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diff --git a/4295-h/4295-h.htm b/4295-h/4295-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..dfb8a1d --- /dev/null +++ b/4295-h/4295-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,3069 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" +"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=utf-8" /> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Songs of Action, by A. Conan Doyle</title> + <style type="text/css"> + + P { margin-top: .75em; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + P.gutsumm { margin-left: 5%;} + P.poetry {margin-left: 3%; } + .GutSmall { font-size: 0.7em; } + H1, H2 { + text-align: center; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + } + H3, H4, H5 { + text-align: center; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; + } + BODY{margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + table { border-collapse: collapse; } +table {margin-left:auto; margin-right:auto;} + td { vertical-align: top; border: 1px solid black;} + td p { margin: 0.2em; } + .blkquot {margin-left: 4em; margin-right: 4em;} /* block indent */ + + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + + .pagenum {position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: small; + text-align: right; + font-weight: normal; + color: gray; + } + img { border: none; } + img.dc { float: left; width: 50px; height: 50px; } + p.gutindent { margin-left: 2em; } + div.gapspace { height: 0.8em; } + div.gapline { height: 0.8em; width: 100%; border-top: 1px solid;} + div.gapmediumline { height: 0.3em; width: 40%; margin-left:30%; + border-top: 1px solid; } + div.gapmediumdoubleline { height: 0.3em; width: 40%; margin-left:30%; + border-top: 1px solid; border-bottom: 1px solid;} + div.gapshortdoubleline { height: 0.3em; width: 20%; + margin-left: 40%; border-top: 1px solid; + border-bottom: 1px solid; } + div.gapdoubleline { height: 0.3em; width: 50%; + margin-left: 25%; border-top: 1px solid; + border-bottom: 1px solid;} + div.gapshortline { height: 0.3em; width: 20%; margin-left:40%; + border-top: 1px solid; } + .citation {vertical-align: super; + font-size: .8em; + text-decoration: none;} + img.floatleft { float: left; + margin-right: 1em; + margin-top: 0.5em; margin-bottom: 0.5em; } + img.floatright { float: right; + margin-left: 1em; margin-top: 0.5em; + margin-bottom: 0.5em; } + img.clearcenter {display: block; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0.5em; + margin-bottom: 0.5em} + + </style> +</head> +<body> + +<div style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Songs of Action, by A. Conan Doyle</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online +at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you +are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the +country where you are located before using this eBook. +</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Songs of Action</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: A. Conan Doyle</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: December 31, 2001 [eBook #4295]<br /> +[Most recently updated: July 22, 2021]</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: David Price</div> +<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SONGS OF ACTION ***</div> + +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/coverb.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Book Cover" +title= +"Book Cover" +src="images/covers.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<h1>SONGS OF ACTION</h1> +<p style="text-align: center">BY A. CONAN DOYLE</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">AUTHOR OF +‘MICAH CLARKE’ ‘THE WHITE +COMPANY’</span><br /> +<span class="GutSmall">‘RODNEY STONE’ ‘UNCLE +BERNAC’ ETC.</span></p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>SEVENTH IMPRESSION</i></p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center">LONDON<br /> +JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET, W.<br /> +1916</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center">[All rights reserved]</p> +<h2><a name="pagevii"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +vii</span>CONTENTS</h2> +<table> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Song of the Bow</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page1">1</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Cremona</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page4">4</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Storming Party</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page13">13</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Frontier Line</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page18">18</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Corporal Dick’s +Promotion</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page21">21</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">A Forgotten Tale</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page28">28</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Pennarby Mine</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page31">31</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">A Rover Chanty</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page35">35</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">A Ballad of the Ranks</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page40">40</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">A Lay of the Links</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page46">46</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Dying Whip</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page49">49</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Master</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page61">61</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">H.M.S. +‘Foudroyant’</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page63">63</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Farnshire Cup</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page67">67</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Groom’s Story</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page77">77</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><a name="pageviii"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +viii</span><span class="smcap">With the Chiddingfolds</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page88">88</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">A Hunting Morning</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page91">91</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Old Gray Fox</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page96">96</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">’Ware Holes</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page101">101</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Home-coming of the +‘Eurydice’</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page105">105</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Inner Room</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page109">109</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Irish Colonel</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page114">114</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Blind Archer</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page115">115</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">A Parable</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page118">118</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">A Tragedy</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page119">119</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Passing</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page121">121</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Franklin’s Maid</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page131">131</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Old Huntsman</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page133">133</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +</table> +<h2><a name="page1"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 1</span>THE SONG +OF THE BOW</h2> +<p class="poetry">What of the bow?<br /> + The bow was made in England:<br /> +Of true wood, of yew-wood,<br /> + The wood of English bows;<br /> + So men who are free<br /> + Love the old yew-tree<br /> +And the land where the yew-tree grows.</p> +<p class="poetry">What of the cord?<br /> + The cord was made in England:<br /> +A rough cord, a tough cord,<br /> + A cord that bowmen love;<br /> + <a name="page2"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 2</span>And so we will sing<br /> + Of the hempen string<br /> +And the land where the cord was wove.</p> +<p class="poetry">What of the shaft?<br /> + The shaft was cut in England:<br /> +A long shaft, a strong shaft,<br /> + Barbed and trim and true;<br /> + So we’ll drink all +together<br /> + To the grey goose-feather<br /> +And the land where the grey goose flew.</p> +<p class="poetry">What of the mark?<br /> + Ah, seek it not in England,<br /> +A bold mark, our old mark<br /> + Is waiting over-sea.<br /> + When the strings harp in +chorus,<br /> + And the lion flag is o’er +us,<br /> +It is there that our mark will be.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page3"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +3</span>What of the men?<br /> + The men were bred in England:<br /> +The bowmen—the yeomen,<br /> + The lads of dale and fell.<br /> + Here’s to you—and to +you!<br /> + To the hearts that are true<br /> +And the land where the true hearts dwell.</p> +<h2><a name="page4"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +4</span>CREMONA</h2> +<p>[The French Army, including a part of the Irish Brigade, under +Marshal Villeroy, held the fortified town of Cremona during the +winter of 1702. Prince Eugène, with the Imperial +Army, surprised it one morning, and, owing to the treachery of a +priest, occupied the whole city before the alarm was given. +Villeroy was captured, together with many of the French +garrison. The Irish, however, consisting of the regiments +of Dillon and of Burke, held a fort commanding the river gate, +and defended themselves all day, in spite of Prince +Eugène’s efforts to win them over to his +cause. Eventually Eugène, being unable to take the +post, was compelled to withdraw from the city.]</p> +<p class="poetry">The Grenadiers of Austria are proper men and +tall;<br /> +The Grenadiers of Austria have scaled the city wall;<br /> + They have marched from far away<br /> + Ere the dawning of the day,<br /> +And the morning saw them masters of Cremona.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page5"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +5</span>There’s not a man to whisper, there’s not a +horse to neigh;<br /> +Of the footmen of Lorraine and the riders of Duprés,<br /> + They have crept up every street,<br /> + In the market-place they meet,<br /> +They are holding every vantage in Cremona.</p> +<p class="poetry">The Marshal Villeroy he has started from his +bed;<br /> +The Marshal Villeroy has no wig upon his head;<br /> + ‘I have lost my men!’ quoth he,<br /> + ‘And my men they have lost me,<br /> +And I sorely fear we both have lost Cremona.’</p> +<p class="poetry">Prince Eugène of Austria is in the +market-place;<br /> +Prince Eugène of Austria has smiles upon his face;<br /> + <a name="page6"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +6</span>Says he, ‘Our work is done,<br /> + For the Citadel is won,<br /> +And the black and yellow flag flies o’er +Cremona.’</p> +<p class="poetry">Major Dan O’Mahony is in the barrack +square,<br /> +And just six hundred Irish lads are waiting for him there;<br /> + Says he, ‘Come in your shirt,<br /> + And you won’t take any hurt,<br /> +For the morning air is pleasant in Cremona.’</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page7"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +7</span>Major Dan O’Mahony is at the barrack gate,<br /> +And just six hundred Irish lads will neither stay nor wait;<br /> + There’s Dillon and there’s Burke,<br /> + And there’ll be some bloody work<br /> +Ere the Kaiserlics shall boast they hold Cremona.</p> +<p class="poetry">Major Dan O’Mahony has reached the river +fort,<br /> +And just six hundred Irish lads are joining in the sport;<br /> + ‘Come, take a hand!’ says he,<br /> + ‘And if you will stand by me,<br /> +Then it’s glory to the man who takes Cremona!’