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diff --git a/4295-0.txt b/4295-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..5a01165 --- /dev/null +++ b/4295-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2604 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook of Songs of Action, by A. Conan Doyle + +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 +www.gutenberg.org. 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. + +Title: Songs of Action + +Author: A. Conan Doyle + +Release Date: December 31, 2001 [eBook #4295] +[Most recently updated: July 22, 2021] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +Produced by: David Price + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SONGS OF ACTION *** + + + + + [Picture: Book Cover] + + + + + + SONGS OF ACTION + + + BY A. CONAN DOYLE + + AUTHOR OF ‘MICAH CLARKE’ ‘THE WHITE COMPANY’ + ‘RODNEY STONE’ ‘UNCLE BERNAC’ ETC. + + * * * * * + + _SEVENTH IMPRESSION_ + + * * * * * + + LONDON + JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET, W. + 1916 + + * * * * * + + [All rights reserved] + + + + +CONTENTS + +THE SONG OF THE BOW 1 +CREMONA 4 +THE STORMING PARTY 13 +THE FRONTIER LINE 18 +CORPORAL DICK’S PROMOTION 21 +A FORGOTTEN TALE 28 +PENNARBY MINE 31 +A ROVER CHANTY 35 +A BALLAD OF THE RANKS 40 +A LAY OF THE LINKS 46 +THE DYING WHIP 49 +MASTER 61 +H.M.S. ‘FOUDROYANT’ 63 +THE FARNSHIRE CUP 67 +THE GROOM’S STORY 77 +WITH THE CHIDDINGFOLDS 88 +A HUNTING MORNING 91 +THE OLD GRAY FOX 96 +’WARE HOLES 101 +THE HOME-COMING OF THE ‘EURYDICE’ 105 +THE INNER ROOM 109 +THE IRISH COLONEL 114 +THE BLIND ARCHER 115 +A PARABLE 118 +A TRAGEDY 119 +THE PASSING 121 +THE FRANKLIN’S MAID 131 +THE OLD HUNTSMAN 133 + + + + +THE SONG OF THE BOW + + + What of the bow? + The bow was made in England: + Of true wood, of yew-wood, + The wood of English bows; + So men who are free + Love the old yew-tree + And the land where the yew-tree grows. + + What of the cord? + The cord was made in England: + A rough cord, a tough cord, + A cord that bowmen love; + And so we will sing + Of the hempen string + And the land where the cord was wove. + + What of the shaft? + The shaft was cut in England: + A long shaft, a strong shaft, + Barbed and trim and true; + So we’ll drink all together + To the grey goose-feather + And the land where the grey goose flew. + + What of the mark? + Ah, seek it not in England, + A bold mark, our old mark + Is waiting over-sea. + When the strings harp in chorus, + And the lion flag is o’er us, + It is there that our mark will be. + + What of the men? + The men were bred in England: + The bowmen—the yeomen, + The lads of dale and fell. + Here’s to you—and to you! + To the hearts that are true + And the land where the true hearts dwell. + + + + +CREMONA + + +[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.] + + The Grenadiers of Austria are proper men and tall; + The Grenadiers of Austria have scaled the city wall; + They have marched from far away + Ere the dawning of the day, + And the morning saw them masters of Cremona. + + There’s not a man to whisper, there’s not a horse to neigh; + Of the footmen of Lorraine and the riders of Duprés, + They have crept up every street, + In the market-place they meet, + They are holding every vantage in Cremona. + + The Marshal Villeroy he has started from his bed; + The Marshal Villeroy has no wig upon his head; + ‘I have lost my men!’ quoth he, + ‘And my men they have lost me, + And I sorely fear we both have lost Cremona.’ + + Prince Eugène of Austria is in the market-place; + Prince Eugène of Austria has smiles upon his face; + Says he, ‘Our work is done, + For the Citadel is won, + And the black and yellow flag flies o’er Cremona.’ + + Major Dan O’Mahony is in the barrack square, + And just six hundred Irish lads are waiting for him there; + Says he, ‘Come in your shirt, + And you won’t take any hurt, + For the morning air is pleasant in Cremona.’ + + Major Dan O’Mahony is at the barrack gate, + And just six hundred Irish lads will neither stay nor wait; + There’s Dillon and there’s Burke, + And there’ll be some bloody work + Ere the Kaiserlics shall boast they hold Cremona. + + Major Dan O’Mahony has reached the river fort, + And just six hundred Irish lads are joining in the sport; + ‘Come, take a hand!’ says he, + ‘And if you will stand by me, + Then it’s glory to the man who takes Cremona!’ + + Prince Eugène of Austria has frowns upon his face, + And loud he calls his Galloper of Irish blood and race: + ‘MacDonnell, ride, I pray, + To your countrymen, and say + That only they are left in all Cremona!’ + + MacDonnell he has reined his mare beside the river dyke, + And he has tied the parley flag upon a sergeant’s pike; + Six companies were there + From Limerick and Clare, + The last of all the guardians of Cremona. + + ‘Now, Major Dan O’Mahony, give up the river gate, + Or, Major Dan O’Mahony, you’ll find it is too late; + For when I gallop back + ’Tis the signal for attack, + And no quarter for the Irish in Cremona!’ + + And Major Dan he laughed: ‘Faith, if what you say be true, + And if they will not come until they hear again from you, + Then there will be no attack, + For you’re never going back, + And we’ll keep you snug and safely in Cremona.’ + + All the weary day the German stormers came, + All the weary day they were faced by fire and flame, + They have filled the ditch with dead, + And the river’s running red; + But they cannot win the gateway of Cremona. + + All the weary day, again, again, again, + The horsemen of Duprés and the footmen of Lorraine, + Taafe and Herberstein, + And the riders of the Rhine; + It’s a mighty price they’re paying for Cremona. + + Time and time they came with the deep-mouthed German roar, + Time and time they broke like the wave upon the shore; + For better men were there + From Limerick and Clare, + And who will take the gateway of Cremona? + + Prince Eugène has watched, and he gnaws his nether lip; + Prince Eugène has cursed as he saw his chances slip: + ‘Call off! Call off!’ he cried, + ‘It is nearing eventide, + And I fear our work is finished in Cremona.’ + + Says Wauchop to McAulliffe, ‘Their fire is growing slack.’ + Says Major Dan O’Mahony, ‘It is their last attack; + But who will stop the game + While there’s light to play the same, + And to walk a short way with them from Cremona?’ + + And so they snarl behind them, and beg them turn and come, + They have taken Neuberg’s standard, they have taken Diak’s drum; + And along the winding Po, + Beard on shoulder, stern and slow + The Kaiserlics are riding from Cremona. + + Just two hundred Irish lads are shouting on the wall; + Four hundred more are lying who can hear no slogan call; + But what’s the odds of that, + For it’s all the same to Pat + If he pays his debt in Dublin or Cremona. + + Says General de Vaudray, ‘You’ve done a soldier’s work! + And every tongue in France shall talk of Dillon and of Burke! + Ask what you will this day, + And be it what it may, + It is granted to the heroes of Cremona.’ + + ‘Why, then,’ says Dan O’Mahony, ‘one favour we entreat, + We were called a little early, and our toilet’s not complete. + We’ve no quarrel with the shirt, + But the breeches wouldn’t hurt, + For the evening air is chilly in Cremona.’ + + + + +THE STORMING PARTY + + + Said Paul Leroy to Barrow, + ‘Though the breach is steep and narrow, + If we only gain the summit + Then it’s odds we hold the fort. + I have ten and you have twenty, + And the thirty should be plenty, + With Henderson and Henty + And McDermott in support.’ + + Said Barrow to Leroy, + ‘It’s a solid job, my boy, + For they’ve flanked it, and they’ve banked it, + And they’ve bored it with a mine. + But it’s only fifty paces + Ere we look them in the faces; + And the men are in their places, + With their toes upon the line.’ + + Said Paul Leroy to Barrow, + ‘See that first ray, like an arrow, + How it tinges all the fringes + Of the sullen drifting skies. + They told me to begin it + At five-thirty to the minute, + And at thirty-one I’m in it, + Or my sub will get his rise. + + ‘So we’ll wait the signal rocket, + Till . . . Barrow, show that locket, + That turquoise-studded locket, + Which you slipped from out your pocket + And are pressing with a kiss! + Turquoise-studded, spiral-twisted, + It is hers! And I had missed it + From her chain; and you have kissed it: + Barrow, villain, what is this?’ + + ‘Leroy, I had a warning, + That my time has come this morning, + So I speak with frankness, scorning + To deny the thing that’s true. + Yes, it’s Amy’s, is the trinket, + Little turquoise-studded trinket, + Not her gift—oh, never think it! + For her thoughts were all for you. + + ‘As we danced I gently drew it + From her chain—she never knew it + But I love her—yes, I love her: + I am candid, I confess. + But I never told her, never, + For I knew ’twas vain endeavour, + And she loved you—loved you ever, + Would to God she loved you less!’ + + ‘Barrow, Barrow, you shall pay me! + Me, your comrade, to betray me! + Well I know that little Amy + Is as true as wife can be. + She to give this love-badged locket! + She had rather . . . Ha, the rocket! + Hi, McDougall! Sound the bugle! + Yorkshires, Yorkshires, follow me!’ + + * * * * * + + Said Paul Leroy to Amy, + ‘Well, wifie, you may blame me, + For my passion overcame me, + When he told me of his shame; + But when I saw him lying, + Dead amid a ring of dying, + Why, poor devil, I was trying + To forget, and not to blame. + + ‘And this locket, I unclasped it + From the fingers that still grasped it: + He told me how he got it, + How he stole it in a valse.’ + And she listened leaden-hearted: + Oh, the weary day they parted! + For she loved him—yes, she loved him— + For his youth and for his truth, + And for those dying words, so false. + + + + +THE FRONTIER LINE + + + What marks the frontier line? + Thou man of India, say! + Is it the Himalayas sheer, + The rocks and valleys of Cashmere, + Or Indus as she seeks the south + From Attoch to the fivefold mouth? + ‘Not that! Not that!’ + Then answer me, I pray! + What marks the frontier line? + + What marks the frontier line? + Thou man of Burmah, speak! + Is it traced from Mandalay, + And down the marches of Cathay, + From Bhamo south to Kiang-mai, + And where the buried rubies lie? + ‘Not that! Not that!’ + Then tell me what I seek: + What marks the frontier line? + + What marks the frontier line? + Thou Africander, say! + Is it shown by Zulu kraal, + By Drakensberg or winding Vaal, + Or where the Shiré waters seek + Their outlet east at Mozambique? + ‘Not that! Not that! + There is a surer way + To mark the frontier line.’ + + What marks the frontier line? + Thou man of Egypt, tell! + Is it traced on Luxor’s sand, + Where Karnak’s painted pillars stand, + Or where the river runs between + The Ethiop and Bishareen? + ‘Not that! Not that! + By neither stream nor well + We mark the frontier line. + + ‘But be it east or west, + One common sign we bear, + The tongue may change, the soil, the sky, + But where your British brothers lie, + The lonely cairn, the nameless grave, + Still fringe the flowing Saxon wave. + ’Tis that! ’Tis where + _They_ lie—the men who placed it there, + That marks the frontier line.’ + + + + +CORPORAL DICK’S PROMOTION +A BALLAD OF ’82 + + + The Eastern day was well-nigh o’er + When, parched with thirst and travel sore, + Two of McPherson’s flanking corps + Across the Desert were tramping. + They had wandered off from the beaten track + And now were wearily harking back, + Ever staring round for the signal jack + That marked their comrades camping. + + The one was Corporal Robert Dick, + Bearded and burly, short and thick, + Rough of speech and in temper quick, + A hard-faced old rapscallion. + The other, fresh from the barrack square, + Was a raw recruit, smooth-cheeked and fair + Half grown, half drilled, with the weedy air + Of a draft from the home battalion. + + Weary and parched and hunger-torn, + They had wandered on from early morn, + And the young boy-soldier limped forlorn, + Now stumbling and now falling. + Around the orange sand-curves lay, + Flecked with boulders, black or grey, + Death-silent, save that far away + A kite was shrilly calling. + + A kite? Was _that_ a kite? The yell + That shrilly rose and faintly fell? + No kite’s, and yet the kite knows well + The long-drawn wild halloo. + And right athwart the evening sky + The yellow sand-spray spurtled high, + And shrill and shriller swelled the cry + Of ‘Allah! Allahu!’ + + The Corporal peered at the crimson West, + Hid his pipe in his khaki vest. + Growled out an oath and onward pressed, + Still glancing over his shoulder. + ‘Bedouins, mate!’ he curtly said; + ‘We’ll find some work for steel and lead, + And maybe sleep in a sandy bed, + Before we’re one hour older. + + ‘But just one flutter before we’re done. + Stiffen your lip and stand, my son; + We’ll take this bloomin’ circus on: + Ball-cartridge load! Now, steady!’ + With a curse and a prayer the two faced round, + Dogged and grim they stood their ground, + And their breech-blocks snapped with a crisp clean sound + As the rifles sprang to the ‘ready.’ + + Alas for the Emir Ali Khan! + A hundred paces before his clan, + That ebony steed of the prophet’s breed + Is the foal of death and of danger. + A spurt of fire, a gasp of pain, + A blueish blurr on the yellow plain, + The chief was down, and his bridle rein + Was in the grip of the stranger. + + With the light of hope on his rugged face, + The Corporal sprang to the dead man’s place, + One prick with the steel, one thrust with the heel, + And where was the man to outride him? + A grip of his knees, a toss of his rein, + He was settling her down to her gallop again, + When he stopped, for he heard just one faltering word + From the young recruit beside him. + + One faltering word from pal to pal, + But it found the heart of the Corporal. + He had sprung to the sand, he had lent him a hand, + ‘Up, mate! They’ll be ’ere in a minute; + Off with you! No palaver! Go! + I’ll bide be’ind and run this show. + Promotion has been cursed slow, + And this is my chance to win it.’ + + Into the saddle he thrust him quick, + Spurred the black mare with a bayonet prick. + Watched her gallop with plunge and with kick + Away o’er the desert careering. + Then he turned with a softened face, + And loosened the strap of his cartridge-case, + While his thoughts flew back to the dear old place + In the sunny Hampshire clearing. + + The young boy-private, glancing back, + Saw the Bedouins’ wild attack, + And heard the sharp Martini crack. + But as he gazed, already + The fierce fanatic Arab band + Was closing in on every hand, + Until one tawny swirl of sand, + Concealed them in its eddy. + + * * * * * + + A squadron of British horse that night, + Galloping hard in the shadowy light, + Came on the scene of that last stern fight, + And found the Corporal lying + Silent and grim on the trampled sand, + His rifle grasped in his stiffened hand, + With the warrior pride of one who died + ’Mid a ring of the dead and the dying. + + And still when twilight shadows fall, + After the evening bugle call, + In bivouac or in barrack-hall, + His comrades speak of the Corporal, + His death and his devotion. + And there are some who like to say + That perhaps a hidden meaning lay + In the words he spoke, and that the day + When his rough bold spirit passed away + _Was_ the day that he won promotion. + + + + +A FORGOTTEN TALE + + +[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.] + + ‘Say, what saw you on the hill, + Campesino Garcia?’ + ‘I saw my brindled heifer there, + A trail of bowmen, spent and bare, + And a little man on a sorrel mare + Riding slow before them.’ + + ‘Say, what saw you in the vale, + Campesino Garcia?’ + ‘There I saw my lambing ewe + And an army riding through, + Thick and brave the pennons flew + From the lances o’er them.’ + + ‘Then what saw you on the hill, + Campesino Garcia?’ + ‘I saw beside the milking byre, + White with want and black with mire, + The little man with eyes afire + Marshalling his bowmen.’ + + ‘Then what saw you in the vale, + Campesino Garcia?’ + ‘There I saw my bullocks twain, + And amid my uncut grain + All the hardy men of Spain + Spurring for their foemen.’ + + ‘Nay, but there is more to tell, + Campesino Garcia!’ + ‘I could not bide the end to view; + I had graver things to do + Tending on the lambing ewe + Down among the clover.’ + + ‘Ah, but tell me what you heard, + Campesino Garcia!’ + ‘Shouting from the mountain-side, + Shouting until eventide; + But it dwindled and it died + Ere milking time was over.’ + + ‘Nay, but saw you nothing more, + Campesino Garcia?’ + ‘Yes, I saw them lying there, + The little man and sorrel mare; + And in their ranks the bowmen fair, + With their staves before them.’ + + ‘And the hardy men of Spain, + Campesino Garcia?’ + ‘Hush! but we are Spanish too; + More I may not say to you: + May God’s benison, like dew, + Gently settle o’er them.’ + + + + +PENNARBY MINE + + + Pennarby shaft is dark and steep, + Eight foot wide, eight hundred deep. + Stout the bucket and tough the cord, + Strong as the arm of Winchman Ford. + ‘Never look down! + Stick to the line!’ + That was the saying at Pennarby mine. + + A stranger came to Pennarby shaft. + Lord, to see how the miners laughed! + White in the collar and stiff in the hat, + With his patent boots and his silk cravat, + Picking his way, + Dainty and fine, + Stepping on tiptoe to Pennarby mine. + + Touring from London, so he said. + Was it copper they dug for? or gold? or lead? + Where did they find it? How did it come? + If he tried with a shovel might _he_ get some? + Stooping so much + Was bad for the spine; + And wasn’t it warmish in Pennarby mine? + + ’Twas like two worlds that met that day— + The world of work and the world of play; + And the grimy lads from the reeking shaft + Nudged each other and grinned and chaffed. + ‘Got ’em all out!’ + ‘A cousin of mine!’ + So ran the banter at Pennarby mine. + + And Carnbrae Bob, the Pennarby wit, + Told him the facts about the pit: + How they bored the shaft till the brimstone smell + Warned them off from tapping—well, + He wouldn’t say what, + But they took it as sign + To dig no deeper in Pennarby mine. + + Then leaning over and peering in, + He was pointing out what he said was tin + In the ten-foot lode—a crash! a jar! + A grasping hand and a splintered bar. + Gone in his strength, + With the lips that laughed— + Oh, the pale faces round Pennarby shaft! + + Far down on a narrow ledge, + They saw him cling to the crumbling edge. + ‘Wait for the bucket! Hi, man! Stay! + That rope ain’t safe! It’s worn away! + He’s taking his chance, + Slack out the line! + Sweet Lord be with him!’ cried Pennarby mine. + + ‘He’s got him! He has him! Pull with a will! + Thank God! He’s over and breathing still. + And he—Lord’s sakes now! What’s that? Well! + Blowed if it ain’t our London swell. + Your heart is right + If your coat _is_ fine: + Give us your hand!’ cried Pennarby mine. + + + + +A ROVER CHANTY + + + A trader sailed from Stepney town— + Wake her up! Shake her up! Try her with the mainsail! + A trader sailed from Stepney town + With a keg full of gold and a velvet gown: + Ho, the bully rover Jack, + Waiting with his yard aback + Out upon the Lowland sea! + + The trader he had a daughter fair— + Wake her up! Shake her up! Try her with the foresail + The trader he had a daughter fair, + She had gold in her ears, and gold in her hair: + All for bully rover Jack, + Waiting with his yard aback, + Out upon the Lowland sea! + + ‘Alas the day, oh daughter mine!’— + Shake her up! Wake her up! Try her with the topsail! + ‘Alas the day, oh daughter mine! + Yon red, red flag is a fearsome sign!’ + Ho, the bully rover Jack, + Reaching on the weather tack, + Out upon the Lowland sea! + + ‘A fearsome flag!’ the maiden cried— + Wake her up! Shake her up! Try her with the jibsail! + ‘A fearsome flag!’ the maiden cried, + But comelier men I never have spied!’ + Ho, the bully rover Jack, + Reaching on the weather tack, + Out upon the Lowland sea! + + There’s a wooden path that the rovers know— + Wake her up! Shake her up! Try her with the headsails! + There’s a wooden path that the rovers know, + Where none come back, though many must go: + Ho, the bully rover Jack, + Lying with his yard aback, + Out upon the Lowland sea! + + Where is the trader of Stepney town?— + Wake her up! Shake her up! Every stick a-bending! + Where is the trader of Stepney town? + There’s gold on the capstan, and blood on the gown: + Ho for bully rover Jack, + Waiting with his yard aback, + Out upon the Lowland sea! + + Where is the maiden who knelt at his side?— + Wake her up! Shake her up! Every stitch a-drawing! + Where is the maiden who knelt at his side? + We gowned her in scarlet, and chose her our bride: + Ho, the bully rover Jack, + Reaching on the weather tack, + Right across the Lowland sea! + + So it’s up and its over to Stornoway Bay, + Pack it on! Crack it on! Try her with the stunsails! + It’s off on a bowline to Stornoway Bay, + Where the liquor is good and the lasses are gay: + Waiting for their bully Jack, + Watching for him sailing back, + Right across the Lowland sea. + + + + +A BALLAD OF THE RANKS + + + Who carries the gun? + A lad from over the Tweed. + Then let him go, for well we know + He comes of a soldier breed. + So drink together to rock and heather, + Out where the red deer run, + And stand aside for Scotland’s pride— + The man that carries the gun! + For the Colonel rides before, + The Major’s on the flank, + The Captains and the Adjutant + Are in the foremost rank. + But when it’s ‘Action front!’ + And fighting’s to be done, + Come one, come all, you stand or fall + By the man who holds the gun. + + Who carries the gun? + A lad from a Yorkshire dale. + Then let him go, for well we know + The heart that never will fail. + Here’s to the fire of Lancashire, + And here’s to her soldier son! + For the hard-bit north has sent him forth— + The lad that carries the gun. + + Who carries the gun? + A lad from a Midland shire. + Then let him go, for well we know + He comes of an English sire. + Here’s a glass to a Midland lass, + And each can choose the one, + But east and west we claim the best + For the man that carries the gun. + + Who carries the gun? + A lad from the hills of Wales. + Then let him go, for well we know, + That Taffy is hard as nails. + There are several ll’s in the place where he dwells, + And of w’s more than one, + With a ‘Llan’ and a ‘pen,’ but it breeds good men, + And it’s they who carry the gun. + + Who carries the gun? + A lad from the windy west. + Then let him go, for well we know + That he is one of the best. + There’s Bristol rough, and Gloucester tough, + And Devon yields to none. + Or you may get in Somerset + Your lad to carry the gun. + + Who carries the gun? + A lad from London town. + Then let him go, for well we know + The stuff that never backs down. + He has learned to joke at the powder smoke, + For he is the fog-smoke’s son, + And his heart is light and his pluck is right— + The man who carries the gun. + + Who carries the gun? + A lad from the Emerald Isle. + Then let him go, for well we know, + We’ve tried him many a while. + We’ve tried him east, we’ve tried him west, + We’ve tried him sea and land, + But the man to beat old Erin’s best + Has never yet been planned. + + Who carries the gun? + It’s you, and you, and you; + So let us go, and we won’t say no + If they give us a job to do. + Here we stand with a cross-linked hand, + Comrades every one; + So one last cup, and drink it up + To the man who carries the gun! + For the Colonel rides before, + The Major’s on the flank, + The Captains and the Adjutant + Are in the foremost rank. + And when it’s ‘Action front!’ + And there’s fighting to be done, + Come one, come all, you stand or fall + By the man who holds the gun. + + + + +A LAY OF THE LINKS + + + It’s up and away from our work to-day, + For the breeze sweeps over the down; + And it’s hey for a game where the gorse blossoms flame, + And the bracken is bronzing to brown. + With the turf ’neath our tread and the blue overhead, + And the song of the lark in the whin; + There’s the flag and the green, with the bunkers between— + Now will you be over or in? + + The doctor may come, and we’ll teach him to know + A tee where no tannin can lurk; + The soldier may come, and we’ll promise to show + Some hazards a soldier may shirk; + The statesman may joke, as he tops every stroke, + That at last he is high in his aims; + And the clubman will stand with a club in his hand + That is worth every club in St. James’. + + The palm and the leather come rarely together, + Gripping the driver’s haft, + And it’s good to feel the jar of the steel + And the spring of the hickory shaft. + Why trouble or seek for the praise of a clique? + A cleek here is common to all; + And the lie that might sting is a very small thing + When compared with the lie of the ball. + + Come youth and come age, from the study or stage, + From Bar or from Bench—high and low! + A green you must use as a cure for the blues— + You drive them away as you go. + We’re outward bound on a long, long round, + And it’s time to be up and away: + If worry and sorrow come back with the morrow, + At least we’ll be happy to-day. + + + + +THE DYING WHIP + + + It came from gettin’ ’eated, that was ’ow the thing begun, + And ’ackin’ back to kennels from a ninety-minute