing, skirting, loud-mouthed hound that hangs
about your horse The while his bolder comrades gather thorn-wounds in the
gorse- We care not if he stops a kick or ties himself in wire,
The leader running straight and true's the hound of our
desire.
Give me the fox that holds his point though fools and
fate combine, Give me the hound that follows him with nose upon the
line, The horse that never turns his head at fence or five-
barred gate, The man who has the needful nerve to cross a country
straight!
And in the larger field of life let skirters stand
aside, Make way for those who want to work and those who dare
to ride! The only one who's worth a place to risk a fall with
fate Is he who steels his gallant heart and rides his country
straight.
The real ones, the right ones, the straight ones and the
true, The pukka, peerless sportsmen-their numbers are but few;
The men who keep on playing though the sun be in
eclipse, The men who go on losing with a laugh upon their lips.
The men who care but little for the laurels of renown;
The men who turn their horses back to help the man
that's down; The fearless and the friendly ones, the courtly and the
kind; The men whose lion courage is with gentleness combined.
My notion of a sportsman ? - I 'll try, then, to define. For preference well bred, of course, of some clean-
living line; With pride of place and ancestry whose service was the
King's; With all a noble knight's contempt for low, left- handed
things.
Not the ‘good sport' who burdens us with cheap and
futile chat Of the 'pedigree' of this one and the ‘outside chance'
of that, But a man who loves good horses just to handle them and
ride Where the fences call to valour and the English grass
lies wide.
All the best and truest sportsmen I have lived with and
have known Have a changeless faith within them which their simple
hearts enthrone, Believing in the God that made the green fields passing
fair, The God that gave good courage - and to every man his
share.
And all the truest sportsmen I have met have had this
gift: A love of all the classic books that lighten and uplift;
And all have loved red woodlands, swift birds and
coloured flowers; And all have played with children and counted not the
hours.
And I think when God has gathered all the men that He
has made, The perfect British sportsman may stand forward
unafraid; For, brave and kind and courtly, and clean of heart and
hand, No life than his seems nearer to the life our Maker
planned.
He asks no favour from the
Field, no forward place demands Save what he claims by fearless heart and
light and dainty hands; No man need make a way for him at ditch or gap or
gate, He rides on level terms with all, if not at equal weight
His
eyes are somewhat dimmer than they were in days of yore, A blind fence now
might trap him where it never trapped before; But when the rails stand clean
and high, the walls stand big and bare, There's no man rides so boldly as
there's no man rides so fair.
There is no other in the Field so truly
loved as he; We better like to see him out than any younger three; And yet
one horseman day by day rides jealous at his rein Old Time that smarts
beneath the whip of fifty years' disdain.
He crowds him at his fences,
for he envies his renown; Some day he'll Cross him at a leap and bring a good
man down, And Time will take a long revenge for years of laughing
scorn, And fold the faded scarlet that was ne'er more nobly
worn.
Here's luck! Oh! good, grey sportsman! May Time be long
defied By careful seat and Cunning hand and health and heart to ride, And
when that direful day be come that surely shall befall, We'll know you still
unbeaten, save by Time that beats us all!
Old man, by your broad contented
grin And the gleam in your quiet
eyes, You are back with 'Jorrocks' and
'Binjimin' In the land where the good fun
lies; You are riding where rifles reach
you not On a line both safe and
sure From the meet at the 'Cat and
Custard Pot' To the kill on
Wandermoor.
In vain do the cannon of memory
call From the Flanders fields
forlorn, When you hear by the stacks of
Barley Hall The twang of the ''ard un's'
horn; And little you reck of a broken
thigh And a bandaged arm to
boot, When the old comedian canters
by On his 'henterpriseless
brute.'
For, back to you comes each sound
and sight At a touch of the magic
pen, Till you take your place in the
old first flight, With a lead on the grass
again, And Surtees, the sage with the
jester's art, Would be proud had he lived to
know He had brightened an hour for your
gallant heart With the ring of his
"Tally-ho!"
Thrusters are steadying; hounds at a loss, Checked at the stile leading into the lane, Feel for it forward and feather across, Keen to recover their quarry again. Horsemen sit silently watching the pack; Nothing is heard but the clinking of steel, Then a low whimper--one hound running back- ‘ 'War' heel, there! 'War' heel!'
Life's but a heart-stirring hunt at the best.
Checked by old memories, bid them begone! Fling to the front with a laugh and a jest, All that you seek for is for'ard and on ! Never look backward and never repine, Keep with the pack as they scatter and wheel,
Turn from the years that have trampled the line!
' 'War' heel, there! 'War' heel!'
Witchery knows what it means When the oats and the barley, the wheat and the beans,
Have been built into stacks and the stubbles are bare;
When the woodlands are flaming in russet and rose,
When there's rime on the grass and a nip in the air,
Witchery knows!
Witchery knows very well When the gorse-tops are shaking down there in the dell,
And a Whip like a statue waits under a tree, That the moment has come to be up on her toes
And reaching her lean little head to her knee-
Witchery knows!
Witchery knows how to creep When the banks are still blind and the ditches are deep,
When a double looms up scarce a cat could get through,
While his true tongue beyond it old Ruffian throws,
Little Witchery knows how to take it in two- Witchery knows!
Witchery knows how to race When the hard-riding leaders are cramming on pace
And the dog-hounds are lifting it over the plough;
She hears the glad horn and the challenge it blows,
And she knows how to answer that merry tow-row-
Witchery knows!
Witchery knows the whole game From the find of a fox to the death of the same;
And she knows when the woods in full splendour are
dressed, And the berries hang black where the elder-bush grows,
That it's time for a good mare to gallop her best-
Witchery knows !
Always our fathers were hunters, lords of the pitiless
spear, Chasing in English woodlands the wild white ox and the
deer, Feeling the edge of their knife-blades, trying the pull
of their bows, At a sudden foot in the forest thrilling to ' Yonder
he goes ! '
Safe for the space of a summer the cubs may tumble and
play, Boldly from April to August the dog-fox chooses his
way; But soon as the beech leaf reddens, soon as the chill
wind blows, He must steal, cat-foot, listening, ready for' Yonder
he goes ! '
The sound of a horn in the bracken, the sound of a cheer
in the ride; Fourteen couple running for blood as though to the I
brush of him tied! Fourteen couple screaming for blood, and every hound of
them knows This is his right from the ages - the heart-stirring ‘
Yonder he goes!'
Not for the lust of killing, not for the places of
pride, Not for the hate of the hunted we English saddle and
ride, But because in the gift of our fathers the blood in our
veins that flows Must answer for ever and ever the challenge of
‘Yonder he goes !’
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