| I’VE never ceased to curse the day I signed | |
| A seven years’ bargain for the Golden Fleece. | |
| ’Twas a bad deal all round; and dear enough | |
| It cost me, what with my daft management, | |
| And the mean folk as owed and never paid me, | 5 |
| And backing losers; and the local bucks | |
| Egging me on with whiskys while I bragged | |
| The man I was when huntsman to the Squire. | |
| |
| I’d have been prosperous if I’d took a farm | |
| Of fifty acres, drove my gig and haggled | 10 |
| At Monday markets; now I’ve squandered all | |
| My savings; nigh three hundred pound I got | |
| As testimonial when I’d grown too stiff | |
And slow to press a beaten fox.
The Fleece! | |
| ’Twas the damned Fleece that wore my Emily out, | 15 |
| The wife of thirty years who served me well; | |
| (Not like this beldam clattering in the kitchen, | |
| That never trims a lamp nor sweeps the floor, | |
| And brings me greasy soup in a foul crock.) | |
| |
| Blast the old harridan! What’s fetched her now, | 20 |
| Leaving me in the dark, and short of fire? | |
| And where’s my pipe? ’Tis lucky I’ve a turn | |
| For thinking, and remembering all that’s past. | |
| And now’s my hour, before I hobble to bed, | |
| To set the works a-wheezing, wind the clock | 25 |
| That keeps the time of life with feeble tick | |
Behind my bleared old face that stares and wonders.
. . . . | |
| It’s queer how, in the dark, comes back to mind | |
| Some morning of September. We’ve been digging | |
| In a steep sandy warren, riddled with holes, | 30 |
| And I’ve just pulled the terrier out and left | |
| A sharp-nosed cub-face blinking there and snapping, | |
| Then in a moment seen him mobbed and torn | |
| To strips in the baying hurly of the pack. | |
| I picture it so clear: the dusty sunshine | 35 |
| On bracken, and the men with spades, that wipe | |
| Red faces: one tilts up a mug of ale. | |
| And, having stopped to clean my gory hands, | |
| I whistle the jostling beauties out of the wood. | |
| |
| I’m but a daft old fool! I often wish | 40 |
| The Squire were back again—ah! he was a man! | |
| They don’t breed men like him these days; he’d come | |
| For sure, and sit and talk and suck his briar | |
| Till the old wife brings up a dish of tea. | |
| |
| Ay, those were days, when I was serving Squire! | 45 |
| I never knowed such sport as ’85, | |
The winter afore the one that snowed us silly.
. . . . | |
| Once in a way the parson will drop in | |
| And read a bit o’ the Bible, if I’m bad, | |
| And pray the Lord to make my spirit whole | 50 |
| In faith: he leaves some ’baccy on the shelf, | |
| And wonders I don’t keep a dog to cheer me | |
| Because he knows I’m mortal fond of dogs! | |
| |
| I ask you, what’s a gent like that to me | |
| As wouldn’t know Elijah if I saw him, | 55 |
| Nor have the wit to keep him on the talk? | |
| ’Tis kind of parson to be troubling still | |
| With such as me; but he’s a town-bred chap, | |
| Full of his college notions and Christmas hymns. | |
| |
| Religion beats me. I’m amazed at folk | 60 |
| Drinking the gospels in and never scratching | |
| Their heads for questions. When I was a lad | |
| I learned a bit from mother, and never thought | |
| To educate myself for prayers and psalms. | |
| |
| But now I’m old and bald and serious-minded, | 65 |
| With days to sit and ponder. I’d no chance | |
| When young and gay to get the hang of all | |
| This Hell and Heaven: and when the clergy hoick | |
| And holloa from their pulpits, I’m asleep, | |
| However hard I listen; and when they pray | 70 |
| It seems we’re all like children sucking sweets | |
| In school, and wondering whether master sees. | |
| |
| I used to dream of Hell when I was first | |
| Promoted to a huntsman’s job, and scent | |
| Was rotten, and all the foxes disappeared, | 75 |
| And hounds were short of blood; and officers | |
| From barracks over-rode ’em all day long | |
| On weedy, whistling nags that knocked a hole | |
| In every fence; good sportsmen to a man | |
| And brigadiers by now, but dreadful hard | 80 |
| On a young huntsman keen to show some sport. | |
| |
| Ay, Hell was thick with captains, and I rode | |
| The lumbering brute that’s beat in half a mile, | |
| And blunders into every blind old ditch. | |
| Hell was the coldest scenting land I’ve known, | 85 |
| And both my whips were always lost, and hounds | |
| Would never get their heads down; and a man | |
| On a great yawing chestnut trying to cast ’em | |
| While I was in a corner pounded by | |
| The ugliest hog-backed stile you’ve clapped your eyes on. | 90 |
| There was an iron-spiked fence round all the coverts, | |
| And civil-spoken keepers I couldn’t trust, | |
| And the main earth unstopp’d. The fox I found | |
| Was always a three-legged ’un from a bag, | |
| Who reeked of aniseed and wouldn’t run. | 95 |
| The farmers were all ploughing their old pasture | |
| And bellowing at me when I rode their beans | |
| To cast for beaten fox, or galloped on | |
| With hounds to a lucky view. I’d lost my voice | |
| Although I shouted fit to burst my guts, | 100 |
And couldn’t blow my horn.