run; + ‘I guess I’ve copped brownchitis,’ says I to brother Jack, + An’ then afore I knowed it I was down upon my back. + + At night there came a sweatin’ as left me deadly weak, + And my throat was sort of tickly an’ it ’urt me for to speak; + An’ then there came an ’ackin’ cough as wouldn’t leave alone, + An’ then afore I knowed it I was only skin and bone + + I never was a ’eavy weight. I scaled at seven four, + An’ rode at eight, or maybe at just a trifle more; + And now I’ll stake my davy I wouldn’t scale at five, + And I’d ’old my own at catch-weights with the skinniest jock alive. + + And the doctor says the reason why I sit an’ cough an wheeze + Is all along o’ varmint, like the cheese-mites in the cheese; + The smallest kind o’ varmint, but varmint all the same, + Microscopes or somethin’—I forget the varmints’ name. + + But I knows as I’m a goner. They never said as much, + But I reads the people’s faces, and I knows as I am such; + Well, there’s ’Urst to mind the ’orses and the ’ounds can look to + Jack, + Though ’e never was a patch on me in ’andlin’ of a pack. + + You’ll maybe think I’m boastin’, but you’ll find they all agree + That there’s not a whip in Surrey as can ’andle ’ounds like me; + For I knew ’em all from puppies, and I’d tell ’em without fail— + If I seed a tail a-waggin’, I could tell who wagged the tail. + + And voices—why, Lor’ love you, it’s more than I can ’elp, + It just comes kind of natural to know each whine an’ yelp; + You might take them twenty couple where you will and let ’em run, + An’ I’d listen by the coverside and name ’em one by one. + + I say it’s kind of natural, for since I was a brat + I never cared for readin’ books, or fancy things like that; + But give me ’ounds and ’orses an’ I was quite content, + An’ I loved to ear ’em talkin’ and to wonder what they meant. + + And when the ’ydrophoby came five year ago next May, + When Nailer was be’avin’ in a most owdacious way, + I fixed ’im so’s ’e couldn’t bite, my ’ands on neck an’ back, + An’ I ’eaved ’im from the kennels, and they say I saved the pack. + + An’ when the Master ’eard of it, ’e up an’ says, says ’e, + ‘If that chap were a soldier man, they’d give ’im the V.C.’ + Which is some kind a’ medal what they give to soldier men; + An’ Master said if I were such I would ’a’ got it then. + + Parson brought ’is Bible and come to read to me; + ‘’Ave what you like, there’s everythink within this Book,’ says ’e. + Says I, ‘They’ve left the ’orses out!’ Says ’e, ‘You are mistook;’ + An’ ’e up an’ read a ’eap of things about them from the Book. + + And some of it amazin’ fine; although I’m fit to swear + No ’orse would ever say ‘Ah, ah!’ same as they said it there. + Per’aps it was an ’Ebrew ’orse the chap ’ad in his mind, + But I never ’eard an English ’orse say nothin’ of the kind. + + Parson is a good ’un. I’ve known ’im from a lad; + ’Twas me as taught ’im ridin’, an’ ’e rides uncommon bad; + And he says—But ’ark an’ listen! There’s an ’orn! I ’eard it blow; + Pull the blind from off the winder! Prop me up, and ’old me so. + + They’re drawin’ the black ’anger, just aside the Squire’s grounds. + ’Ark and listen! ’Ark and listen! There’s the yappin’ of the ’ounds: + There’s Fanny and Beltinker, and I ’ear old Boxer call; + You see I wasn’t boastin’ when I said I knew ’em all. + + Let me sit an’ ’old the bedrail! Now I see ’em as they pass: + There’s Squire upon the Midland mare, a good ’un on the grass; + But this is closish country, and you wants a clever ’orse + When ’alf the time you’re in the woods an’ ’alf among the gorse. + + ’Ark to Jack a’ollering—a-bleatin’ like a lamb. + You wouldn’t think it now, perhaps, to see the thing I am; + But there was a time the ladies used to linger at the meet + Just to ’ear me callin’ in the woods: my callin’ was so sweet. + + I see the crossroads corner, with the field awaitin’ there, + There’s Purcell on ’is piebald ’orse, an’ Doctor on the mare, + And the Master on ’is iron grey; she isn’t much to look, + But I seed ’er do clean twenty foot across the ’eathly brook. + + There’s Captain Kane an’ McIntyre an’ ’alf a dozen more, + And two or three are ’untin’ whom I never seed afore; + Likely-lookin’ chaps they be, well groomed and ’orsed and dressed— + I wish they could ’a seen the pack when it was at its best. + + It’s a check, and they are drawin’ down the coppice for a scent, + You can see as they’ve been runnin’, for the ’orses they are spent; + I’ll lay the fox will break this way, downwind as sure as fate, + An’ if he does you’ll see the field come poundin’ through our gate. + + But, Maggie, what’s that slinkin’ beside the cover?—See! + Now it’s in the clover field, and goin’ fast an’ free, + It’s ’im, and they don’t see ’im. It’s ’im! ’Alloo! ’Alloo! + My broken wind won’t run to it—I’ll leave the job to you. + + There now I ’ear the music, and I know they’re on his track; + Oh, watch ’em, Maggie, watch ’em! Ain’t they just a lovely pack! + I’ve nursed ’em through distemper, an’ I’ve trained an’ broke ’em in, + An’ my ’eart it just goes out to them as if they was my kin. + + Well, all things ’as an endin’, as I’ve ’eard the parson say, + The ’orse is cast, an’ the ’ound is past, an’ the ’unter ’as ’is day; + But my day was yesterday, so lay me down again. + You can draw the curtain, Maggie, right across the winder pane. + + + + +MASTER + + + Master went a-hunting, + When the leaves were falling; + We saw him on the bridle path, + We heard him gaily calling. + ‘Oh master, master, come you back, + For I have dreamed a dream so black!’ + A glint of steel from bit and heel, + The chestnut cantered faster; + A red flash seen amid the green, + And so good-bye to master. + + Master came from hunting, + Two silent comrades bore him; + His eyes were dim, his face was white, + The mare was led before him. + ‘Oh, master, master, is it thus + That you have come again to us?’ + I held my lady’s ice-cold hand, + They bore the hurdle past her; + Why should they go so soft and slow? + It matters not to master. + + + + +H.M.S. ‘FOUDROYANT’ + + +[_Being an humble address to Her Majesty’s Naval advisers_, _who sold +Nelson’s old flagship to the Germans for a thousand pounds_.] + + Who says the Nation’s purse is lean, + Who fears for claim or bond or debt, + When all the glories that have been + Are scheduled as a cash asset? + If times are black and trade is slack, + If coal and cotton fail at last, + We’ve something left to barter yet— + Our glorious past. + + There’s many a crypt in which lies hid + The dust of statesman or of king; + There’s Shakespeare’s home to raise a bid, + And Milton’s house its price would bring. + What for the sword that Cromwell drew? + What for Prince Edward’s coat of mail? + What for our Saxon Alfred’s tomb? + They’re all for sale! + + And stone and marble may be sold + Which serve no present daily need; + There’s Edward’s Windsor, labelled old, + And Wolsey’s palace, guaranteed. + St. Clement Danes and fifty fanes, + The Tower and the Temple grounds; + How much for these? Just price them, please, + In British pounds. + + You hucksters, have you still to learn, + The things which money will not buy? + Can you not read that, cold and stern + As we may be, there still does lie + Deep in our hearts a hungry love + For what concerns our island story? + We sell our work—perchance our lives, + But not our glory. + + Go barter to the knacker’s yard + The steed that has outlived its time! + Send hungry to the pauper ward + The man who served you in his prime! + But when you touch the Nation’s store, + Be broad your mind and tight your grip. + Take heed! And bring us back once more + Our Nelson’s ship. + + And if no mooring can be found + In all our harbours near or far, + Then tow the old three-decker round + To where the deep-sea soundings are; + There, with her pennon flying clear, + And with her ensign lashed peak high, + Sink her a thousand fathoms sheer. + There let her lie! + + + + +THE FARNSHIRE CUP + + + Christopher Davis was up upon Mavis + And Sammy MacGregor on Flo, + Jo Chauncy rode Spider, the rankest outsider, + But _he’d_ make a wooden horse go. + There was Robin and Leah and Boadicea, + And Chesterfield’s Son of the Sea; + And Irish Nuneaton, who never was beaten, + They backed her at seven to three. + + The course was the devil! A start on the level, + And then a stiff breather uphill; + A bank at the top with a four-foot drop, + And a bullfinch down by the mill. + A stretch of straight from the Whittlesea gate, + Then up and down and up; + And the mounts that stay through Farnshire clay + May bid for the Farnshire Cup. + + The tipsters were touting, the bookies were shouting + ‘Bar one, bar one, bar one!’ + With a glint and a glimmer of silken shimmer + The field shone bright in the sun, + When Farmer Brown came riding down: + ‘I hain’t much time to spare, + But I’ve entered her name, so I’ll play out the game, + On the back o’ my old gray mare. + + ‘You never would think ’er a thoroughbred clinker, + There’s never a judge that would; + Each leg be’ind ’as a splint, you’ll find, + And the fore are none too good. + She roars a bit, and she don’t look fit, + She’s moulted ’alf ’er ’air; + But—’ He smiled in a way that seemed to say, + That he knew that old gray mare. + + And the bookies laughed and the bookies chaffed, + ‘Who backs the mare?’ cried they. + ‘A hundred to one!’ ‘It’s done—and done!’ + ‘We’ll take that price all day.’ + ‘What if the mare is shedding hair! + What if her eye is wild! + We read her worth and her pedigree birth + In the smile that her owner smiled.’ + + And the whisper grew and the whisper flew + That she came of Isonomy stock. + ‘Fifty to one!’ ‘It’s done—and done! + Look at her haunch and hock! + Ill-groomed! Why yes, but one may guess + That that is her owner’s guile.’ + Ah, Farmer Brown, the sharps from town, + Have read your simple smile! + + They’ve weighed him in. ‘Now lose or win, + I’ve money at stake this day; + Gee-long, my sweet, and if we’re beat, + We’ll both do all we may!’ + He joins the rest, they line abreast, + ‘Back Leah! Mavis up!’ + The flag is dipped and the field is slipped, + Full split for the Farnshire Cup. + + Christopher Davis is leading on Mavis, + Spider is waiting on Flo; + Boadicea is gaining on Leah, + Irish Nuneaton lies low; + Robin is tailing, his wind has been failing, + Son of the Sea’s going fast: + So crack on the pace for it’s anyone’s race, + And the winner’s the horse that can last. + + Chestnut and bay, and sorrel and gray, + See how they glimmer and gleam! + Bending and straining, and losing and gaining, + Silk jackets flutter and stream; + They are over the grass as the cloud shadows pass, + They are up to the fence at the top; + It’s ‘hey then!’ and over, and into the clover, + There wasn’t one slip at the drop. + + They are all going still; they are round by the mill, + They are down by the Whittlesea gate; + Leah’s complaining, and Mavis is gaining, + And Flo’s catching up in the straight. + Robin’s gone wrong, but the Spider runs strong, + He sticks to the leader like wax; + An utter outsider, but look at his rider— + Jo Chauncy, the pick of the cracks! + + Robin was tailing and pecked at a paling, + Leah’s gone weak in her feet; + Boadicea came down at the railing, + Son of the Sea is dead beat. + Leather to leather, they’re pounding together, + Three of them all in a row; + And Irish Nuneaton, who never was beaten, + Is level with Spider and Flo. + + It’s into the straight from the Whittlesea gate, + Clean galloping over the green, + But four foot high the hurdles lie + With a sunken ditch between. + ’Tis a bit of a test for a beast at its best, + And the devil and all at its worst; + But it’s clear run in with the Cup to win + For the horse that is over it first. + + So try it, my beauties, and fly it, my beauties, + Spider, Nuneaton, and Flo; + With a trip and a blunder there’s one of them under, + Hark to it crashing below! + Is it the brown or the sorrel that’s down? + The brown! It is Flo who is in! + And Spider with Chauncy, the pick of the fancy, + Is going full split for a win. + + ‘Spider is winning!’ ‘Jo Chauncy is winning!’ + ‘He’s winning! He’s winning! Bravo!’ + The bookies are raving, the ladies are waving, + The Stand is all shouting for Jo. + The horse is clean done, but the race may be won + By the Newmarket lad on his back; + For the fire of the rider may bring an outsider + Ahead of a thoroughbred crack. + + ‘Spider is winning!’ ‘Jo Chauncy is winning!’ + It swells like the roar of the sea; + But Jo hears the drumming of somebody coming, + And sees a lean head by his knee. + ‘Nuneaton! Nuneaton! The Spider is beaten!’ + It is but a spurt at the most; + For lose it or win it, they have but a minute + Before they are up with the post. + + Nuneaton is straining, Nuneaton is gaining, + Neither will falter nor flinch; + Whips they are plying and jackets are flying, + They’re fairly abreast to an inch. + ‘Crack ’em up! Let ’em go! Well ridden! Bravo!’ + Gamer ones never were bred; + Jo Chauncy has done it! He’s spurted! He’s won it!’ + The favourite’s beat by a head! + + Don’t tell me of luck, for its judgment and pluck + And a courage that never will shirk; + To give your mind to it and know how to do it + And put all your heart in your work. + So here’s to the Spider, the winning outsider, + With little Jo Chauncy up; + May they stay life’s course, both jockey and horse, + As they stayed in the Farnshire Cup. + + But it’s possible that you are wondering what + May have happened to Farmer Brown, + And the old gray crock of Isonomy stock + Who was backed by the sharps from town. + She blew and she sneezed, she coughed and she wheezed, + She ran till her knees gave way. + But never a grumble at trip or at stumble + Was heard from her jock that day. + + For somebody laid _against_ the gray, + And somebody made a pile; + And Brown says he can make farming pay, + And he smiles a simple smile. + ‘Them sharps from town were riled,’ says Brown; + ‘But I can’t see why—can you? + For I said quite fair as I knew that mare, + And I proved my words was true.’ + + + + +THE GROOM’S STORY + + + Ten mile in twenty minutes! ’E done it, sir. That’s true. + The big bay ’orse in the further stall—the one wot’s next to you. + I’ve seen some better ’orses; I’ve seldom seen a wuss, + But ’e ’olds the bloomin’ record, an’ that’s good enough for us. + + We knew as it wa’s in ’im. ’E’s thoroughbred, three part, + We bought ’im for to race ’im, but we found ’e ’ad no ’eart; + For ’e was sad and thoughtful, and amazin’ dignified, + It seemed a kind o’ liberty to drive ’im or to ride; + + For ’e never seemed a-thinkin’ of what ’e ’ad to do, + But ’is thoughts was set on ’igher things, admirin’ of the view. + ’E looked a puffeck pictur, and a pictur ’e would stay, + ’E wouldn’t even switch ’is tail to drive the flies away. + + And yet we knew ’twas in ’im, we knew as ’e could fly; + But what we couldn’t git at was ’ow to make ’im try. + We’d almost turned the job up, until at last one day + We got the last yard out of ’im in a most amazin’ way. + + It was all along o’ master; which master ’as the name + Of a reg’lar true blue sportman, an’ always acts the same; + But we all ’as weaker moments, which master ’e ’ad one, + An’ ’e went and bought a motor-car when motor-cars begun. + + I seed it in the stable yard—it fairly turned me sick— + A greasy, wheezy engine as can neither buck nor kick. + You’ve a screw to drive it forrard, and a screw to make it stop, + For it was foaled in a smithy stove an’ bred in a blacksmith shop. + + It didn’t want no stable, it didn’t ask no groom, + It didn’t need no nothin’ but a bit o’ standin’ room. + Just fill it up with paraffin an’ it would go all day, + Which the same should be agin the law if I could ’ave my way. + + Well, master took ’is motor-car, an’ moted ’ere an’ there, + A frightenin’ the ’orses an’ a poisonin’ the air. + ’E wore a bloomin’ yachtin’ cap, but Lor’! wot _did_ ’e know, + Excep’ that if you turn a screw the thing would stop or go? + + An’ then one day it wouldn’t go. ’E screwed and screwed again, + But somethin’ jammed, an’ there ’e stuck in the mud of a country lane. + It ’urt ’is pride most cruel, but what was ’e to do? + So at last ’e bade me fetch a ’orse to pull the motor through. + + This was the ’orse we fetched ’im; an’ when we reached the car, + We braced ’im tight and proper to the middle of the bar, + And buckled up ’is traces and lashed them to each side, + While ’e ’eld ’is ’ead so ’aughtily, an’ looked most dignified. + + Not bad tempered, mind you, but kind of pained and vexed, + And ’e seemed to say, ‘Well, bli’ me! wot _will_ they ask me next? + I’ve put up with some liberties, but this caps all by far, + To be assistant engine to a crocky motor-car!’ + + Well, master ’e was in the car, a-fiddlin’ with the gear, + And the ’orse was meditatin’, an’ I was standin’ near, + When master ’e touched somethin’—what it was we’ll never know— + But it sort o’ spurred the boiler up and made the engine go. + + ‘’Old ’ard, old gal!’ says master, and ‘Gently then!’ says I, + But an engine won’t ’eed coaxin’ an’ it ain’t no use to try; + So first ’e pulled a lever, an’ then ’e turned a screw, + But the thing kept crawlin’ forrard spite of all that ’e could do. + + And first it went quite slowly and the ’orse went also slow, + But ’e ’ad to buck up faster when the wheels began to go; + For the car kept crowdin’ on ’im and buttin’ ’im along, + And in less than ’alf a minute, sir, that ’orse was goin’ strong. + + At first ’e walked quite dignified, an’ then ’e ’ad to trot, + And then ’e tried a canter when the pace became too ’ot. + ’E looked ’is very ’aughtiest, as if ’e didn’t ’e mind, + And all the time the motor-car was pushin’ ’im be’ind. + + Now, master lost ’is ’ead when ’e found ’e couldn’t stop, + And ’e pulled a valve or somethin’ an’ somethin’ else went pop, + An’ somethin’ else went fizzywiz, and in a flash, or less, + That blessed car was goin’ like a limited express. + + Master ’eld the steerin’ gear, an’ kept the road all right, + And away they whizzed and clattered—my aunt! it was a sight. + ’E seemed the finest draught ’orse as ever lived by far, + For all the country Juggins thought ’twas ’im wot pulled the car. + + ’E was stretchin’ like a grey’ound, ’e was goin’ all ’e knew; + But it bumped an’ shoved be’ind ’im, for all that ’e could do; + It butted ’im an’ boosted ’im an’ spanked ’im on a’ead, + Till ’e broke the ten-mile record, same as I already said. + + Ten mile in twenty minutes! ’E done it, sir. That’s true. + The only time we ever found what that ’ere ’orse could do. + Some say it wasn’t ’ardly fair, and the papers made a fuss, + But ’e broke the ten-mile record, and that’s good enough for us. + + You see that ’orse’s tail, sir? You don’t! No more do we, + Which really ain’t surprisin’, for ’e ’as no tail to see; + That engine wore it off ’im before master made it stop, + And all the road was littered like a bloomin’ barber’s shop. + + And master? Well, it cured ’im. ’E altered from that day, + And come back to ’is ’orses in the good old-fashioned way. + And if you wants to git the sack, the quickest way by far + Is to ’int as ’ow you think ’e ought to keep a motor-car. + + + + +WITH THE CHIDDINGFOLDS + + + The horse is bedded down + Where the straw lies deep. + The hound is in the kennel; + Let the poor hound sleep! + And the fox is in the spinney + By the run which he is haunting, + And I’ll lay an even guinea + That a goose or two is wanting + When the farmer comes to count them in the morning. + + The horse is up and saddled; + Girth the old horse tight! + The hounds are out and drawing + In the morning light. + Now it’s ‘Yoick!’ among the heather, + And it’s ‘Yoick!’ across the clover, + And it’s ‘To him, all together!’ + ‘Hyke a Bertha! Hyke a Rover!’ + And the woodlands smell so sweetly in the morning. + + ‘There’s Termagant a-whimpering; + She whimpers so.’ + ‘There’s a young hound yapping!’ + Let the young hound go! + But the old hound is cunning, + And it’s him we mean to follow, + ‘They are running! They are running! + And it’s ‘Forrard to the hollo!’ + For the scent is lying strongly in the morning. + + ‘Who’s the fool that heads him?’ + Hold hard, and let him pass! + He’s out among the oziers + He’s clear upon the grass. + You grip his flanks and settle, + For the horse is stretched and straining, + Here’s a game to test your mettle, + And a sport to try your training, + When the Chiddingfolds are running in the morning. + + We’re up by the Coppice + And we’re down by the Mill, + We’re out upon the Common, + And the hounds are running still. + You must tighten on the leather, + For we blunder through the bracken; + Though you’re over hocks in heather + Still the pace must never slacken + As we race through Thursley Common in the morning. + + We are breaking from the tangle + We are out upon the green, + There’s a bank and a hurdle + With a quickset between. + You must steady him and try it, + You are over with a scramble. + Here’s a wattle! You must fly it, + And you land among the bramble, + For it’s roughish, toughish going in the morning. + + ’Ware the bog by the Grove + As you pound through the slush. + See the whip! See the huntsman! + We are close upon his brush. + ’Ware the root that lies before you! + It will trip you if you blunder. + ’Ware the branch that’s drooping o’er you! + You must dip and swerve from under + As you gallop through the woodland in the morning. + + There were fifty at the find, + There were forty at the mill, + There were twenty on the heath, + And ten are going still. + Some are pounded, some are shirking, + And they dwindle and diminish + Till a weary pair are working, + Spent and blowing, to the finish, + And we hear the shrill whoo-ooping in the morning. + + The horse is bedded down + Where the straw lies deep, + The hound is in the kennel, + He is yapping in his sleep. + But the fox is in the spinney + Lying snug in earth and burrow. + And I’ll lay an even guinea + We could find again to-morrow, + If we chose to go a-hunting in the morning. + + + + +A HUNTING MORNING + + + Put the saddle on the mare, + For the wet winds blow; + There’s winter in the air, + And autumn all below. + For the red leaves are flying + And the red bracken dying, + And the red fox lying + Where the oziers grow. + + Put the bridle on the mare, + For my blood runs chill; + And my heart, it is there, + On the heather-tufted hill, + With the gray skies o’er us, + And the long-drawn chorus + Of a running pack before us + From the find to the kill. + + Then lead round the mare, + For it’s time that we began, + And away with thought and care, + Save to live and be a man, + While the keen air is blowing, + And the huntsman holloing, + And the black mare going + As the black mare can. + + + + +THE OLD GRAY FOX + + + We started from the Valley Pride, + And Farnham way we went. + We waited at the cover-side, + But never found a scent. + Then we tried the withy beds + Which grow by Frensham town, + And there we found the old gray fox, + The same old fox, + The game old fox; + Yes, there we found the old gray fox, + Which lives on Hankley Down. + So here’s to the master, + And here’s to the man! + And here’s to twenty couple + Of the white and black and tan! + Here’s a find without a wait! + Here’s a hedge without a gate! + Here’s the man who follows straight, + Where the old fox ran. + + The Member rode his thoroughbred, + Doctor had the gray, + The Soldier led on a roan red, + The Sailor rode the bay. + Squire was there on his Irish mare, + And Parson on the brown; + And so we chased the old gray fox, + The same old fox, + The game old fox, + And so we chased the old gray fox + Across the Hankley Down. + So here’s to the master, + And here’s to the man! + &c. &c. &c. + + The Doctor’s gray was going strong + Until she slipped and fell; + He had to keep his bed so long + His patients all got well. + The Member he had lost his seat, + ’Twas carried by his horse; + And so we chased the old gray fox, + The same old fox, + The game old fox; + And so we chased the old gray fox + That earthed in Hankley Gorse. + So here’s to the master, + And here’s to the man! + &c. &c. &c. + + The Parson sadly fell away, + And in the furze did lie; + The words we heard that Parson say + Made all the horses shy! + The Sailor he was seen no more + Upon that stormy bay; + But still we chased the old gray fox, + The same old fox, + The game old fox; + Still we chased the old gray fox + Through all the winter day. + So here’s to the master, + And here’s to the man! + &c. &c. &c. + + And when we found him gone to ground, + They sent for spade and man; + But Squire said ‘Shame! The beast was game! + A gamer never ran! + His wind and pace have gained the race, + His life is fairly won. + But may we meet the old gray fox, + The same old fox, + The game old fox; + May we meet the old gray fox + Before the year is done. + So here’s to the master, + And here’s to the man! + And here’s to twenty couple + Of the white and black and tan! + Here’s a find without await! + Here’s a hedge without a gate! + Here’s the man who follows straight, + Where the old fox ran. + + + + +’WARE HOLES + + +[‘’_Ware Holes!