</p> +<p class="poetry">Prince Eugène of Austria has frowns upon +his face,<br /> +And loud he calls his Galloper of Irish blood and race:<br /> + ‘MacDonnell, ride, I pray,<br /> + To your countrymen, and say<br /> +That only they are left in all Cremona!’</p> +<p class="poetry">MacDonnell he has reined his mare beside the +river dyke,<br /> +And he has tied the parley flag upon a sergeant’s pike;<br +/> + <a name="page8"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +8</span>Six companies were there<br /> + From Limerick and Clare,<br /> +The last of all the guardians of Cremona.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Now, Major Dan O’Mahony, give up +the river gate,<br /> +Or, Major Dan O’Mahony, you’ll find it is too +late;<br /> + For when I gallop back<br /> + ’Tis the signal for attack,<br /> +And no quarter for the Irish in Cremona!’</p> +<p class="poetry">And Major Dan he laughed: ‘Faith, if what +you say be true,<br /> +And if they will not come until they hear again from you,<br /> + Then there will be no attack,<br /> + For you’re never going back,<br /> +And we’ll keep you snug and safely in Cremona.’</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page9"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +9</span>All the weary day the German stormers came,<br /> +All the weary day they were faced by fire and flame,<br /> + They have filled the ditch with dead,<br /> + And the river’s running red;<br /> +But they cannot win the gateway of Cremona.</p> +<p class="poetry">All the weary day, again, again, again,<br /> +The horsemen of Duprés and the footmen of Lorraine,<br /> + Taafe and Herberstein,<br /> + And the riders of the Rhine;<br /> +It’s a mighty price they’re paying for Cremona.</p> +<p class="poetry">Time and time they came with the deep-mouthed +German roar,<br /> +Time and time they broke like the wave upon the shore;<br /> + <a name="page10"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +10</span>For better men were there<br /> + From Limerick and Clare,<br /> +And who will take the gateway of Cremona?</p> +<p class="poetry">Prince Eugène has watched, and he gnaws +his nether lip;<br /> +Prince Eugène has cursed as he saw his chances slip:<br /> + ‘Call off! Call off!’ he cried,<br +/> + ‘It is nearing eventide,<br /> +And I fear our work is finished in Cremona.’</p> +<p class="poetry">Says Wauchop to McAulliffe, ‘Their fire +is growing slack.’<br /> +Says Major Dan O’Mahony, ‘It is their last attack;<br +/> + But who will stop the game<br /> + While there’s light to play the same,<br /> +And to walk a short way with them from Cremona?’</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page11"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +11</span>And so they snarl behind them, and beg them turn and +come,<br /> +They have taken Neuberg’s standard, they have taken +Diak’s drum;<br /> + And along the winding Po,<br /> + Beard on shoulder, stern and slow<br /> +The Kaiserlics are riding from Cremona.</p> +<p class="poetry">Just two hundred Irish lads are shouting on the +wall;<br /> +Four hundred more are lying who can hear no slogan call;<br /> + But what’s the odds of that,<br /> + For it’s all the same to Pat<br /> +If he pays his debt in Dublin or Cremona.</p> +<p class="poetry">Says General de Vaudray, ‘You’ve +done a soldier’s work!<br /> +And every tongue in France shall talk of Dillon and of Burke!<br +/> + <a name="page12"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +12</span>Ask what you will this day,<br /> + And be it what it may,<br /> +It is granted to the heroes of Cremona.’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Why, then,’ says Dan +O’Mahony, ‘one favour we entreat,<br /> +We were called a little early, and our toilet’s not +complete.<br /> + We’ve no quarrel with the shirt,<br /> + But the breeches wouldn’t hurt,<br /> +For the evening air is chilly in Cremona.’</p> +<h2><a name="page13"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 13</span>THE +STORMING PARTY</h2> +<p class="poetry">Said Paul Leroy to Barrow,<br /> +‘Though the breach is steep and narrow,<br /> + If we only gain the summit<br /> + Then it’s odds we hold the +fort.<br /> +I have ten and you have twenty,<br /> +And the thirty should be plenty,<br /> +With Henderson and Henty<br /> + And McDermott in support.’</p> +<p class="poetry">Said Barrow to Leroy,<br /> +‘It’s a solid job, my boy,<br /> + For they’ve flanked it, and they’ve +banked it,<br /> + And they’ve bored it with a +mine.<br /> +<a name="page14"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 14</span>But +it’s only fifty paces<br /> +Ere we look them in the faces;<br /> +And the men are in their places,<br /> + With their toes upon the line.’</p> +<p class="poetry">Said Paul Leroy to Barrow,<br /> +‘See that first ray, like an arrow,<br /> + How it tinges all the fringes<br /> + Of the sullen drifting skies.<br +/> +They told me to begin it<br /> +At five-thirty to the minute,<br /> +And at thirty-one I’m in it,<br /> + Or my sub will get his rise.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘So we’ll wait the signal +rocket,<br /> +Till . . . Barrow, show that locket,<br /> +That turquoise-studded locket,<br /> +Which you slipped from out your pocket<br /> + And are pressing with a kiss!<br +/> + <a name="page15"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +15</span>Turquoise-studded, spiral-twisted,<br /> +It is hers! And I had missed it<br /> +From her chain; and you have kissed it:<br /> + Barrow, villain, what is +this?’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Leroy, I had a warning,<br /> +That my time has come this morning,<br /> +So I speak with frankness, scorning<br /> + To deny the thing that’s true.<br /> +Yes, it’s Amy’s, is the trinket,<br /> +Little turquoise-studded trinket,<br /> +Not her gift—oh, never think it!<br /> + For her thoughts were all for you.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘As we danced I gently drew it<br /> +From her chain—she never knew it<br /> + But I love her—yes, I love her:<br /> + I am candid, I confess.<br /> +<a name="page16"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 16</span>But I +never told her, never,<br /> +For I knew ’twas vain endeavour,<br /> +And she loved you—loved you ever,<br /> + Would to God she loved you less!’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Barrow, Barrow, you shall pay me!<br /> +Me, your comrade, to betray me!<br /> + Well I know that little Amy<br /> + Is as true as wife can be.<br /> +She to give this love-badged locket!<br /> +She had rather . . . Ha, the rocket!<br /> +Hi, McDougall! Sound the bugle!<br /> + Yorkshires, Yorkshires, follow me!’</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry">* * * * *</p> +<p class="poetry">Said Paul Leroy to Amy,<br /> +‘Well, wifie, you may blame me,<br /> +For my passion overcame me,<br /> + When he told me of his shame;<br /> +<a name="page17"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 17</span>But when I +saw him lying,<br /> +Dead amid a ring of dying,<br /> +Why, poor devil, I was trying<br /> + To forget, and not to blame.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘And this locket, I unclasped it<br /> +From the fingers that still grasped it:<br /> +He told me how he got it,<br /> + How he stole it in a valse.’<br /> +And she listened leaden-hearted:<br /> +Oh, the weary day they parted!<br /> +For she loved him—yes, she loved him—<br /> +For his youth and for his truth,<br /> + And for those dying words, so false.</p> +<h2><a name="page18"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 18</span>THE +FRONTIER LINE</h2> +<p class="poetry">What marks the frontier line?<br /> + Thou man of India, say!<br /> +Is it the Himalayas sheer,<br /> +The rocks and valleys of Cashmere,<br /> +Or Indus as she seeks the south<br /> +From Attoch to the fivefold mouth?<br /> + ‘Not that! Not +that!’<br /> + Then answer me, I pray!<br /> +What marks the frontier line?</p> +<p class="poetry">What marks the frontier line?<br /> + Thou man of Burmah, speak!<br /> +Is it traced from Mandalay,<br /> +And down the marches of Cathay,<br /> +<a name="page19"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 19</span>From Bhamo +south to Kiang-mai,<br /> +And where the buried rubies lie?<br /> + ‘Not that! Not +that!’<br /> + Then tell me what I seek:<br /> +What marks the frontier line?</p> +<p class="poetry">What marks the frontier line?<br /> + Thou Africander, say!<br /> +Is it shown by Zulu kraal,<br /> +By Drakensberg or winding Vaal,<br /> +Or where the Shiré waters seek<br /> +Their outlet east at Mozambique?<br /> + ‘Not that! Not +that!<br /> + There is a surer way<br /> +To mark the frontier line.’</p> +<p class="poetry">What marks the frontier line?<br /> + Thou man of Egypt, tell!<br /> +Is it traced on Luxor’s sand,<br /> +Where Karnak’s painted pillars stand,<br /> +<a name="page20"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 20</span>Or where +the river runs between<br /> +The Ethiop and Bishareen?<br /> + ‘Not that! Not +that!<br /> + By neither stream nor well<br /> +We mark the frontier line.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘But be it east or west,<br /> + One common sign we bear,<br /> +The tongue may change, the soil, the sky,<br /> +But where your British brothers lie,<br /> +The lonely cairn, the nameless grave,<br /> +Still fringe the flowing Saxon wave.<br /> + ’Tis that! ’Tis +where<br /> + <i>They</i> lie—the men who placed it +there,<br /> +That marks the frontier line.’</p> +<h2><a name="page21"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +21</span>CORPORAL DICK’S PROMOTION<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">A BALLAD OF ’82</span></h2> +<p class="poetry">The Eastern day was well-nigh o’er<br /> +When, parched with thirst and travel sore,<br /> +Two of McPherson’s flanking corps<br /> + Across the Desert were tramping.<br /> +They had wandered off from the beaten track<br /> +And now were wearily harking back,<br /> +Ever staring round for the signal jack<br /> + That marked their comrades camping.</p> +<p class="poetry">The one was Corporal Robert Dick,<br /> +Bearded and burly, short and thick,<br /> +Rough of speech and in temper quick,<br /> + A hard-faced old rapscallion.<br /> +<a name="page22"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 22</span>The other, +fresh from the barrack square,<br /> +Was a raw recruit, smooth-cheeked and fair<br /> +Half grown, half drilled, with the weedy air<br /> + Of a draft from the home battalion.</p> +<p class="poetry">Weary and parched and hunger-torn,<br /> +They had wandered on from early morn,<br /> +And the young boy-soldier limped forlorn,<br /> + Now stumbling and now falling.<br /> +Around the orange sand-curves lay,<br /> +Flecked with boulders, black or grey,<br /> +Death-silent, save that far away<br /> + A kite was shrilly calling.</p> +<p class="poetry">A kite? Was <i>that</i> a kite? The +yell<br /> +That shrilly rose and faintly fell?<br /> +No kite’s, and yet the kite knows well<br /> + The long-drawn wild halloo.<br /> +<a name="page23"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 23</span>And right +athwart the evening sky<br /> +The yellow sand-spray spurtled high,<br /> +And shrill and shriller swelled the cry<br /> + Of ‘Allah! Allahu!’</p> +<p class="poetry">The Corporal peered at the crimson West,<br /> +Hid his pipe in his khaki vest.<br /> +Growled out an oath and onward pressed,<br /> + Still glancing over his shoulder.<br /> +‘Bedouins, mate!’ he curtly said;<br /> +‘We’ll find some work for steel and lead,<br /> +And maybe sleep in a sandy bed,<br /> + Before we’re one hour older.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘But just one flutter before we’re +done.<br /> +Stiffen your lip and stand, my son;<br /> +We’ll take this bloomin’ circus on:<br /> + Ball-cartridge load! Now, steady!’<br /> +<a name="page24"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 24</span>With a +curse and a prayer the two faced round,<br /> +Dogged and grim they stood their ground,<br /> +And their breech-blocks snapped with a crisp clean sound<br /> + As the rifles sprang to the ‘ready.’</p> +<p class="poetry">Alas for the Emir Ali Khan!<br /> +A hundred paces before his clan,<br /> +That ebony steed of the prophet’s breed<br /> + Is the foal of death and of danger.<br /> +A spurt of fire, a gasp of pain,<br /> +A blueish blurr on the yellow plain,<br /> +The chief was down, and his bridle rein<br /> + Was in the grip of the stranger.