The horse is bedded downWhere the straw lies deep.The hound is in the kennel;Let the poor hound sleep!And the fox is in the spinneyBy the run which he is haunting,And I’ll lay an even guineaThat a goose or two is wantingWhen the farmer comes to count them in the morning.
The horse is up and saddled;Girth the old horse tight!The hounds are out and drawingIn the morning light.Now it’s ‘Yoick!’ among the heather,And it’s ‘Yoick!’ across the clover,And it’s ‘To him, all together!’‘Hyke a Bertha! Hyke a Rover!’And the woodlands smell so sweetly in the morning.
‘There’s Termagant a-whimpering;She whimpers so.’‘There’s a young hound yapping!’Let the young hound go!But the old hound is cunning,And it’s him we mean to follow,‘They are running! They are running!And it’s ‘Forrard to the hollo!’For the scent is lying strongly in the morning.
‘Who’s the fool that heads him?’Hold hard, and let him pass!He’s out among the oziersHe’s clear upon the grass.You grip his flanks and settle,For the horse is stretched and straining,Here’s a game to test your mettle,And a sport to try your training,When the Chiddingfolds are running in the morning.
We’re up by the CoppiceAnd we’re down by the Mill,We’re out upon the Common,And the hounds are running still.You must tighten on the leather,For we blunder through the bracken;Though you’re over hocks in heatherStill the pace must never slackenAs we race through Thursley Common in the morning.
We are breaking from the tangleWe are out upon the green,There’s a bank and a hurdleWith a quickset between.You must steady him and try it,You are over with a scramble.Here’s a wattle! You must fly it,And you land among the bramble,For it’s roughish, toughish going in the morning.
’Ware the bog by the GroveAs you pound through the slush.See the whip! See the huntsman!We are close upon his brush.’Ware the root that lies before you!It will trip you if you blunder.’Ware the branch that’s drooping o’er you!You must dip and swerve from underAs you gallop through the woodland in the morning.
There were fifty at the find,There were forty at the mill,There were twenty on the heath,And ten are going still.Some are pounded, some are shirking,And they dwindle and diminishTill a weary pair are working,Spent and blowing, to the finish,And we hear the shrill whoo-ooping in the morning.
The horse is bedded downWhere the straw lies deep,The hound is in the kennel,He is yapping in his sleep.But the fox is in the spinneyLying snug in earth and burrow.And I’ll lay an even guineaWe could find again to-morrow,If we chose to go a-hunting in the morning.
Put the saddle on the mare,For the wet winds blow;There’s winter in the air,And autumn all below.For the red leaves are flyingAnd the red bracken dying,And the red fox lyingWhere the oziers grow.
Put the bridle on the mare,For my blood runs chill;And my heart, it is there,On the heather-tufted hill,With the gray skies o’er us,And the long-drawn chorusOf a running pack before usFrom the find to the kill.
Then lead round the mare,For it’s time that we began,And away with thought and care,Save to live and be a man,While the keen air is blowing,And the huntsman holloing,And the black mare goingAs the black mare can.
We started from the Valley Pride,And Farnham way we went.We waited at the cover-side,But never found a scent.Then we tried the withy bedsWhich grow by Frensham town,And there we found the old gray fox,The same old fox,The game old fox;Yes, there we found the old gray fox,Which lives on Hankley Down.So here’s to the master,And here’s to the man!And here’s to twenty coupleOf the white and black and tan!Here’s a find without a wait!Here’s a hedge without a gate!Here’s the man who follows straight,Where the old fox ran.
The Member rode his thoroughbred,Doctor had the gray,The Soldier led on a roan red,The Sailor rode the bay.Squire was there on his Irish mare,And Parson on the brown;And so we chased the old gray fox,The same old fox,The game old fox,And so we chased the old gray foxAcross the Hankley Down.So here’s to the master,And here’s to the man!&c. &c. &c.