_’ _is the expression used in the hunting-field to warn +those behind against rabbit-burrows or other such dangers_.] + + A sportin’ death! My word it was! + An’ taken in a sportin’ way. + Mind you, I wasn’t there to see; + I only tell you what they say. + + They found that day at Shillinglee, + An’ ran ’im down to Chillinghurst; + The fox was goin’ straight an’ free + For ninety minutes at a burst. + + They ’ad a check at Ebernoe + An’ made a cast across the Down, + Until they got a view ’ullo + An’ chased ’im up to Kirdford town. + + From Kirdford ’e run Bramber way, + An’ took ’em over ’alf the Weald. + If you ’ave tried the Sussex clay, + You’ll guess it weeded out the field. + + Until at last I don’t suppose + As ’arf a dozen, at the most, + Came safe to where the grassland goes + Switchbackin’ southwards to the coast. + + Young Captain ’Eadley, ’e was there, + And Jim the whip an’ Percy Day; + The Purcells an’ Sir Charles Adair, + An’ this ’ere gent from London way. + + For ’e ’ad gone amazin’ fine, + Two ’undred pounds between ’is knees; + Eight stone he was, an’ rode at nine, + As light an’ limber as you please. + + ’E was a stranger to the ’Unt, + There weren’t a person as ’e knew there; + But ’e could ride, that London gent— + ’E sat ’is mare as if ’e grew there. + + They seed the ’ounds upon the scent, + But found a fence across their track, + And ’ad to fly it; else it meant + A turnin’ and a ’arkin’ back. + + ’E was the foremost at the fence, + And as ’is mare just cleared the rail + He turned to them that rode be’ind, + For three was at ’is very tail. + + ‘’Ware ’oles!’ says ’e, an’ with the word, + Still sittin’ easy on his mare, + Down, down ’e went, an’ down an’ down, + Into the quarry yawnin’ there. + + Some say it was two ’undred foot; + The bottom lay as black as ink. + I guess they ’ad some ugly dreams, + Who reined their ’orses on the brink. + + ’E’d only time for that one cry; + ‘’Ware ’oles!’ says ’e, an’ saves all three. + There may be better deaths to die, + But that one’s good enough for me. + + For mind you, ’twas a sportin’ end, + Upon a right good sportin’ day; + They think a deal of ’im down ’ere, + That gent what came from London way. + + + + +THE HOME-COMING OF THE ‘EURYDICE’ + + +[_Lost, with her crew of three hundred boys, on the last day of her +voyage_, _March_ 23, 1876. _She foundered off Portsmouth_, _from which +town many of the boys came_.] + + Up with the royals that top the white spread of her! + Press her and dress her, and drive through the foam; + The Island’s to port, and the mainland ahead of her, + Hey for the Warner and Hayling and Home! + + Bo’sun, O Bo’sun, just look at the green of it! + Look at the red cattle down by the hedge! + Look at the farmsteading—all that is seen of it, + One little gable end over the edge!’ + + ‘Lord! the tongues of them clattering, clattering, + All growing wild at a peep of the Wight; + Aye, sir, aye, it has set them all chattering, + Thinking of home and their mothers to-night.’ + + Spread the topgallants—oh, lay them out lustily! + What though it darken o’er Netherby Combe? + ’Tis but the valley wind, puffing so gustily— + On for the Warner and Hayling and Home! + + ‘Bo’sun, O Bo’sun, just see the long slope of it! + Culver is there, with the cliff and the light. + Tell us, oh tell us, now is there a hope of it? + Shall we have leave for our homes for to-night?’ + + ‘Tut, the clack of them! Steadily! Steadily! + Aye, as you say, sir, they’re little ones still; + One long reach should open it readily, + Round by St. Helens and under the hill. + + ‘The Spit and the Nab are the gates of the promise, + Their mothers to them—and to us it’s our wives. + I’ve sailed forty years, and—By God it’s upon us! + Down royals, Down top’sles, down, down, for your lives!’ + + A grey swirl of snow with the squall at the back of it, + Heeling her, reeling her, beating her down! + A gleam of her bends in the thick of the wrack of it, + A flutter of white in the eddies of brown. + + It broke in one moment of blizzard and blindness; + The next, like a foul bat, it flapped on its way. + But our ship and our boys! Gracious Lord, in your kindness, + Give help to the mothers who need it to-day! + + Give help to the women who wait by the water, + Who stand on the Hard with their eyes past the Wight. + Ah! whisper it gently, you sister or daughter, + ‘Our boys are all gathered at home for to-night.’ + + + + +THE INNER ROOM + + + It is mine—the little chamber, + Mine alone. + I had it from my forbears + Years agone. + Yet within its walls I see + A most motley company, + And they one and all claim me + As their own. + + There’s one who is a soldier + Bluff and keen; + Single-minded, heavy-fisted, + Rude of mien. + He would gain a purse or stake it, + He would win a heart or break it, + He would give a life or take it, + Conscience-clean. + + And near him is a priest + Still schism-whole; + He loves the censer-reek + And organ-roll. + He has leanings to the mystic, + Sacramental, eucharistic; + And dim yearnings altruistic + Thrill his soul. + + There’s another who with doubts + Is overcast; + I think him younger brother + To the last. + Walking wary stride by stride, + Peering forwards anxious-eyed, + Since he learned to doubt his guide + In the past. + + And ’mid them all, alert, + But somewhat cowed, + There sits a stark-faced fellow, + Beetle-browed, + Whose black soul shrinks away + From a lawyer-ridden day, + And has thoughts he dare not say + Half avowed. + + There are others who are sitting, + Grim as doom, + In the dim ill-boding shadow + Of my room. + Darkling figures, stern or quaint, + Now a savage, now a saint, + Showing fitfully and faint + Through the gloom. + + And those shadows are so dense, + There may be + Many—very many—more + Than I see. + They are sitting day and night + Soldier, rogue, and anchorite; + And they wrangle and they fight + Over me. + + If the stark-faced fellow win, + All is o’er! + If the priest should gain his will + I doubt no more! + But if each shall have his day, + I shall swing and I shall sway + In the same old weary way + As before. + + + + +THE IRISH COLONEL + + + Said the king to the colonel, + ‘The complaints are eternal, + That you Irish give more trouble + Than any other corps.’ + + Said the colonel to the king, + ‘This complaint is no new thing, + For your foemen, sire, have made it + A hundred times before.’ + + + + +THE BLIND ARCHER + + + Little boy Love drew his bow at a chance, + Shooting down at the ballroom floor; + He hit an old chaperone watching the dance, + And oh! but he wounded her sore. + ‘Hey, Love, you couldn’t mean that! + Hi, Love, what would you be at?’ + No word would he say, + But he flew on his way, + For the little boy’s busy, and how could he stay? + + Little boy Love drew a shaft just for sport + At the soberest club in Pall Mall; + He winged an old veteran drinking his port, + And down that old veteran fell. + ‘Hey, Love, you mustn’t do that! + Hi, Love, what would you be at? + This cannot be right! + It’s ludicrous quite!’ + But it’s no use to argue, for Love’s out of sight. + + A sad-faced young clerk in a cell all apart + Was planning a celibate vow; + But the boy’s random arrow has sunk in his heart, + And the cell is an empty one now. + ‘Hey, Love, you mustn’t do that! + Hi, Love, what would you be at? + He is not for you, + He has duties to do.’ + ‘But I _am_ his duty,’ quoth Love as he flew. + + The king sought a bride, and the nation had hoped + For a queen without rival or peer. + But the little boy shot, and the king has eloped + With Miss No-one on Nothing a year. + ‘Hey, Love, you couldn’t mean that! + Hi, Love, what would you be at? + What an impudent thing + To make game of a king!’ + ‘But _I’m_ a king also,’ cried Love on the wing. + + Little boy Love grew pettish one day; + ‘If you keep on complaining,’ he swore, + ‘I’ll pack both my bow and my quiver away, + And so I shall plague you no more.’ + ‘Hey, Love, you mustn’t do that! + Hi, Love, what would you be at? + You may ruin our ease, + You may do what you please, + But we can’t do without you, you dear little tease!’ + + + + +A PARABLE + + + The cheese-mites asked how the cheese got there, + And warmly debated the matter; + The Orthodox said that it came from the air, + And the Heretics said from the platter. + They argued it long and they argued it strong, + And I hear they are arguing now; + But of all the choice spirits who lived in the cheese, + Not one of them thought of a cow, + + + + +A TRAGEDY + + + Who’s that walking on the moorland? + Who’s that moving on the hill? + They are passing ’mid the bracken, + But the shadows grow and blacken + And I cannot see them clearly on the hill. + + Who’s that calling on the moorland? + Who’s that crying on the hill? + Was it bird or was it human, + Was it child, or man, or woman, + Who was calling so sadly on the hill? + + Who’s that running on the moorland? + Who’s that flying on the hill? + He is there—and there again, + But you cannot see him plain, + For the shadow lies so darkly on the hill. + + What’s that lying in the heather? + What’s that lurking on the hill? + My horse will go no nearer, + And I cannot see it clearer, + But there’s something that is lying on the hill. + + + + +THE PASSING + + + It was the hour of dawn, + When the heart beats thin and small, + The window glimmered grey, + Framed in a shadow wall. + + And in the cold sad light + Of the early morningtide, + The dear dead girl came back + And stood by his bedside. + + The girl he lost came back: + He saw her flowing hair; + It flickered and it waved + Like a breath in frosty air. + + As in a steamy glass, + Her face was dim and blurred; + Her voice was sweet and thin, + Like the calling of a bird. + + ‘You said that you would come, + You promised not to stay; + And I have waited here, + To help you on the way. + + ‘I have waited on, + But still you bide below; + You said that you would come, + And oh, I want you so! + + ‘For half my soul is here, + And half my soul is there, + When you are on the earth + And I am in the air. + + ‘But on your dressing-stand + There lies a triple key; + Unlock the little gate + Which fences you from me. + + ‘Just one little pang, + Just one throb of pain, + And then your weary head + Between my breasts again.’ + + In the dim unhomely light + Of the early morningtide, + He took the triple key + And he laid it by his side. + + A pistol, silver chased, + An open hunting knife, + A phial of the drug + Which cures the ill of life. + + He looked upon the three, + And sharply drew his breath: + ‘Now help me, oh my love, + For I fear this cold grey death.’ + + She bent her face above, + She kissed him and she smiled; + She soothed him as a mother + May sooth a frightened child. + + ‘Just that little pang, love, + Just a throb of pain, + And then your weary head + Between my breasts again.’ + + He snatched the pistol up, + He pressed it to his ear; + But a sudden sound broke in, + And his skin was raw with fear. + + He took the hunting knife, + He tried to raise the blade; + It glimmered cold and white, + And he was sore afraid. + + He poured the potion out, + But it was thick and brown; + His throat was sealed against it, + And he could not drain it down. + + He looked to her for help, + And when he looked—behold! + His love was there before him + As in the days of old. + + He saw the drooping head, + He saw the gentle eyes; + He saw the same shy grace of hers + He had been wont to prize. + + She pointed and she smiled, + And lo! he was aware + Of a half-lit bedroom chamber + And a silent figure there. + + A silent figure lying + A-sprawl upon a bed, + With a silver-mounted pistol + Still clotted to his head. + + And as he downward gazed, + Her voice came full and clear, + The homely tender voice + Which he had loved to hear: + + ‘The key is very certain, + The door is sealed to none. + You did it, oh, my darling! + And you never knew it done. + + ‘When the net was broken, + You thought you felt its mesh; + You carried to the spirit + The troubles of the flesh. + + ‘And are you trembling still, dear? + Then let me take your hand; + And I will lead you outward + To a sweet and restful land. + + ‘You know how once in London + I put my griefs on you; + But I can carry yours now— + Most sweet it is to do! + + ‘Most sweet it is to do, love, + And very sweet to plan + How I, the helpless woman, + Can help the helpful man. + + ‘But let me see you smiling + With the smile I know so well; + Forget the world of shadows, + And the empty broken shell. + + ‘It is the worn-out garment + In which you tore a rent; + You tossed it down, and carelessly + Upon your way you went. + + ‘It is not _you_, my sweetheart, + For you are here with me. + That frame was but the promise of + The thing that was to be— + + ‘A tuning of the choir + Ere the harmonies begin; + And yet it is the image + Of the subtle thing within. + + ‘There’s not a trick of body, + There’s not a trait of mind, + But you bring it over with you, + Ethereal, refined, + + ‘But still the same; for surely + If we alter as we die, + You would be you no longer, + And I would not be I. + + ‘I might be an angel, + But not the girl you knew; + You might be immaculate, + But that would not be you. + + ‘And now I see you smiling, + So, darling, take my hand; + And I will lead you outward + To a sweet and pleasant land, + + ‘Where thought is clear and nimble, + Where life is pure and fresh, + Where the soul comes back rejoicing + From the mud-bath of the flesh + + ‘But still that soul is human, + With human ways, and so + I love my love in spirit, + As I loved him long ago.’ + + So with hands together + And fingers twining tight, + The two dead lovers drifted + In the golden morning light. + + But a grey-haired man was lying + Beneath them on a bed, + With a silver-mounted pistol + Still clotted to his head. + + + + +THE FRANKLIN’S MAID +(_From_ ‘_The White Company_’) + + + The franklin he hath gone to roam, + The franklin’s maid she bides at home; + But she is cold, and coy, and staid, + And who may win the franklin’s maid? + + There came a knight of high renown + In bassinet and ciclatoun; + On bended knee full long he prayed— + He might not win the franklin’s maid. + + There came a squire so debonair, + His dress was rich, his words were fair. + He sweetly sang, he deftly played— + He could not win the franklin’s maid. + + There came a mercer wonder-fine, + With velvet cap and gaberdine; + For all his ships, for all his trade, + He could not buy the franklin’s maid. + + There came an archer bold and true, + With bracer guard and stave of yew; + His purse was light, his jerkin frayed— + Haro, alas! the franklin’s maid! + + Oh, some have laughed and some have cried, + And some have scoured the countryside; + But off they ride through wood and glade, + The bowman and the franklin’s maid. + + + + +THE OLD HUNTSMAN + + + There’s a keen and grim old huntsman + On a horse as white as snow; + Sometimes he is very swift + And sometimes he is slow. + But he never is at fault, + For he always hunts at view + And he rides without a halt + After you. + + The huntsman’s name is Death, + His horse’s name is Time; + He is coming, he is coming + As I sit and write this rhyme; + He is coming, he is coming, + As you read the rhyme I write; + You can hear the hoofs’ low drumming + Day and night. + + You can hear the distant drumming + As the clock goes tick-a-tack, + And the chiming of the hours + Is the music of his pack. + You may hardly note their growling + Underneath the noonday sun, + But at night you hear them howling + As they run. + + And they never check or falter + For they never miss their kill; + Seasons change and systems alter, + But the hunt is running still. + Hark! the evening chime is playing, + O’er the long grey town it peals; + Don’t you hear the death-hound baying + At your heels? + + Where is there an earth or burrow? + Where a cover left for you? + A year, a week, perhaps to-morrow + Brings the Huntsman’s death halloo! + Day by day he gains upon us, + And the most that we can claim + Is that when the hounds are on us + We die game. + + And somewhere dwells the Master, + By whom it was decreed; + He sent the savage huntsman, + He bred the snow-white steed. + These hounds which run for ever, + He set them on your track; + He hears you scream, but never + Calls them back. + + He does not heed our suing, + We never see his face; + He hunts to our undoing, + We thank him for the chase. + We thank him and we flatter, + We hope—because we must— + But have we cause? No matter! + Let us trust! + + * * * * * + + PRINTED BY + SPOTTISWOODE SALLANTYNE AND CO., LTD., LONDON + COLCHESTER AND ETON + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SONGS OF ACTION *** + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +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. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part +of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm +concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, +and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following +the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use +of the Project Gutenberg trademark. 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