</p> +<p class="poetry">With the light of hope on his rugged face,<br +/> +The Corporal sprang to the dead man’s place,<br /> +One prick with the steel, one thrust with the heel,<br /> + And where was the man to outride him?<br /> +<a name="page25"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 25</span>A grip of +his knees, a toss of his rein,<br /> +He was settling her down to her gallop again,<br /> +When he stopped, for he heard just one faltering word<br /> + From the young recruit beside him.</p> +<p class="poetry">One faltering word from pal to pal,<br /> +But it found the heart of the Corporal.<br /> +He had sprung to the sand, he had lent him a hand,<br /> + ‘Up, mate! They’ll be ’ere +in a minute;<br /> +Off with you! No palaver! Go!<br /> +I’ll bide be’ind and run this show.<br /> +Promotion has been cursed slow,<br /> + And this is my chance to win it.’</p> +<p class="poetry">Into the saddle he thrust him quick,<br /> +Spurred the black mare with a bayonet prick.<br /> +<a name="page26"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 26</span>Watched +her gallop with plunge and with kick<br /> + Away o’er the desert careering.<br /> +Then he turned with a softened face,<br /> +And loosened the strap of his cartridge-case,<br /> +While his thoughts flew back to the dear old place<br /> + In the sunny Hampshire clearing.</p> +<p class="poetry">The young boy-private, glancing back,<br /> +Saw the Bedouins’ wild attack,<br /> +And heard the sharp Martini crack.<br /> + But as he gazed, already<br /> +The fierce fanatic Arab band<br /> +Was closing in on every hand,<br /> +Until one tawny swirl of sand,<br /> + Concealed them in its eddy.</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry">* * * * *</p> +<p class="poetry">A squadron of British horse that night,<br /> +Galloping hard in the shadowy light,<br /> +<a name="page27"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 27</span>Came on +the scene of that last stern fight,<br /> + And found the Corporal lying<br /> +Silent and grim on the trampled sand,<br /> +His rifle grasped in his stiffened hand,<br /> +With the warrior pride of one who died<br /> + ’Mid a ring of the dead and the dying.</p> +<p class="poetry">And still when twilight shadows fall,<br /> +After the evening bugle call,<br /> +In bivouac or in barrack-hall,<br /> +His comrades speak of the Corporal,<br /> + His death and his devotion.<br /> +And there are some who like to say<br /> +That perhaps a hidden meaning lay<br /> +In the words he spoke, and that the day<br /> +When his rough bold spirit passed away<br /> + <i>Was</i> the day that he won promotion.</p> +<h2><a name="page28"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 28</span>A +FORGOTTEN TALE</h2> +<p>[The scene of this ancient fight, recorded by Froissart, is +still called ‘Altura de los Inglesos.’ Five +hundred years later Wellington’s soldiers were fighting on +the same ground.]</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Say, what saw you on the hill,<br /> + Campesino Garcia?’<br /> +‘I saw my brindled heifer there,<br /> +A trail of bowmen, spent and bare,<br /> +And a little man on a sorrel mare<br /> + Riding slow before them.’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Say, what saw you in the vale,<br /> + Campesino Garcia?’<br /> +‘There I saw my lambing ewe<br /> +And an army riding through,<br /> +Thick and brave the pennons flew<br /> + From the lances o’er them.’</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page29"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +29</span>‘Then what saw you on the hill,<br /> + Campesino Garcia?’<br /> +‘I saw beside the milking byre,<br /> +White with want and black with mire,<br /> +The little man with eyes afire<br /> + Marshalling his bowmen.’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Then what saw you in the vale,<br /> + Campesino Garcia?’<br /> +‘There I saw my bullocks twain,<br /> +And amid my uncut grain<br /> +All the hardy men of Spain<br /> + Spurring for their foemen.’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Nay, but there is more to tell,<br /> + Campesino Garcia!’<br /> +‘I could not bide the end to view;<br /> +I had graver things to do<br /> +Tending on the lambing ewe<br /> + Down among the clover.’</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page30"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +30</span>‘Ah, but tell me what you heard,<br /> + Campesino Garcia!’<br /> +‘Shouting from the mountain-side,<br /> +Shouting until eventide;<br /> +But it dwindled and it died<br /> + Ere milking time was over.’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Nay, but saw you nothing more,<br /> + Campesino Garcia?’<br /> +‘Yes, I saw them lying there,<br /> +The little man and sorrel mare;<br /> +And in their ranks the bowmen fair,<br /> + With their staves before them.’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘And the hardy men of Spain,<br /> + Campesino Garcia?’<br /> +‘Hush! but we are Spanish too;<br /> +More I may not say to you:<br /> +May God’s benison, like dew,<br /> + Gently settle o’er them.’</p> +<h2><a name="page31"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +31</span>PENNARBY MINE</h2> +<p class="poetry">Pennarby shaft is dark and steep,<br /> +Eight foot wide, eight hundred deep.<br /> +Stout the bucket and tough the cord,<br /> +Strong as the arm of Winchman Ford.<br /> + ‘Never look down!<br /> + Stick to the line!’<br /> +That was the saying at Pennarby mine.</p> +<p class="poetry">A stranger came to Pennarby shaft.<br /> +Lord, to see how the miners laughed!<br /> +White in the collar and stiff in the hat,<br /> +With his patent boots and his silk cravat,<br /> + Picking his way,<br /> + Dainty and fine,<br /> +Stepping on tiptoe to Pennarby mine.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page32"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +32</span>Touring from London, so he said.<br /> +Was it copper they dug for? or gold? or lead?<br /> +Where did they find it? How did it come?<br /> +If he tried with a shovel might <i>he</i> get some?<br /> + Stooping so much<br /> + Was bad for the spine;<br /> +And wasn’t it warmish in Pennarby mine?</p> +<p class="poetry">’Twas like two worlds that met that +day—<br /> +The world of work and the world of play;<br /> +And the grimy lads from the reeking shaft<br /> +Nudged each other and grinned and chaffed.<br /> + ‘Got ’em all out!’<br /> + ‘A cousin of mine!’<br /> +So ran the banter at Pennarby mine.</p> +<p class="poetry">And Carnbrae Bob, the Pennarby wit,<br /> +Told him the facts about the pit:<br /> +<a name="page33"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 33</span>How they +bored the shaft till the brimstone smell<br /> +Warned them off from tapping—well,<br /> + He wouldn’t say what,<br /> + But they took it as sign<br /> +To dig no deeper in Pennarby mine.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then leaning over and peering in,<br /> +He was pointing out what he said was tin<br /> +In the ten-foot lode—a crash! a jar!<br /> +A grasping hand and a splintered bar.<br /> + Gone in his strength,<br /> + With the lips that laughed—<br /> +Oh, the pale faces round Pennarby shaft!</p> +<p class="poetry">Far down on a narrow ledge,<br /> +They saw him cling to the crumbling edge.<br /> +‘Wait for the bucket! Hi, man! Stay!<br /> +That rope ain’t safe! It’s worn away!<br /> + <a name="page34"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +34</span>He’s taking his chance,<br /> + Slack out the line!<br /> +Sweet Lord be with him!’ cried Pennarby mine.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘He’s got him! He has +him! Pull with a will!<br /> +Thank God! He’s over and breathing still.<br /> +And he—Lord’s sakes now! What’s +that? Well!<br /> +Blowed if it ain’t our London swell.<br /> + Your heart is right<br /> + If your coat <i>is</i> fine:<br /> +Give us your hand!’ cried Pennarby mine.</p> +<h2><a name="page35"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 35</span>A +ROVER CHANTY</h2> +<p class="poetry">A trader sailed from Stepney town—<br /> +Wake her up! Shake her up! Try her with the +mainsail!<br /> +A trader sailed from Stepney town<br /> +With a keg full of gold and a velvet gown:<br /> + Ho, the bully rover Jack,<br /> + Waiting with his yard aback<br /> +Out upon the Lowland sea!</p> +<p class="poetry">The trader he had a daughter fair—<br /> +Wake her up! Shake her up! Try her with the +foresail<br /> +The trader he had a daughter fair,<br /> +She had gold in her ears, and gold in her hair:<br /> + <a name="page36"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +36</span>All for bully rover Jack,<br /> + Waiting with his yard aback,<br /> +Out upon the Lowland sea!</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Alas the day, oh daughter +mine!’—<br /> +Shake her up! Wake her up! Try her with the +topsail!<br /> +‘Alas the day, oh daughter mine!<br /> +Yon red, red flag is a fearsome sign!’<br /> + Ho, the bully rover Jack,<br /> + Reaching on the weather tack,<br /> +Out upon the Lowland sea!</p> +<p class="poetry">‘A fearsome flag!’ the maiden +cried—<br /> +Wake her up! Shake her up! Try her with the +jibsail!<br /> +‘A fearsome flag!’ the maiden cried,<br /> +But comelier men I never have spied!’<br /> + Ho, the bully rover Jack,<br /> + Reaching on the weather tack,<br /> +Out upon the Lowland sea!</p> +<p class="poetry">There’s a wooden path that the rovers +know—<br /> +Wake her up! Shake her up! Try her with the +headsails!<br /> +There’s a wooden path that the rovers know,<br /> +Where none come back, though many must go:<br /> + <a name="page37"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +37</span>Ho, the bully rover Jack,<br /> + Lying with his yard aback,<br /> +Out upon the Lowland sea!</p> +<p class="poetry">Where is the trader of Stepney town?—<br +/> +Wake her up! Shake her up! Every stick a-bending!<br +/> +Where is the trader of Stepney town?<br /> +There’s gold on the capstan, and blood on the gown:<br /> + <a name="page38"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +38</span>Ho for bully rover Jack,<br /> + Waiting with his yard aback,<br /> +Out upon the Lowland sea!</p> +<p class="poetry">Where is the maiden who knelt at his +side?—<br /> +Wake her up! Shake her up! Every stitch a-drawing!<br +/> +Where is the maiden who knelt at his side?<br /> +We gowned her in scarlet, and chose her our bride:<br /> + Ho, the bully rover Jack,<br /> + Reaching on the weather tack,<br /> +Right across the Lowland sea!</p> +<p class="poetry">So it’s up and its over to Stornoway +Bay,<br /> +Pack it on! Crack it on! Try her with the +stunsails!<br /> +It’s off on a bowline to Stornoway Bay,<br /> +Where the liquor is good and the lasses are gay:<br /> + <a name="page39"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +39</span>Waiting for their bully Jack,<br /> + Watching for him sailing back,<br /> +Right across the Lowland sea.</p> +<h2><a name="page40"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 40</span>A +BALLAD OF THE RANKS</h2> +<p class="poetry">Who carries the gun?<br /> + A lad from over the Tweed.<br /> +Then let him go, for well we know<br /> + He comes of a soldier breed.<br /> +So drink together to rock and heather,<br /> + Out where the red deer run,<br /> +And stand aside for Scotland’s pride—<br /> + The man that carries the gun!<br /> + For the Colonel rides before,<br +/> + The +Major’s on the flank,<br /> + The Captains and the Adjutant<br +/> + Are in the +foremost rank.<br /> + <a name="page41"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 41</span>But when it’s ‘Action +front!’<br /> + And +fighting’s to be done,<br /> + Come one, come all, you stand or +fall<br /> + By the man who +holds the gun.</p> +<p class="poetry">Who carries the gun?<br /> + A lad from a Yorkshire dale.<br /> +Then let him go, for well we know<br /> + The heart that never will fail.<br /> +Here’s to the fire of Lancashire,<br /> + And here’s to her soldier son!<br /> +For the hard-bit north has sent him forth—<br /> + The lad that carries the gun.</p> +<p class="poetry">Who carries the gun?<br /> + A lad from a Midland shire.<br /> +Then let him go, for well we know<br /> + He comes of an English sire.<br /> +<a name="page42"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +42</span>Here’s a glass to a Midland lass,<br /> + And each can choose the one,<br /> +But east and west we claim the best<br /> + For the man that carries the gun.</p> +<p class="poetry">Who carries the gun?<br /> + A lad from the hills of Wales.