The Doctor’s gray was going strongUntil she slipped and fell;He had to keep his bed so longHis patients all got well.The Member he had lost his seat,’Twas carried by his horse;And so we chased the old gray fox,The same old fox,The game old fox;And so we chased the old gray foxThat earthed in Hankley Gorse.So here’s to the master,And here’s to the man!&c. &c. &c.
The Parson sadly fell away,And in the furze did lie;The words we heard that Parson sayMade all the horses shy!The Sailor he was seen no moreUpon that stormy bay;But still we chased the old gray fox,The same old fox,The game old fox;Still we chased the old gray foxThrough all the winter day.So here’s to the master,And here’s to the man!&c. &c. &c.
And when we found him gone to ground,They sent for spade and man;But Squire said ‘Shame! The beast was game!A gamer never ran!His wind and pace have gained the race,His life is fairly won.But may we meet the old gray fox,The same old fox,The game old fox;May we meet the old gray foxBefore the year is done.So here’s to the master,And here’s to the man!And here’s to twenty coupleOf the white and black and tan!Here’s a find without await!Here’s a hedge without a gate!Here’s the man who follows straight,Where the old fox ran.
[‘’Ware Holes!’is the expression used in the hunting-field to warn those behind against rabbit-burrows or other such dangers.]
A sportin’ death! My word it was!An’ taken in a sportin’ way.Mind you, I wasn’t there to see;I only tell you what they say.
They found that day at Shillinglee,An’ ran ’im down to Chillinghurst;The fox was goin’ straight an’ freeFor ninety minutes at a burst.
They ’ad a check at EbernoeAn’ made a cast across the Down,Until they got a view ’ulloAn’ chased ’im up to Kirdford town.
From Kirdford ’e run Bramber way,An’ took ’em over ’alf the Weald.If you ’ave tried the Sussex clay,You’ll guess it weeded out the field.
Until at last I don’t supposeAs ’arf a dozen, at the most,Came safe to where the grassland goesSwitchbackin’ southwards to the coast.
Young Captain ’Eadley, ’e was there,And Jim the whip an’ Percy Day;The Purcells an’ Sir Charles Adair,An’ this ’ere gent from London way.
For ’e ’ad gone amazin’ fine,Two ’undred pounds between ’is knees;Eight stone he was, an’ rode at nine,As light an’ limber as you please.
’E was a stranger to the ’Unt,There weren’t a person as ’e knew there;But ’e could ride, that London gent—’E sat ’is mare as if ’e grew there.
They seed the ’ounds upon the scent,But found a fence across their track,And ’ad to fly it; else it meantA turnin’ and a ’arkin’ back.
’E was the foremost at the fence,And as ’is mare just cleared the railHe turned to them that rode be’ind,For three was at ’is very tail.
‘’Ware ’oles!’ says ’e, an’ with the word,Still sittin’ easy on his mare,Down, down ’e went, an’ down an’ down,Into the quarry yawnin’ there.
Some say it was two ’undred foot;The bottom lay as black as ink.I guess they ’ad some ugly dreams,Who reined their ’orses on the brink.
’E’d only time for that one cry;‘’Ware ’oles!’ says ’e, an’ saves all three.There may be better deaths to die,But that one’s good enough for me.
For mind you, ’twas a sportin’ end,Upon a right good sportin’ day;They think a deal of ’im down ’ere,That gent what came from London way.
[Lost, with her crew of three hundred boys, on the last day of her voyage,March23, 1876.She foundered off Portsmouth,from which town many of the boys came.]
Up with the royals that top the white spread of her!Press her and dress her, and drive through the foam;The Island’s to port, and the mainland ahead of her,Hey for the Warner and Hayling and Home!
Bo’sun, O Bo’sun, just look at the green of it!Look at the red cattle down by the hedge!Look at the farmsteading—all that is seen of it,One little gable end over the edge!’
‘Lord! the tongues of them clattering, clattering,All growing wild at a peep of the Wight;Aye, sir, aye, it has set them all chattering,Thinking of home and their mothers to-night.’