<br /> +Then let him go, for well we know,<br /> + That Taffy is hard as nails.<br /> +There are several ll’s in the place where he dwells,<br /> + And of w’s more than one,<br /> +With a ‘Llan’ and a ‘pen,’ but it breeds +good men,<br /> + And it’s they who carry the gun.</p> +<p class="poetry">Who carries the gun?<br /> + A lad from the windy west.<br /> +Then let him go, for well we know<br /> + That he is one of the best.<br /> +<a name="page43"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +43</span>There’s Bristol rough, and Gloucester tough,<br /> + And Devon yields to none.<br /> +Or you may get in Somerset<br /> + Your lad to carry the gun.</p> +<p class="poetry">Who carries the gun?<br /> + A lad from London town.<br /> +Then let him go, for well we know<br /> + The stuff that never backs down.<br /> +He has learned to joke at the powder smoke,<br /> + For he is the fog-smoke’s son,<br /> +And his heart is light and his pluck is right—<br /> + The man who carries the gun.</p> +<p class="poetry">Who carries the gun?<br /> + A lad from the Emerald Isle.<br /> +Then let him go, for well we know,<br /> + We’ve tried him many a while.<br /> +<a name="page44"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +44</span>We’ve tried him east, we’ve tried him +west,<br /> + We’ve tried him sea and land,<br /> +But the man to beat old Erin’s best<br /> + Has never yet been planned.</p> +<p class="poetry">Who carries the gun?<br /> + It’s you, and you, and you;<br /> +So let us go, and we won’t say no<br /> + If they give us a job to do.<br /> +Here we stand with a cross-linked hand,<br /> + Comrades every one;<br /> +So one last cup, and drink it up<br /> + To the man who carries the gun!<br /> + For the Colonel rides before,<br +/> + The +Major’s on the flank,<br /> + The Captains and the Adjutant<br +/> + Are in the +foremost rank.<br /> + <a name="page45"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 45</span>And when it’s ‘Action +front!’<br /> + And +there’s fighting to be done,<br /> + Come one, come all, you stand or +fall<br /> + By the man who +holds the gun.</p> +<h2><a name="page46"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 46</span>A LAY +OF THE LINKS</h2> +<p class="poetry">It’s up and away from our work to-day,<br +/> + For the breeze sweeps over the down;<br /> +And it’s hey for a game where the gorse blossoms flame,<br +/> + And the bracken is bronzing to brown.<br /> +With the turf ’neath our tread and the blue overhead,<br /> + And the song of the lark in the whin;<br /> +There’s the flag and the green, with the bunkers +between—<br /> + Now will you be over or in?</p> +<p class="poetry">The doctor may come, and we’ll teach him +to know<br /> + A tee where no tannin can lurk;<br /> +<a name="page47"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 47</span>The +soldier may come, and we’ll promise to show<br /> + Some hazards a soldier may shirk;<br /> +The statesman may joke, as he tops every stroke,<br /> + That at last he is high in his aims;<br /> +And the clubman will stand with a club in his hand<br /> + That is worth every club in St. James’.</p> +<p class="poetry">The palm and the leather come rarely +together,<br /> + Gripping the driver’s haft,<br /> +And it’s good to feel the jar of the steel<br /> + And the spring of the hickory shaft.<br /> +Why trouble or seek for the praise of a clique?<br /> + A cleek here is common to all;<br /> +And the lie that might sting is a very small thing<br /> + When compared with the lie of the ball.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page48"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +48</span>Come youth and come age, from the study or stage,<br /> + From Bar or from Bench—high and low!<br /> +A green you must use as a cure for the blues—<br /> + You drive them away as you go.<br /> +We’re outward bound on a long, long round,<br /> + And it’s time to be up and away:<br /> +If worry and sorrow come back with the morrow,<br /> + At least we’ll be happy to-day.</p> +<h2><a name="page49"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 49</span>THE +DYING WHIP</h2> +<p class="poetry">It came from gettin’ ’eated, that +was ’ow the thing begun,<br /> +And ’ackin’ back to kennels from a ninety-minute +run;<br /> +‘I guess I’ve copped brownchitis,’ says I to +brother Jack,<br /> +An’ then afore I knowed it I was down upon my back.</p> +<p class="poetry">At night there came a sweatin’ as left me +deadly weak,<br /> +And my throat was sort of tickly an’ it ’urt me for +to speak;<br /> +<a name="page50"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 50</span>An’ +then there came an ’ackin’ cough as wouldn’t +leave alone,<br /> +An’ then afore I knowed it I was only skin and bone</p> +<p class="poetry">I never was a ’eavy weight. I +scaled at seven four,<br /> +An’ rode at eight, or maybe at just a trifle more;<br /> +And now I’ll stake my davy I wouldn’t scale at +five,<br /> +And I’d ’old my own at catch-weights with the +skinniest jock alive.</p> +<p class="poetry">And the doctor says the reason why I sit +an’ cough an wheeze<br /> +Is all along o’ varmint, like the cheese-mites in the +cheese;<br /> +<a name="page51"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 51</span>The +smallest kind o’ varmint, but varmint all the same,<br /> +Microscopes or somethin’—I forget the varmints’ +name.</p> +<p class="poetry">But I knows as I’m a goner. They +never said as much,<br /> +But I reads the people’s faces, and I knows as I am +such;<br /> +Well, there’s ’Urst to mind the ’orses and the +’ounds can look to Jack,<br /> +Though ’e never was a patch on me in ’andlin’ +of a pack.</p> +<p class="poetry">You’ll maybe think I’m +boastin’, but you’ll find they all agree<br /> +That there’s not a whip in Surrey as can ’andle +’ounds like me;<br /> +<a name="page52"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 52</span>For I knew +’em all from puppies, and I’d tell ’em without +fail—<br /> +If I seed a tail a-waggin’, I could tell who wagged the +tail.</p> +<p class="poetry">And voices—why, Lor’ love you, +it’s more than I can ’elp,<br /> +It just comes kind of natural to know each whine an’ +yelp;<br /> +You might take them twenty couple where you will and let +’em run,<br /> +An’ I’d listen by the coverside and name ’em +one by one.</p> +<p class="poetry">I say it’s kind of natural, for since I +was a brat<br /> +I never cared for readin’ books, or fancy things like +that;<br /> +<a name="page53"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 53</span>But give +me ’ounds and ’orses an’ I was quite +content,<br /> +An’ I loved to ear ’em talkin’ and to wonder +what they meant.</p> +<p class="poetry">And when the ’ydrophoby came five year +ago next May,<br /> +When Nailer was be’avin’ in a most owdacious way,<br +/> +I fixed ’im so’s ’e couldn’t bite, my +’ands on neck an’ back,<br /> +An’ I ’eaved ’im from the kennels, and they say +I saved the pack.</p> +<p class="poetry">An’ when the Master ’eard of it, +’e up an’ says, says ’e,<br /> +‘If that chap were a soldier man, they’d give +’im the V.C.’<br /> +<a name="page54"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 54</span>Which is +some kind a’ medal what they give to soldier men;<br /> +An’ Master said if I were such I would ’a’ got +it then.</p> +<p class="poetry">Parson brought ’is Bible and come to read +to me;<br /> +‘’Ave what you like, there’s everythink within +this Book,’ says ’e.<br /> +Says I, ‘They’ve left the ’orses +out!’ Says ’e, ‘You are +mistook;’<br /> +An’ ’e up an’ read a ’eap of things about +them from the Book.</p> +<p class="poetry">And some of it amazin’ fine; although +I’m fit to swear<br /> +No ’orse would ever say ‘Ah, ah!’ same as they +said it there.<br /> +<a name="page55"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +55</span>Per’aps it was an ’Ebrew ’orse the +chap ’ad in his mind,<br /> +But I never ’eard an English ’orse say nothin’ +of the kind.</p> +<p class="poetry">Parson is a good ’un. I’ve +known ’im from a lad;<br /> +’Twas me as taught ’im ridin’, an’ +’e rides uncommon bad;<br /> +And he says—But ’ark an’ listen! +There’s an ’orn! I ’eard it blow;<br /> +Pull the blind from off the winder! Prop me up, and +’old me so.</p> +<p class="poetry">They’re drawin’ the black +’anger, just aside the Squire’s grounds.<br /> +’Ark and listen! ’Ark and listen! +There’s the yappin’ of the ’ounds:<br /> +<a name="page56"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +56</span>There’s Fanny and Beltinker, and I ’ear old +Boxer call;<br /> +You see I wasn’t boastin’ when I said I knew +’em all.</p> +<p class="poetry">Let me sit an’ ’old the +bedrail! Now I see ’em as they pass:<br /> +There’s Squire upon the Midland mare, a good ’un on +the grass;<br /> +But this is closish country, and you wants a clever +’orse<br /> +When ’alf the time you’re in the woods an’ +’alf among the gorse.</p> +<p class="poetry">’Ark to Jack +a’ollering—a-bleatin’ like a lamb.<br /> +You wouldn’t think it now, perhaps, to see the thing I +am;<br /> +<a name="page57"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 57</span>But there +was a time the ladies used to linger at the meet<br /> +Just to ’ear me callin’ in the woods: my +callin’ was so sweet.</p> +<p class="poetry">I see the crossroads corner, with the field +awaitin’ there,<br /> +There’s Purcell on ’is piebald ’orse, an’ +Doctor on the mare,<br /> +And the Master on ’is iron grey; she isn’t much to +look,<br /> +But I seed ’er do clean twenty foot across the +’eathly brook.</p> +<p class="poetry">There’s Captain Kane an’ McIntyre +an’ ’alf a dozen more,<br /> +And two or three are ’untin’ whom I never seed +afore;<br /> +<a name="page58"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +58</span>Likely-lookin’ chaps they be, well groomed and +’orsed and dressed—<br /> +I wish they could ’a seen the pack when it was at its +best.</p> +<p class="poetry">It’s a check, and they are drawin’ +down the coppice for a scent,<br /> +You can see as they’ve been runnin’, for the +’orses they are spent;<br /> +I’ll lay the fox will break this way, downwind as sure as +fate,<br /> +An’ if he does you’ll see the field come +poundin’ through our gate.</p> +<p class="poetry">But, Maggie, what’s that slinkin’ +beside the cover?—See!<br /> +Now it’s in the clover field, and goin’ fast +an’ free,<br /> +<a name="page59"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 59</span>It’s +’im, and they don’t see ’im. It’s +’im! ’Alloo! ’Alloo!<br /> +My broken wind won’t run to it—I’ll leave the +job to you.</p> +<p class="poetry">There now I ’ear the music, and I know +they’re on his track;<br /> +Oh, watch ’em, Maggie, watch ’em! Ain’t +they just a lovely pack!<br /> +I’ve nursed ’em through distemper, an’ +I’ve trained an’ broke ’em in,<br /> +An’ my ’eart it just goes out to them as if they was +my kin.</p> +<p class="poetry">Well, all things ’as an endin’, as +I’ve ’eard the parson say,<br /> +The ’orse is cast, an’ the ’ound is past, +an’ the ’unter ’as ’is day;<br /> +<a name="page60"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 60</span>But my day +was yesterday, so lay me down again.<br /> +You can draw the curtain, Maggie, right across the winder +pane.</p> +<h2><a name="page61"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +61</span>MASTER</h2> +<p class="poetry"> Master went a-hunting,<br /> + When the leaves were falling;<br +/> + We saw him on the bridle path,<br /> + We heard him gaily calling.<br /> +‘Oh master, master, come you back,<br /> +For I have dreamed a dream so black!’<br /> + A glint of steel from bit and heel,<br /> + The chestnut cantered faster;<br +/> + A red flash seen amid the green,<br /> + And so good-bye to master.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Master came from hunting,<br +/> + Two silent comrades bore him;<br +/> + His eyes were dim, his face was white,<br /> + The mare was led before him.<br /> +<a name="page62"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 62</span>‘Oh, +master, master, is it thus<br /> +That you have come again to us?’<br /> + I held my lady’s ice-cold hand,<br /> + They bore the hurdle past her;<br +/> + Why should they go so soft and slow?<br /> + It matters not to master.</p> +<h2><a name="page63"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 63</span>H.M.S. +‘FOUDROYANT’</h2> +<p>[<i>Being an humble address to Her Majesty’s Naval +advisers</i>, <i>who sold Nelson’s old flagship to the +Germans for a thousand pounds</i>.]</p> +<p class="poetry">Who says the Nation’s purse is lean,<br +/> + Who fears for claim or bond or debt,<br /> +When all the glories that have been<br /> + Are scheduled as a cash asset?<br /> +If times are black and trade is slack,<br /> + If coal and cotton fail at last,<br /> +We’ve something left to barter yet—<br /> + Our glorious past.</p> +<p class="poetry">There’s many a crypt in which lies hid<br +/> + The dust of statesman or of king;<br /> +There’s Shakespeare’s home to raise a bid,<br /> + And Milton’s house its price would bring.<br +/> +<a name="page64"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 64</span>What for +the sword that Cromwell drew?<br /> + What for Prince Edward’s coat of mail?<br /> +What for our Saxon Alfred’s tomb?<br /> + They’re all for sale!</p> +<p class="poetry">And stone and marble may be sold<br /> + Which serve no present daily need;<br /> +There’s Edward’s Windsor, labelled old,<br /> + And Wolsey’s palace, guaranteed.<br /> +St. Clement Danes and fifty fanes,<br /> + The Tower and the Temple grounds;<br /> +How much for these? Just price them, please,<br /> + In British pounds.</p> +<p class="poetry">You hucksters, have you still to learn,<br /> + The things which money will not buy?<br /> +Can you not read that, cold and stern<br /> + As we may be, there still does lie<br /> +<a name="page65"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 65</span>Deep in +our hearts a hungry love<br /> + For what concerns our island story?<br /> +We sell our work—perchance our lives,<br /> + But not our glory.</p> +<p class="poetry">Go barter to the knacker’s yard<br /> + The steed that has outlived its time!<br /> +Send hungry to the pauper ward<br /> + The man who served you in his prime!<br /> +But when you touch the Nation’s store,<br /> + Be broad your mind and tight your grip.<br /> +Take heed! And bring us back once more<br /> + Our Nelson’s ship.</p> +<p class="poetry">And if no mooring can be found<br /> + In all our harbours near or far,<br /> +Then tow the old three-decker round<br /> + To where the deep-sea soundings are;<br /> +<a name="page66"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 66</span>There, +with her pennon flying clear,<br /> + And with her ensign lashed peak high,<br /> +Sink her a thousand fathoms sheer.<br /> + There let her lie!</p> +<h2><a name="page67"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 67</span>THE +FARNSHIRE CUP</h2> +<p class="poetry">Christopher Davis was up upon Mavis<br /> + And Sammy MacGregor on Flo,<br /> +Jo Chauncy rode Spider, the rankest outsider,<br /> + But <i>he’d</i> make a wooden horse go.<br /> +There was Robin and Leah and Boadicea,<br /> + And Chesterfield’s Son of the Sea;<br /> +And Irish Nuneaton, who never was beaten,<br /> + They backed her at seven to three.</p> +<p class="poetry">The course was the devil! A start on the +level,<br /> + And then a stiff breather uphill;<br /> +A bank at the top with a four-foot drop,<br /> + And a bullfinch down by the mill.<br /> +A stretch of straight from the Whittlesea gate,<br /> + Then up and down and up;<br /> +<a name="page68"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 68</span>And the +mounts that stay through Farnshire clay<br /> + May bid for the Farnshire Cup.</p> +<p class="poetry">The tipsters were touting, the bookies were +shouting<br /> + ‘Bar one, bar one, bar one!’<br /> +With a glint and a glimmer of silken shimmer<br /> + The field shone bright in the sun,<br /> +When Farmer Brown came riding down:<br /> + ‘I hain’t much time to spare,<br /> +But I’ve entered her name, so I’ll play out the +game,<br /> + On the back o’ my old gray mare.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘You never would think ’er a +thoroughbred clinker,<br /> + There’s never a judge that would;<br /> +Each leg be’ind ’as a splint, you’ll find,<br +/> + And the fore are none too good.<br /> +<a name="page69"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 69</span>She roars +a bit, and she don’t look fit,<br /> + She’s moulted ’alf ’er +’air;<br /> +But—’ He smiled in a way that seemed to say,<br +/> + That he knew that old gray mare.</p> +<p class="poetry">And the bookies laughed and the bookies +chaffed,<br /> + ‘Who backs the mare?’ cried they.<br /> +‘A hundred to one!’ ‘It’s +done—and done!’<br /> + ‘We’ll take that price all +day.’<br /> +‘What if the mare is shedding hair!<br /> + What if her eye is wild!<br /> +We read her worth and her pedigree birth<br /> + In the smile that her owner smiled.’</p> +<p class="poetry">And the whisper grew and the whisper flew<br /> + That she came of Isonomy stock.<br /> +‘Fifty to one!’ ‘It’s +done—and done!<br /> + Look at her haunch and hock!<br /> +<a name="page70"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +70</span>Ill-groomed! Why yes, but one may guess<br /> + That that is her owner’s guile.’<br /> +Ah, Farmer Brown, the sharps from town,<br /> + Have read your simple smile!</p> +<p class="poetry">They’ve weighed him in. ‘Now +lose or win,<br /> + I’ve money at stake this day;<br /> +Gee-long, my sweet, and if we’re beat,<br /> + We’ll both do all we may!’<br /> +He joins the rest, they line abreast,<br /> + ‘Back Leah! Mavis up!’<br /> +The flag is dipped and the field is slipped,<br /> + Full split for the Farnshire Cup.</p> +<p class="poetry">Christopher Davis is leading on Mavis,<br /> + Spider is waiting on Flo;<br /> +Boadicea is gaining on Leah,<br /> + Irish Nuneaton lies low;<br /> +<a name="page71"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 71</span>Robin is +tailing, his wind has been failing,<br /> + Son of the Sea’s going fast:<br /> +So crack on the pace for it’s anyone’s race,<br /> + And the winner’s the horse that can last.</p> +<p class="poetry">Chestnut and bay, and sorrel and gray,<br /> + See how they glimmer and gleam!<br /> +Bending and straining, and losing and gaining,<br /> + Silk jackets flutter and stream;<br /> +They are over the grass as the cloud shadows pass,<br /> + They are up to the fence at the top;<br /> +It’s ‘hey then!’ and over, and into the +clover,<br /> + There wasn’t one slip at the drop.</p> +<p class="poetry">They are all going still; they are round by the +mill,<br /> + They are down by the Whittlesea gate;<br /> +Leah’s complaining, and Mavis is gaining,<br /> + And Flo’s catching up in the straight.<br /> +<a name="page72"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +72</span>Robin’s gone wrong, but the Spider runs strong,<br +/> + He sticks to the leader like wax;<br /> +An utter outsider, but look at his rider—<br /> + Jo Chauncy, the pick of the cracks!</p> +<p class="poetry">Robin was tailing and pecked at a paling,<br /> + Leah’s gone weak in her feet;<br /> +Boadicea came down at the railing,<br /> + Son of the Sea is dead beat.<br /> +Leather to leather, they’re pounding together,<br /> + Three of them all in a row;<br /> +And Irish Nuneaton, who never was beaten,<br /> + Is level with Spider and Flo.</p> +<p class="poetry">It’s into the straight from the +Whittlesea gate,<br /> + Clean galloping over the green,<br /> +But four foot high the hurdles lie<br /> + With a sunken ditch between.<br /> +<a name="page73"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 73</span>’Tis +a bit of a test for a beast at its best,<br /> + And the devil and all at its worst;<br /> +But it’s clear run in with the Cup to win<br /> + For the horse that is over it first.</p> +<p class="poetry">So try it, my beauties, and fly it, my +beauties,<br /> + Spider, Nuneaton, and Flo;<br /> +With a trip and a blunder there’s one of them under,<br /> + Hark to it crashing below!<br /> +Is it the brown or the sorrel that’s down?<br /> + The brown! It is Flo who is in!<br /> +And Spider with Chauncy, the pick of the fancy,<br /> + Is going full split for a win.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Spider is winning!’ +‘Jo Chauncy is winning!’<br /> + ‘He’s winning! He’s +winning! Bravo!’<br /> +The bookies are raving, the ladies are waving,<br /> + The Stand is all shouting for Jo.<br /> +<a name="page74"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 74</span>The horse +is clean done, but the race may be won<br /> + By the Newmarket lad on his back;<br /> +For the fire of the rider may bring an outsider<br /> + Ahead of a thoroughbred crack.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Spider is winning!’ +‘Jo Chauncy is winning!’<br /> + It swells like the roar of the sea;<br /> +But Jo hears the drumming of somebody coming,<br /> + And sees a lean head by his knee.<br /> +‘Nuneaton! Nuneaton! The Spider is +beaten!’<br /> + It is but a spurt at the most;<br /> +For lose it or win it, they have but a minute<br /> + Before they are up with the post.</p> +<p class="poetry">Nuneaton is straining, Nuneaton is gaining,<br +/> + Neither will falter nor flinch;<br /> +Whips they are plying and jackets are flying,<br /> + They’re fairly abreast to an inch.<br /> +<a name="page75"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +75</span>‘Crack ’em up! Let ’em go! +Well ridden! Bravo!’<br /> + Gamer ones never were bred;<br /> +Jo Chauncy has done it! He’s spurted! +He’s won it!’<br /> + The favourite’s beat by a head!</p> +<p class="poetry">Don’t tell me of luck, for its judgment +and pluck<br /> + And a courage that never will shirk;<br /> +To give your mind to it and know how to do it<br /> + And put all your heart in your work.<br /> +So here’s to the Spider, the winning outsider,<br /> + With little Jo Chauncy up;<br /> +May they stay life’s course, both jockey and horse,<br /> + As they stayed in the Farnshire Cup.</p> +<p class="poetry">But it’s possible that you are wondering +what<br /> + May have happened to Farmer Brown,<br /> +<a name="page76"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 76</span>And the +old gray crock of Isonomy stock<br /> + Who was backed by the sharps from town.<br /> +She blew and she sneezed, she coughed and she wheezed,<br /> + She ran till her knees gave way.<br /> +But never a grumble at trip or at stumble<br /> + Was heard from her jock that day.</p> +<p class="poetry">For somebody laid <i>against</i> the gray,<br +/> + And somebody made a pile;<br /> +And Brown says he can make farming pay,<br /> + And he smiles a simple smile.<br /> +‘Them sharps from town were riled,’ says Brown;<br /> + ‘But I can’t see why—can you?<br +/> +For I said quite fair as I knew that mare,<br /> + And I proved my words was true.’</p> +<h2><a name="page77"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 77</span>THE +GROOM’S STORY</h2> +<p class="poetry">Ten mile in twenty minutes! ’E done +it, sir. That’s true.<br /> +The big bay ’orse in the further stall—the one +wot’s next to you.<br /> +I’ve seen some better ’orses; I’ve seldom seen +a wuss,<br /> +But ’e ’olds the bloomin’ record, an’ +that’s good enough for us.</p> +<p class="poetry">We knew as it wa’s in ’im. +’E’s thoroughbred, three part,<br /> +We bought ’im for to race ’im, but we found ’e +’ad no ’eart;<br /> +<a name="page78"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 78</span>For +’e was sad and thoughtful, and amazin’ dignified,<br +/> +It seemed a kind o’ liberty to drive ’im or to +ride;</p> +<p class="poetry">For ’e never seemed a-thinkin’ of +what ’e ’ad to do,<br /> +But ’is thoughts was set on ’igher things, +admirin’ of the view.<br /> +’E looked a puffeck pictur, and a pictur ’e would +stay,<br /> +’E wouldn’t even switch ’is tail to drive the +flies away.</p> +<p class="poetry">And yet we knew ’twas in ’im, we +knew as ’e could fly;<br /> +But what we couldn’t git at was ’ow to make ’im +try.<br /> +<a name="page79"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 79</span>We’d +almost turned the job up, until at last one day<br /> +We got the last yard out of ’im in a most amazin’ +way.</p> +<p class="poetry">It was all along o’ master; which master +’as the name<br /> +Of a reg’lar true blue sportman, an’ always acts the +same;<br /> +But we all ’as weaker moments, which master ’e +’ad one,<br /> +An’ ’e went and bought a motor-car when motor-cars +begun.</p> +<p class="poetry">I seed it in the stable yard—it fairly +turned me sick—<br /> +A greasy, wheezy engine as can neither buck nor kick.<br /> +<a name="page80"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +80</span>You’ve a screw to drive it forrard, and a screw to +make it stop,<br /> +For it was foaled in a smithy stove an’ bred in a +blacksmith shop.</p> +<p class="poetry">It didn’t want no stable, it didn’t +ask no groom,<br /> +It didn’t need no nothin’ but a bit o’ +standin’ room.<br /> +Just fill it up with paraffin an’ it would go all day,<br +/> +Which the same should be agin the law if I could ’ave my +way.