Spread the topgallants—oh, lay them out lustily!What though it darken o’er Netherby Combe?’Tis but the valley wind, puffing so gustily—On for the Warner and Hayling and Home!
‘Bo’sun, O Bo’sun, just see the long slope of it!Culver is there, with the cliff and the light.Tell us, oh tell us, now is there a hope of it?Shall we have leave for our homes for to-night?’
‘Tut, the clack of them! Steadily! Steadily!Aye, as you say, sir, they’re little ones still;One long reach should open it readily,Round by St. Helens and under the hill.
‘The Spit and the Nab are the gates of the promise,Their mothers to them—and to us it’s our wives.I’ve sailed forty years, and—By God it’s upon us!Down royals, Down top’sles, down, down, for your lives!’
A grey swirl of snow with the squall at the back of it,Heeling her, reeling her, beating her down!A gleam of her bends in the thick of the wrack of it,A flutter of white in the eddies of brown.
It broke in one moment of blizzard and blindness;The next, like a foul bat, it flapped on its way.But our ship and our boys! Gracious Lord, in your kindness,Give help to the mothers who need it to-day!
Give help to the women who wait by the water,Who stand on the Hard with their eyes past the Wight.Ah! whisper it gently, you sister or daughter,‘Our boys are all gathered at home for to-night.’
It is mine—the little chamber,Mine alone.I had it from my forbearsYears agone.Yet within its walls I seeA most motley company,And they one and all claim meAs their own.
There’s one who is a soldierBluff and keen;Single-minded, heavy-fisted,Rude of mien.He would gain a purse or stake it,He would win a heart or break it,He would give a life or take it,Conscience-clean.
And near him is a priestStill schism-whole;He loves the censer-reekAnd organ-roll.He has leanings to the mystic,Sacramental, eucharistic;And dim yearnings altruisticThrill his soul.
There’s another who with doubtsIs overcast;I think him younger brotherTo the last.Walking wary stride by stride,Peering forwards anxious-eyed,Since he learned to doubt his guideIn the past.
And ’mid them all, alert,But somewhat cowed,There sits a stark-faced fellow,Beetle-browed,Whose black soul shrinks awayFrom a lawyer-ridden day,And has thoughts he dare not sayHalf avowed.
There are others who are sitting,Grim as doom,In the dim ill-boding shadowOf my room.Darkling figures, stern or quaint,Now a savage, now a saint,Showing fitfully and faintThrough the gloom.
And those shadows are so dense,There may beMany—very many—moreThan I see.They are sitting day and nightSoldier, rogue, and anchorite;And they wrangle and they fightOver me.
If the stark-faced fellow win,All is o’er!If the priest should gain his willI doubt no more!But if each shall have his day,I shall swing and I shall swayIn the same old weary wayAs before.
Said the king to the colonel,‘The complaints are eternal,That you Irish give more troubleThan any other corps.’
Said the colonel to the king,‘This complaint is no new thing,For your foemen, sire, have made itA hundred times before.’
Little boy Love drew his bow at a chance,Shooting down at the ballroom floor;He hit an old chaperone watching the dance,And oh! but he wounded her sore.‘Hey, Love, you couldn’t mean that!Hi, Love, what would you be at?’No word would he say,But he flew on his way,For the little boy’s busy, and how could he stay?
Little boy Love drew a shaft just for sportAt the soberest club in Pall Mall;He winged an old veteran drinking his port,And down that old veteran fell.‘Hey, Love, you mustn’t do that!Hi, Love, what would you be at?This cannot be right!It’s ludicrous quite!’But it’s no use to argue, for Love’s out of sight.
A sad-faced young clerk in a cell all apartWas planning a celibate vow;But the boy’s random arrow has sunk in his heart,And the cell is an empty one now.‘Hey, Love, you mustn’t do that!Hi, Love, what would you be at?He is not for you,He has duties to do.’‘But Iamhis duty,’ quoth Love as he flew.