</p> +<p class="poetry">Well, master took ’is motor-car, +an’ moted ’ere an’ there,<br /> +A frightenin’ the ’orses an’ a poisonin’ +the air.<br /> +<a name="page81"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 81</span>’E +wore a bloomin’ yachtin’ cap, but Lor’! wot +<i>did</i> ’e know,<br /> +Excep’ that if you turn a screw the thing would stop or +go?</p> +<p class="poetry">An’ then one day it wouldn’t +go. ’E screwed and screwed again,<br /> +But somethin’ jammed, an’ there ’e stuck in the +mud of a country lane.<br /> +It ’urt ’is pride most cruel, but what was ’e +to do?<br /> +So at last ’e bade me fetch a ’orse to pull the motor +through.</p> +<p class="poetry">This was the ’orse we fetched ’im; +an’ when we reached the car,<br /> +We braced ’im tight and proper to the middle of the bar,<br +/> +<a name="page82"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 82</span>And +buckled up ’is traces and lashed them to each side,<br /> +While ’e ’eld ’is ’ead so +’aughtily, an’ looked most dignified.</p> +<p class="poetry">Not bad tempered, mind you, but kind of pained +and vexed,<br /> +And ’e seemed to say, ‘Well, bli’ me! wot +<i>will</i> they ask me next?<br /> +I’ve put up with some liberties, but this caps all by +far,<br /> +To be assistant engine to a crocky motor-car!’</p> +<p class="poetry">Well, master ’e was in the car, +a-fiddlin’ with the gear,<br /> +And the ’orse was meditatin’, an’ I was +standin’ near,<br /> +<a name="page83"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 83</span>When +master ’e touched somethin’—what it was +we’ll never know—<br /> +But it sort o’ spurred the boiler up and made the engine +go.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘’Old ’ard, old gal!’ +says master, and ‘Gently then!’ says I,<br /> +But an engine won’t ’eed coaxin’ an’ it +ain’t no use to try;<br /> +So first ’e pulled a lever, an’ then ’e turned +a screw,<br /> +But the thing kept crawlin’ forrard spite of all that +’e could do.</p> +<p class="poetry">And first it went quite slowly and the +’orse went also slow,<br /> +But ’e ’ad to buck up faster when the wheels began to +go;<br /> +<a name="page84"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 84</span>For the +car kept crowdin’ on ’im and buttin’ ’im +along,<br /> +And in less than ’alf a minute, sir, that ’orse was +goin’ strong.</p> +<p class="poetry">At first ’e walked quite dignified, +an’ then ’e ’ad to trot,<br /> +And then ’e tried a canter when the pace became too +’ot.<br /> +’E looked ’is very ’aughtiest, as if ’e +didn’t ’e mind,<br /> +And all the time the motor-car was pushin’ ’im +be’ind.</p> +<p class="poetry">Now, master lost ’is ’ead when +’e found ’e couldn’t stop,<br /> +And ’e pulled a valve or somethin’ an’ +somethin’ else went pop,<br /> +<a name="page85"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 85</span>An’ +somethin’ else went fizzywiz, and in a flash, or less,<br +/> +That blessed car was goin’ like a limited express.</p> +<p class="poetry">Master ’eld the steerin’ gear, +an’ kept the road all right,<br /> +And away they whizzed and clattered—my aunt! it was a +sight.<br /> +’E seemed the finest draught ’orse as ever lived by +far,<br /> +For all the country Juggins thought ’twas ’im wot +pulled the car.</p> +<p class="poetry">’E was stretchin’ like a +grey’ound, ’e was goin’ all ’e knew;<br +/> +But it bumped an’ shoved be’ind ’im, for all +that ’e could do;<br /> +<a name="page86"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 86</span>It butted +’im an’ boosted ’im an’ spanked ’im +on a’ead,<br /> +Till ’e broke the ten-mile record, same as I already +said.</p> +<p class="poetry">Ten mile in twenty minutes! ’E done +it, sir. That’s true.<br /> +The only time we ever found what that ’ere ’orse +could do.<br /> +Some say it wasn’t ’ardly fair, and the papers made a +fuss,<br /> +But ’e broke the ten-mile record, and that’s good +enough for us.</p> +<p class="poetry">You see that ’orse’s tail, +sir? You don’t! No more do we,<br /> +Which really ain’t surprisin’, for ’e ’as +no tail to see;<br /> +<a name="page87"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 87</span>That +engine wore it off ’im before master made it stop,<br /> +And all the road was littered like a bloomin’ +barber’s shop.</p> +<p class="poetry">And master? Well, it cured +’im. ’E altered from that day,<br /> +And come back to ’is ’orses in the good old-fashioned +way.<br /> +And if you wants to git the sack, the quickest way by far<br /> +Is to ’int as ’ow you think ’e ought to keep a +motor-car.</p> +<h2><a name="page88"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 88</span>WITH +THE CHIDDINGFOLDS</h2> +<p class="poetry"> The horse is bedded down<br +/> + Where the straw lies deep.<br /> + The hound is in the kennel;<br /> + Let the poor hound sleep!<br /> + And the fox is in the spinney<br /> + By the run which he is +haunting,<br /> + And I’ll lay an even guinea<br /> + That a goose or two is wanting<br +/> +When the farmer comes to count them in the morning.</p> +<p class="poetry"> The horse is up and +saddled;<br /> + Girth the old horse tight!<br /> + The hounds are out and drawing<br /> + In the morning light.<br /> + <a name="page89"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +89</span>Now it’s ‘Yoick!’ among the +heather,<br /> + And it’s +‘Yoick!’ across the clover,<br /> + And it’s ‘To him, all +together!’<br /> + ‘Hyke a Bertha! Hyke a +Rover!’<br /> +And the woodlands smell so sweetly in the morning.</p> +<p class="poetry"> ‘There’s +Termagant a-whimpering;<br /> + She whimpers so.’<br /> + ‘There’s a young hound +yapping!’<br /> + Let the young hound go!<br /> + But the old hound is cunning,<br /> + And it’s him we mean to +follow,<br /> + ‘They are running! They are running!<br +/> + And it’s ‘Forrard to +the hollo!’<br /> +For the scent is lying strongly in the morning.</p> +<p class="poetry"> ‘Who’s the fool +that heads him?’<br /> + Hold hard, and let him pass!<br /> + <a name="page90"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +90</span>He’s out among the oziers<br /> + He’s clear upon the +grass.<br /> + You grip his flanks and settle,<br /> + For the horse is stretched and +straining,<br /> + Here’s a game to test your mettle,<br /> + And a sport to try your +training,<br /> +When the Chiddingfolds are running in the morning.</p> +<p class="poetry"> We’re up by the +Coppice<br /> + And we’re down by the +Mill,<br /> + We’re out upon the Common,<br /> + And the hounds are running +still.<br /> + You must tighten on the leather,<br /> + For we blunder through the +bracken;<br /> + Though you’re over hocks in heather<br /> + Still the pace must never +slacken<br /> +As we race through Thursley Common in the morning.</p> +<p class="poetry"> <a name="page91"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 91</span>We are breaking from the tangle<br /> + We are out upon the green,<br /> + There’s a bank and a hurdle<br /> + With a quickset between.<br /> + You must steady him and try it,<br /> + You are over with a scramble.<br +/> + Here’s a wattle! You must fly it,<br /> + And you land among the bramble,<br +/> +For it’s roughish, toughish going in the morning.</p> +<p class="poetry"> ’Ware the bog by the +Grove<br /> + As you pound through the slush.<br +/> + See the whip! See the huntsman!<br /> + We are close upon his brush.<br /> + ’Ware the root that lies before you!<br /> + It will trip you if you +blunder.<br /> + <a name="page92"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +92</span>’Ware the branch that’s drooping o’er +you!<br /> + You must dip and swerve from +under<br /> +As you gallop through the woodland in the morning.</p> +<p class="poetry"> There were fifty at the +find,<br /> + There were forty at the mill,<br +/> + There were twenty on the heath,<br /> + And ten are going still.<br /> + Some are pounded, some are shirking,<br /> + And they dwindle and diminish<br +/> + Till a weary pair are working,<br /> + Spent and blowing, to the +finish,<br /> +And we hear the shrill whoo-ooping in the morning.</p> +<p class="poetry"> The horse is bedded down<br +/> + Where the straw lies deep,<br /> + The hound is in the kennel,<br /> + He is yapping in his sleep.<br /> + <a name="page93"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +93</span>But the fox is in the spinney<br /> + Lying snug in earth and burrow.<br +/> + And I’ll lay an even guinea<br /> + We could find again to-morrow,<br +/> +If we chose to go a-hunting in the morning.</p> +<h2><a name="page94"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 94</span>A +HUNTING MORNING</h2> +<p class="poetry">Put the saddle on the mare,<br /> + For the wet winds blow;<br /> +There’s winter in the air,<br /> + And autumn all below.<br /> +For the red leaves are flying<br /> +And the red bracken dying,<br /> +And the red fox lying<br /> + Where the oziers grow.</p> +<p class="poetry">Put the bridle on the mare,<br /> + For my blood runs chill;<br /> +And my heart, it is there,<br /> + On the heather-tufted hill,<br /> +<a name="page95"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 95</span>With the +gray skies o’er us,<br /> +And the long-drawn chorus<br /> +Of a running pack before us<br /> + From the find to the kill.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then lead round the mare,<br /> + For it’s time that we began,<br /> +And away with thought and care,<br /> + Save to live and be a man,<br /> +While the keen air is blowing,<br /> +And the huntsman holloing,<br /> +And the black mare going<br /> + As the black mare can.</p> +<h2><a name="page96"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 96</span>THE +OLD GRAY FOX</h2> +<p class="poetry">We started from the Valley Pride,<br /> + And Farnham way we went.<br /> +We waited at the cover-side,<br /> + But never found a scent.<br /> +Then we tried the withy beds<br /> + Which grow by Frensham town,<br /> +And there we found the old gray fox,<br /> + The same old fox,<br /> + The game old fox;<br /> +Yes, there we found the old gray fox,<br /> + Which lives on Hankley Down.<br /> + So here’s +to the master,<br /> + And here’s +to the man!<br /> + And here’s to twenty +couple<br /> + Of the white and black and tan!<br +/> + <a name="page97"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +97</span>Here’s a find without a wait!<br /> + Here’s a hedge without a gate!<br /> + Here’s the man who follows straight,<br /> + Where the old fox ran.</p> +<p class="poetry">The Member rode his thoroughbred,<br /> + Doctor had the gray,<br /> +The Soldier led on a roan red,<br /> + The Sailor rode the bay.<br /> +Squire was there on his Irish mare,<br /> + And Parson on the brown;<br /> +And so we chased the old gray fox,<br /> + The same old fox,<br /> + The game old fox,<br /> +And so we chased the old gray fox<br /> + Across the Hankley Down.<br /> + So here’s +to the master,<br /> + And here’s +to the man!<br /> + + +&c. &c. &c.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page98"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +98</span>The Doctor’s gray was going strong<br /> + Until she slipped and fell;<br /> +He had to keep his bed so long<br /> + His patients all got well.<br /> +The Member he had lost his seat,<br /> + ’Twas carried by his horse;<br /> +And so we chased the old gray fox,<br /> + The same old fox,<br /> + The game old fox;<br /> +And so we chased the old gray fox<br /> + That earthed in Hankley Gorse.<br /> + So here’s +to the master,<br /> + And here’s +to the man!<br /> + + +&c. &c. &c.</p> +<p class="poetry">The Parson sadly fell away,<br /> + And in the furze did lie;<br /> +The words we heard that Parson say<br /> + Made all the horses shy!<br /> +<a name="page99"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 99</span>The Sailor +he was seen no more<br /> + Upon that stormy bay;<br /> +But still we chased the old gray fox,<br /> + The same old fox,<br /> + The game old fox;<br /> +Still we chased the old gray fox<br /> + Through all the winter day.<br /> + So here’s +to the master,<br /> + And here’s +to the man!<br /> + + +&c. &c. &c.</p> +<p class="poetry">And when we found him gone to ground,<br /> + They sent for spade and man;<br /> +But Squire said ‘Shame! The beast was game!<br /> + A gamer never ran!<br /> +His wind and pace have gained the race,<br /> + His life is fairly won.<br /> +<a name="page100"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 100</span>But may +we meet the old gray fox,<br /> + The same old fox,<br /> + The game old fox;<br /> +May we meet the old gray fox<br /> + Before the year is done.<br /> + So here’s +to the master,<br /> + And here’s +to the man!<br /> + And here’s to twenty +couple<br /> + Of the white and black and tan!<br +/> + Here’s a find without +await!<br /> + Here’s a hedge without a +gate!<br /> + Here’s the man who follows +straight,<br /> + Where the old +fox ran.</p> +<h2><a name="page101"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +101</span>’WARE HOLES</h2> +<p>[‘’<i>Ware Holes!</i>’ <i>is the expression +used in the hunting-field to warn those behind against +rabbit-burrows or other such dangers</i>.]</p> +<p class="poetry">A sportin’ death! My word it +was!<br /> + An’ taken in a sportin’ way.<br /> +Mind you, I wasn’t there to see;<br /> + I only tell you what they say.</p> +<p class="poetry">They found that day at Shillinglee,<br /> + An’ ran ’im down to Chillinghurst;<br /> +The fox was goin’ straight an’ free<br /> + For ninety minutes at a burst.</p> +<p class="poetry">They ’ad a check at Ebernoe<br /> + An’ made a cast across the Down,<br /> +Until they got a view ’ullo<br /> + An’ chased ’im up to Kirdford town.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page102"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +102</span>From Kirdford ’e run Bramber way,<br /> + An’ took ’em over ’alf the +Weald.<br /> +If you ’ave tried the Sussex clay,<br /> + You’ll guess it weeded out the field.</p> +<p class="poetry">Until at last I don’t suppose<br /> + As ’arf a dozen, at the most,<br /> +Came safe to where the grassland goes<br /> + Switchbackin’ southwards to the coast.</p> +<p class="poetry">Young Captain ’Eadley, ’e was +there,<br /> + And Jim the whip an’ Percy Day;<br /> +The Purcells an’ Sir Charles Adair,<br /> + An’ this ’ere gent from London way.</p> +<p class="poetry">For ’e ’ad gone amazin’ +fine,<br /> + Two ’undred pounds between ’is knees;<br +/> +Eight stone he was, an’ rode at nine,<br /> + As light an’ limber as you please.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page103"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +103</span>’E was a stranger to the ’Unt,<br /> + There weren’t a person as ’e knew +there;<br /> +But ’e could ride, that London gent—<br /> + ’E sat ’is mare as if ’e grew +there.</p> +<p class="poetry">They seed the ’ounds upon the scent,<br +/> + But found a fence across their track,<br /> +And ’ad to fly it; else it meant<br /> + A turnin’ and a ’arkin’ back.</p> +<p class="poetry">’E was the foremost at the fence,<br /> + And as ’is mare just cleared the rail<br /> +He turned to them that rode be’ind,<br /> + For three was at ’is very tail.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘’Ware ’oles!’ says +’e, an’ with the word,<br /> + Still sittin’ easy on his mare,<br /> +Down, down ’e went, an’ down an’ down,<br /> + Into the quarry yawnin’ there.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page104"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +104</span>Some say it was two ’undred foot;<br /> + The bottom lay as black as ink.<br /> +I guess they ’ad some ugly dreams,<br /> + Who reined their ’orses on the brink.</p> +<p class="poetry">’E’d only time for that one cry;<br +/> + ‘’Ware ’oles!’ says +’e, an’ saves all three.<br /> +There may be better deaths to die,<br /> + But that one’s good enough for me.</p> +<p class="poetry">For mind you, ’twas a sportin’ +end,<br /> + Upon a right good sportin’ day;<br /> +They think a deal of ’im down ’ere,<br /> + That gent what came from London way.</p> +<h2><a name="page105"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 105</span>THE +HOME-COMING OF THE ‘EURYDICE’</h2> +<p>[<i>Lost, with her crew of three hundred boys, on the last day +of her voyage</i>, <i>March</i> 23, 1876. <i>She foundered +off Portsmouth</i>, <i>from which town many of the boys +came</i>.]</p> +<p class="poetry">Up with the royals that top the white spread of +her!<br /> + Press her and dress her, and drive through the +foam;<br /> +The Island’s to port, and the mainland ahead of her,<br /> + Hey for the Warner and Hayling and Home!</p> +<p class="poetry">Bo’sun, O Bo’sun, just look at the +green of it!<br /> + Look at the red cattle down by the hedge!<br /> +<a name="page106"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 106</span>Look at +the farmsteading—all that is seen of it,<br /> + One little gable end over the edge!’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Lord! the tongues of them clattering, +clattering,<br /> + All growing wild at a peep of the Wight;<br /> +Aye, sir, aye, it has set them all chattering,<br /> + Thinking of home and their mothers +to-night.’</p> +<p class="poetry">Spread the topgallants—oh, lay them out +lustily!<br /> + What though it darken o’er Netherby Combe?<br +/> +’Tis but the valley wind, puffing so gustily—<br /> + On for the Warner and Hayling and Home!</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Bo’sun, O Bo’sun, just see +the long slope of it!<br /> + Culver is there, with the cliff and the light.<br /> +<a name="page107"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 107</span>Tell us, +oh tell us, now is there a hope of it?<br /> + Shall we have leave for our homes for +to-night?’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Tut, the clack of them! +Steadily! Steadily!<br /> + Aye, as you say, sir, they’re little ones +still;<br /> +One long reach should open it readily,<br /> + Round by St. Helens and under the hill.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘The Spit and the Nab are the gates of +the promise,<br /> + Their mothers to them—and to us it’s our +wives.<br /> +I’ve sailed forty years, and—By God it’s upon +us!<br /> + Down royals, Down top’sles, down, down, for +your lives!’</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page108"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +108</span>A grey swirl of snow with the squall at the back of +it,<br /> + Heeling her, reeling her, beating her down!<br /> +A gleam of her bends in the thick of the wrack of it,<br /> + A flutter of white in the eddies of brown.</p> +<p class="poetry">It broke in one moment of blizzard and +blindness;<br /> + The next, like a foul bat, it flapped on its way.<br +/> +But our ship and our boys! Gracious Lord, in your +kindness,<br /> + Give help to the mothers who need it to-day!</p> +<p class="poetry">Give help to the women who wait by the +water,<br /> + Who stand on the Hard with their eyes past the +Wight.<br /> +Ah! whisper it gently, you sister or daughter,<br /> + ‘Our boys are all gathered at home for +to-night.’</p> +<h2><a name="page109"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 109</span>THE +INNER ROOM</h2> +<p class="poetry">It is mine—the little chamber,<br /> + Mine alone.<br /> +I had it from my forbears<br /> + Years agone.<br /> +Yet within its walls I see<br /> +A most motley company,<br /> +And they one and all claim me<br /> + As their own.</p> +<p class="poetry">There’s one who is a soldier<br /> + Bluff and keen;<br /> +Single-minded, heavy-fisted,<br /> + Rude of mien.<br /> +<a name="page110"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 110</span>He would +gain a purse or stake it,<br /> +He would win a heart or break it,<br /> +He would give a life or take it,<br /> + Conscience-clean.</p> +<p class="poetry">And near him is a priest<br /> + Still schism-whole;<br /> +He loves the censer-reek<br /> + And organ-roll.<br /> +He has leanings to the mystic,<br /> +Sacramental, eucharistic;<br /> +And dim yearnings altruistic<br /> + Thrill his soul.</p> +<p class="poetry">There’s another who with doubts<br /> + Is overcast;<br /> +I think him younger brother<br /> + To the last.<br /> +<a name="page111"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 111</span>Walking +wary stride by stride,<br /> +Peering forwards anxious-eyed,<br /> +Since he learned to doubt his guide<br /> + In the past.</p> +<p class="poetry">And ’mid them all, alert,<br /> + But somewhat cowed,<br /> +There sits a stark-faced fellow,<br /> + Beetle-browed,<br /> +Whose black soul shrinks away<br /> +From a lawyer-ridden day,<br /> +And has thoughts he dare not say<br /> + Half avowed.</p> +<p class="poetry">There are others who are sitting,<br /> + Grim as doom,<br /> +In the dim ill-boding shadow<br /> + Of my room.<br /> +<a name="page112"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 112</span>Darkling +figures, stern or quaint,<br /> +Now a savage, now a saint,<br /> +Showing fitfully and faint<br /> + Through the gloom.</p> +<p class="poetry">And those shadows are so dense,<br /> + There may be<br /> +Many—very many—more<br /> + Than I see.<br /> +They are sitting day and night<br /> +Soldier, rogue, and anchorite;<br /> +And they wrangle and they fight<br /> + Over me.</p> +<p class="poetry">If the stark-faced fellow win,<br /> + All is o’er!<br /> +If the priest should gain his will<br /> + I doubt no more!<br /> +<a name="page113"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 113</span>But if +each shall have his day,<br /> +I shall swing and I shall sway<br /> +In the same old weary way<br /> + As before.</p> +<h2><a name="page114"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 114</span>THE +IRISH COLONEL</h2> +<p class="poetry">Said the king to the colonel,<br /> +‘The complaints are eternal,<br /> + That you Irish give more trouble<br /> + Than any other corps.’</p> +<p class="poetry">Said the colonel to the king,<br /> +‘This complaint is no new thing,<br /> + For your foemen, sire, have made it<br /> + A hundred times before.’</p> +<h2><a name="page115"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 115</span>THE +BLIND ARCHER</h2> +<p class="poetry">Little boy Love drew his bow at a chance,<br /> + Shooting down at the ballroom floor;<br /> +He hit an old chaperone watching the dance,<br /> + And oh! but he wounded her sore.<br /> + ‘Hey, Love, you +couldn’t mean that!<br /> + Hi, Love, what would you be +at?’<br /> + No word would he +say,<br /> + But he flew on +his way,<br /> +For the little boy’s busy, and how could he stay?</p> +<p class="poetry">Little boy Love drew a shaft just for sport<br +/> + At the soberest club in Pall Mall;<br /> +He winged an old veteran drinking his port,<br /> + And down that old veteran fell.<br /> + <a name="page116"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 116</span>‘Hey, Love, you mustn’t +do that!<br /> + Hi, Love, what would you be at?<br +/> + This cannot be +right!<br /> + It’s +ludicrous quite!’<br /> +But it’s no use to argue, for Love’s out of +sight.</p> +<p class="poetry">A sad-faced young clerk in a cell all apart<br +/> + Was planning a celibate vow;<br /> +But the boy’s random arrow has sunk in his heart,<br /> + And the cell is an empty one now.<br /> + ‘Hey, Love, you +mustn’t do that!<br /> + Hi, Love, what would you be at?<br +/> + He is not for +you,<br /> + He has duties to +do.’<br /> +‘But I <i>am</i> his duty,’ quoth Love as he +flew.</p> +<p class="poetry">The king sought a bride, and the nation had +hoped<br /> + For a queen without rival or peer.<br /> +<a name="page117"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 117</span>But the +little boy shot, and the king has eloped<br /> + With Miss No-one on Nothing a year.<br /> + ‘Hey, Love, you +couldn’t mean that!<br /> + Hi, Love, what would you be at?<br +/> + What an impudent +thing<br /> + To make game of +a king!’<br /> +‘But <i>I’m</i> a king also,’ cried Love on the +wing.</p> +<p class="poetry">Little boy Love grew pettish one day;<br /> + ‘If you keep on complaining,’ he +swore,<br /> +‘I’ll pack both my bow and my quiver away,<br /> + And so I shall plague you no more.’<br /> + ‘Hey, Love, you +mustn’t do that!<br /> + Hi, Love, what would you be at?<br +/> + You may ruin our +ease,<br /> + You may do what +you please,<br /> +But we can’t do without you, you dear little +tease!’</p> +<h2><a name="page118"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 118</span>A +PARABLE</h2> +<p class="poetry">The cheese-mites asked how the cheese got +there,<br /> + And warmly debated the matter;<br /> +The Orthodox said that it came from the air,<br /> + And the Heretics said from the platter.<br /> +They argued it long and they argued it strong,<br /> + And I hear they are arguing now;<br /> +But of all the choice spirits who lived in the cheese,<br /> + Not one of them thought of a cow,</p> +<h2><a name="page119"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 119</span>A +TRAGEDY</h2> +<p class="poetry">Who’s that walking on the moorland?