The king sought a bride, and the nation had hopedFor a queen without rival or peer.But the little boy shot, and the king has elopedWith Miss No-one on Nothing a year.‘Hey, Love, you couldn’t mean that!Hi, Love, what would you be at?What an impudent thingTo make game of a king!’‘ButI’ma king also,’ cried Love on the wing.
Little boy Love grew pettish one day;‘If you keep on complaining,’ he swore,‘I’ll pack both my bow and my quiver away,And so I shall plague you no more.’‘Hey, Love, you mustn’t do that!Hi, Love, what would you be at?You may ruin our ease,You may do what you please,But we can’t do without you, you dear little tease!’
The cheese-mites asked how the cheese got there,And warmly debated the matter;The Orthodox said that it came from the air,And the Heretics said from the platter.They argued it long and they argued it strong,And I hear they are arguing now;But of all the choice spirits who lived in the cheese,Not one of them thought of a cow,
Who’s that walking on the moorland?Who’s that moving on the hill?They are passing ’mid the bracken,But the shadows grow and blackenAnd I cannot see them clearly on the hill.
Who’s that calling on the moorland?Who’s that crying on the hill?Was it bird or was it human,Was it child, or man, or woman,Who was calling so sadly on the hill?
Who’s that running on the moorland?Who’s that flying on the hill?He is there—and there again,But you cannot see him plain,For the shadow lies so darkly on the hill.
What’s that lying in the heather?What’s that lurking on the hill?My horse will go no nearer,And I cannot see it clearer,But there’s something that is lying on the hill.
It was the hour of dawn,When the heart beats thin and small,The window glimmered grey,Framed in a shadow wall.
And in the cold sad lightOf the early morningtide,The dear dead girl came backAnd stood by his bedside.
The girl he lost came back:He saw her flowing hair;It flickered and it wavedLike a breath in frosty air.
As in a steamy glass,Her face was dim and blurred;Her voice was sweet and thin,Like the calling of a bird.
‘You said that you would come,You promised not to stay;And I have waited here,To help you on the way.
‘I have waited on,But still you bide below;You said that you would come,And oh, I want you so!
‘For half my soul is here,And half my soul is there,When you are on the earthAnd I am in the air.
‘But on your dressing-standThere lies a triple key;Unlock the little gateWhich fences you from me.
‘Just one little pang,Just one throb of pain,And then your weary headBetween my breasts again.’
In the dim unhomely lightOf the early morningtide,He took the triple keyAnd he laid it by his side.
A pistol, silver chased,An open hunting knife,A phial of the drugWhich cures the ill of life.
He looked upon the three,And sharply drew his breath:‘Now help me, oh my love,For I fear this cold grey death.’
She bent her face above,She kissed him and she smiled;She soothed him as a motherMay sooth a frightened child.
‘Just that little pang, love,Just a throb of pain,And then your weary headBetween my breasts again.’
He snatched the pistol up,He pressed it to his ear;But a sudden sound broke in,And his skin was raw with fear.
He took the hunting knife,He tried to raise the blade;It glimmered cold and white,And he was sore afraid.
He poured the potion out,But it was thick and brown;His throat was sealed against it,And he could not drain it down.
He looked to her for help,And when he looked—behold!His love was there before himAs in the days of old.
He saw the drooping head,He saw the gentle eyes;He saw the same shy grace of hersHe had been wont to prize.
She pointed and she smiled,And lo! he was awareOf a half-lit bedroom chamberAnd a silent figure there.
A silent figure lyingA-sprawl upon a bed,With a silver-mounted pistolStill clotted to his head.
And as he downward gazed,Her voice came full and clear,The homely tender voiceWhich he had loved to hear:
‘The key is very certain,The door is sealed to none.You did it, oh, my darling!And you never knew it done.
‘When the net was broken,You thought you felt its mesh;You carried to the spiritThe troubles of the flesh.