<br /> + Who’s that moving on the hill?<br /> +They are passing ’mid the bracken,<br /> +But the shadows grow and blacken<br /> + And I cannot see them clearly on the hill.</p> +<p class="poetry">Who’s that calling on the moorland?<br /> + Who’s that crying on the hill?<br /> +Was it bird or was it human,<br /> +Was it child, or man, or woman,<br /> + Who was calling so sadly on the hill?</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page120"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +120</span>Who’s that running on the moorland?<br /> + Who’s that flying on the hill?<br /> +He is there—and there again,<br /> +But you cannot see him plain,<br /> + For the shadow lies so darkly on the hill.</p> +<p class="poetry">What’s that lying in the heather?<br /> + What’s that lurking on the hill?<br /> +My horse will go no nearer,<br /> +And I cannot see it clearer,<br /> + But there’s something that is lying on the +hill.</p> +<h2><a name="page121"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 121</span>THE +PASSING</h2> +<p class="poetry">It was the hour of dawn,<br /> + When the heart beats thin and small,<br /> +The window glimmered grey,<br /> + Framed in a shadow wall.</p> +<p class="poetry">And in the cold sad light<br /> + Of the early morningtide,<br /> +The dear dead girl came back<br /> + And stood by his bedside.</p> +<p class="poetry">The girl he lost came back:<br /> + He saw her flowing hair;<br /> +It flickered and it waved<br /> + Like a breath in frosty air.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page122"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +122</span>As in a steamy glass,<br /> + Her face was dim and blurred;<br /> +Her voice was sweet and thin,<br /> + Like the calling of a bird.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘You said that you would come,<br /> + You promised not to stay;<br /> +And I have waited here,<br /> + To help you on the way.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘I have waited on,<br /> + But still you bide below;<br /> +You said that you would come,<br /> + And oh, I want you so!</p> +<p class="poetry">‘For half my soul is here,<br /> + And half my soul is there,<br /> +When you are on the earth<br /> + And I am in the air.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page123"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +123</span>‘But on your dressing-stand<br /> + There lies a triple key;<br /> +Unlock the little gate<br /> + Which fences you from me.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Just one little pang,<br /> + Just one throb of pain,<br /> +And then your weary head<br /> + Between my breasts again.’</p> +<p class="poetry">In the dim unhomely light<br /> + Of the early morningtide,<br /> +He took the triple key<br /> + And he laid it by his side.</p> +<p class="poetry">A pistol, silver chased,<br /> + An open hunting knife,<br /> +A phial of the drug<br /> + Which cures the ill of life.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page124"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +124</span>He looked upon the three,<br /> + And sharply drew his breath:<br /> +‘Now help me, oh my love,<br /> + For I fear this cold grey death.’</p> +<p class="poetry">She bent her face above,<br /> + She kissed him and she smiled;<br /> +She soothed him as a mother<br /> + May sooth a frightened child.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Just that little pang, love,<br /> + Just a throb of pain,<br /> +And then your weary head<br /> + Between my breasts again.’</p> +<p class="poetry">He snatched the pistol up,<br /> + He pressed it to his ear;<br /> +But a sudden sound broke in,<br /> + And his skin was raw with fear.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page125"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +125</span>He took the hunting knife,<br /> + He tried to raise the blade;<br /> +It glimmered cold and white,<br /> + And he was sore afraid.</p> +<p class="poetry">He poured the potion out,<br /> + But it was thick and brown;<br /> +His throat was sealed against it,<br /> + And he could not drain it down.</p> +<p class="poetry">He looked to her for help,<br /> + And when he looked—behold!<br /> +His love was there before him<br /> + As in the days of old.</p> +<p class="poetry">He saw the drooping head,<br /> + He saw the gentle eyes;<br /> +He saw the same shy grace of hers<br /> + He had been wont to prize.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page126"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +126</span>She pointed and she smiled,<br /> + And lo! he was aware<br /> +Of a half-lit bedroom chamber<br /> + And a silent figure there.</p> +<p class="poetry">A silent figure lying<br /> + A-sprawl upon a bed,<br /> +With a silver-mounted pistol<br /> + Still clotted to his head.</p> +<p class="poetry">And as he downward gazed,<br /> + Her voice came full and clear,<br /> +The homely tender voice<br /> + Which he had loved to hear:</p> +<p class="poetry">‘The key is very certain,<br /> + The door is sealed to none.<br /> +You did it, oh, my darling!<br /> + And you never knew it done.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page127"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +127</span>‘When the net was broken,<br /> + You thought you felt its mesh;<br /> +You carried to the spirit<br /> + The troubles of the flesh.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘And are you trembling still, dear?<br /> + Then let me take your hand;<br /> +And I will lead you outward<br /> + To a sweet and restful land.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘You know how once in London<br /> + I put my griefs on you;<br /> +But I can carry yours now—<br /> + Most sweet it is to do!</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Most sweet it is to do, love,<br /> + And very sweet to plan<br /> +How I, the helpless woman,<br /> + Can help the helpful man.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page128"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +128</span>‘But let me see you smiling<br /> + With the smile I know so well;<br /> +Forget the world of shadows,<br /> + And the empty broken shell.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘It is the worn-out garment<br /> + In which you tore a rent;<br /> +You tossed it down, and carelessly<br /> + Upon your way you went.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘It is not <i>you</i>, my sweetheart,<br +/> + For you are here with me.<br /> +That frame was but the promise of<br /> + The thing that was to be—</p> +<p class="poetry">‘A tuning of the choir<br /> + Ere the harmonies begin;<br /> +And yet it is the image<br /> + Of the subtle thing within.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page129"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +129</span>‘There’s not a trick of body,<br /> + There’s not a trait of mind,<br /> +But you bring it over with you,<br /> + Ethereal, refined,</p> +<p class="poetry">‘But still the same; for surely<br /> + If we alter as we die,<br /> +You would be you no longer,<br /> + And I would not be I.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘I might be an angel,<br /> + But not the girl you knew;<br /> +You might be immaculate,<br /> + But that would not be you.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘And now I see you smiling,<br /> + So, darling, take my hand;<br /> +And I will lead you outward<br /> + To a sweet and pleasant land,</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page130"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +130</span>‘Where thought is clear and nimble,<br /> + Where life is pure and fresh,<br /> +Where the soul comes back rejoicing<br /> + From the mud-bath of the flesh</p> +<p class="poetry">‘But still that soul is human,<br /> + With human ways, and so<br /> +I love my love in spirit,<br /> + As I loved him long ago.’</p> +<p class="poetry">So with hands together<br /> + And fingers twining tight,<br /> +The two dead lovers drifted<br /> + In the golden morning light.</p> +<p class="poetry">But a grey-haired man was lying<br /> + Beneath them on a bed,<br /> +With a silver-mounted pistol<br /> + Still clotted to his head.</p> +<h2><a name="page131"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 131</span>THE +FRANKLIN’S MAID<br /> +(<i>From</i> ‘<i>The White Company</i>’)</h2> +<p class="poetry">The franklin he hath gone to roam,<br /> +The franklin’s maid she bides at home;<br /> +But she is cold, and coy, and staid,<br /> +And who may win the franklin’s maid?</p> +<p class="poetry">There came a knight of high renown<br /> +In bassinet and ciclatoun;<br /> +On bended knee full long he prayed—<br /> +He might not win the franklin’s maid.</p> +<p class="poetry">There came a squire so debonair,<br /> +His dress was rich, his words were fair.<br /> +He sweetly sang, he deftly played—<br /> +He could not win the franklin’s maid.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page132"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +132</span>There came a mercer wonder-fine,<br /> +With velvet cap and gaberdine;<br /> +For all his ships, for all his trade,<br /> +He could not buy the franklin’s maid.</p> +<p class="poetry">There came an archer bold and true,<br /> +With bracer guard and stave of yew;<br /> +His purse was light, his jerkin frayed—<br /> +Haro, alas! the franklin’s maid!</p> +<p class="poetry">Oh, some have laughed and some have cried,<br +/> +And some have scoured the countryside;<br /> +But off they ride through wood and glade,<br /> +The bowman and the franklin’s maid.</p> +<h2><a name="page133"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 133</span>THE +OLD HUNTSMAN</h2> +<p class="poetry">There’s a keen and grim old huntsman<br +/> + On a horse as white as snow;<br /> +Sometimes he is very swift<br /> + And sometimes he is slow.<br /> +But he never is at fault,<br /> + For he always hunts at view<br /> +And he rides without a halt<br /> + After you.</p> +<p class="poetry">The huntsman’s name is Death,<br /> + His horse’s name is Time;<br /> +He is coming, he is coming<br /> + As I sit and write this rhyme;<br /> +<a name="page134"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 134</span>He is +coming, he is coming,<br /> + As you read the rhyme I write;<br /> +You can hear the hoofs’ low drumming<br /> + Day and night.</p> +<p class="poetry">You can hear the distant drumming<br /> + As the clock goes tick-a-tack,<br /> +And the chiming of the hours<br /> + Is the music of his pack.<br /> +You may hardly note their growling<br /> + Underneath the noonday sun,<br /> +But at night you hear them howling<br /> + As they run.</p> +<p class="poetry">And they never check or falter<br /> + For they never miss their kill;<br /> +Seasons change and systems alter,<br /> + But the hunt is running still.<br /> +<a name="page135"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 135</span>Hark! +the evening chime is playing,<br /> + O’er the long grey town it peals;<br /> +Don’t you hear the death-hound baying<br /> + At your heels?</p> +<p class="poetry">Where is there an earth or burrow?<br /> + Where a cover left for you?<br /> +A year, a week, perhaps to-morrow<br /> + Brings the Huntsman’s death halloo!<br /> +Day by day he gains upon us,<br /> + And the most that we can claim<br /> +Is that when the hounds are on us<br /> + We die game.</p> +<p class="poetry">And somewhere dwells the Master,<br /> + By whom it was decreed;<br /> +He sent the savage huntsman,<br /> + He bred the snow-white steed.<br /> +<a name="page136"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 136</span>These +hounds which run for ever,<br /> + He set them on your track;<br /> +He hears you scream, but never<br /> + Calls them back.</p> +<p class="poetry">He does not heed our suing,<br /> + We never see his face;<br /> +He hunts to our undoing,<br /> + We thank him for the chase.<br /> +We thank him and we flatter,<br /> + We hope—because we must—<br /> +But have we cause? No matter!<br /> + Let us trust!</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">PRINTED +BY</span><br /> +<span class="GutSmall">SPOTTISWOODE SALLANTYNE AND CO., LTD., +LONDON</span><br /> +<span class="GutSmall">COLCHESTER AND ETON</span></p> + +<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SONGS OF ACTION ***</div> +<div style='text-align:left'> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will +be renamed. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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