‘And are you trembling still, dear?Then let me take your hand;And I will lead you outwardTo a sweet and restful land.
‘You know how once in LondonI put my griefs on you;But I can carry yours now—Most sweet it is to do!
‘Most sweet it is to do, love,And very sweet to planHow I, the helpless woman,Can help the helpful man.
‘But let me see you smilingWith the smile I know so well;Forget the world of shadows,And the empty broken shell.
‘It is the worn-out garmentIn which you tore a rent;You tossed it down, and carelesslyUpon your way you went.
‘It is notyou, my sweetheart,For you are here with me.That frame was but the promise ofThe thing that was to be—
‘A tuning of the choirEre the harmonies begin;And yet it is the imageOf the subtle thing within.
‘There’s not a trick of body,There’s not a trait of mind,But you bring it over with you,Ethereal, refined,
‘But still the same; for surelyIf we alter as we die,You would be you no longer,And I would not be I.
‘I might be an angel,But not the girl you knew;You might be immaculate,But that would not be you.
‘And now I see you smiling,So, darling, take my hand;And I will lead you outwardTo a sweet and pleasant land,
‘Where thought is clear and nimble,Where life is pure and fresh,Where the soul comes back rejoicingFrom the mud-bath of the flesh
‘But still that soul is human,With human ways, and soI love my love in spirit,As I loved him long ago.’
So with hands togetherAnd fingers twining tight,The two dead lovers driftedIn the golden morning light.
But a grey-haired man was lyingBeneath them on a bed,With a silver-mounted pistolStill clotted to his head.
The franklin he hath gone to roam,The franklin’s maid she bides at home;But she is cold, and coy, and staid,And who may win the franklin’s maid?
There came a knight of high renownIn bassinet and ciclatoun;On bended knee full long he prayed—He might not win the franklin’s maid.
There came a squire so debonair,His dress was rich, his words were fair.He sweetly sang, he deftly played—He could not win the franklin’s maid.
There came a mercer wonder-fine,With velvet cap and gaberdine;For all his ships, for all his trade,He could not buy the franklin’s maid.
There came an archer bold and true,With bracer guard and stave of yew;His purse was light, his jerkin frayed—Haro, alas! the franklin’s maid!
Oh, some have laughed and some have cried,And some have scoured the countryside;But off they ride through wood and glade,The bowman and the franklin’s maid.
There’s a keen and grim old huntsmanOn a horse as white as snow;Sometimes he is very swiftAnd sometimes he is slow.But he never is at fault,For he always hunts at viewAnd he rides without a haltAfter you.
The huntsman’s name is Death,His horse’s name is Time;He is coming, he is comingAs I sit and write this rhyme;He is coming, he is coming,As you read the rhyme I write;You can hear the hoofs’ low drummingDay and night.
You can hear the distant drummingAs the clock goes tick-a-tack,And the chiming of the hoursIs the music of his pack.You may hardly note their growlingUnderneath the noonday sun,But at night you hear them howlingAs they run.
And they never check or falterFor they never miss their kill;Seasons change and systems alter,But the hunt is running still.Hark! the evening chime is playing,O’er the long grey town it peals;Don’t you hear the death-hound bayingAt your heels?
Where is there an earth or burrow?Where a cover left for you?A year, a week, perhaps to-morrowBrings the Huntsman’s death halloo!Day by day he gains upon us,And the most that we can claimIs that when the hounds are on usWe die game.
And somewhere dwells the Master,By whom it was decreed;He sent the savage huntsman,He bred the snow-white steed.These hounds which run for ever,He set them on your track;He hears you scream, but neverCalls them back.
He does not heed our suing,We never see his face;He hunts to our undoing,We thank him for the chase.We thank him and we flatter,We hope—because we must—But have we cause? No matter!Let us trust!
PRINTED BYSPOTTISWOODE SALLANTYNE AND CO., LTD., LONDONCOLCHESTER AND ETON