And when I woke, | |
| Emily snored, and barn-cocks started crowing, | |
| And morn was at the window; and I was glad | |
| To be alive because I heard the cry | |
| Of hounds like church-bells chiming on a Sunday. | 105 |
| Ay, that’s the song I’d wish to hear in Heaven! | |
| The cry of hounds was Heaven for me: I know | |
| Parson would call me crazed and wrong to say it, | |
| But where’s the use of life and being glad | |
If God’s not in your gladness?
I’ve no brains | 110 |
| For book-learned studies; but I’ve heard men say | |
| There’s much in print that clergy have to wink at: | |
| Though many I’ve met were jolly chaps, and rode | |
| To hounds, and walked me puppies; and could pick | |
| Good legs and loins and necks and shoulders, ay, | 115 |
| And feet—’twas necks and feet I looked at first. | |
| |
| Some hounds I’ve known were wise as half your saints, | |
| And better hunters. That old dog of the Duke’s, | |
| Harlequin; what a dog he was to draw! | |
| And what a note he had, and what a nose | 120 |
| When foxes ran down wind and scent was catchy! | |
| And that light lemon bitch of the Squire’s, old Dorcas— | |
| She were a marvellous hunter, were old Dorcas! | |
| Ay, oft I’ve thought, ‘If there were hounds in Heaven, | |
| With God as master, taking no subscription; | 125 |
| And all His blessèd country farmed by tenants, | |
| And a straight-necked old fox in every gorse!’ | |
| But when I came to work it out, I found | |
| There’d be too many huntsmen wanting places, | |
Though some I’ve known might get a job with Nick!
. . . . | 130 |
| I’ve come to think of God as something like | |
| The figure of a man the old Duke was | |
| When I was turning hounds to Nimrod King, | |
| Before his Grace was took so bad with gout | |
| And had to quit the saddle. Tall and spare, | 135 |
| Clean-shaved and grey, with shrewd, kind eyes, that twinkled, | |
| And easy walk; who, when he gave good words, | |
| Gave them whole-hearted; and would never blame | |
| Without just cause. Lord God might be like that, | |
| Sitting alone in a great room of books | 140 |
Some evening after hunting.
Now I’m tired | |
| With hearkening to the tick-tack on the shelf; | |
And pondering makes me doubtful.
Riding home | |
| On a moonless night of cloud that feels like frost | |
| Though stars are hidden (hold your feet up, horse!) | 145 |
| And thinking what a task I had to draw | |
| A pack with all those lame ’uns, and the lot | |
| Wanting a rest from all this open weather; | |
That’s what I’m doing now.
And likely, too, | |
| The frost’ll be a long ’un, and the night | 150 |
| One sleep. The parsons say we’ll wake to find | |
| A country blinding-white with dazzle of snow. | |
| |
| The naked stars make men feel lonely, wheeling | |
| And glinting on the puddles in the road. | |
| |
| And then you listen to the wind, and wonder | 155 |
| If folk are quite such bucks as they appear | |
| When dressed by London tailors, looking down | |
Their boots at covert side, and thinking big.
. . . . | |
| This world’s a funny place to live in. Soon | |
| I’ll need to change my country; but I know | 160 |
| ’Tis little enough I’ve understood my life, | |
| And a power of sights I’ve missed, and foreign marvels. | |
| |
| I used to feel it, riding on spring days | |
| In meadows pied with sun and chasing clouds, | |
| And half forget how I was there to catch | 165 |
| The foxes; lose the angry, eager feeling | |
| A huntsman ought to have, that’s out for blood, | |
And means his hounds to get it!
Now I know | |
| It’s God that speaks to us when we’re bewitched, | |
| Smelling the hay in June and smiling quiet; | 170 |
| Or when there’s been a spell of summer drought, | |
Lying awake and listening to the rain.
. . . . | |
| I’d like to be the simpleton I was | |
| In the old days when I was whipping-in | |
| To a little harrier-pack in Worcestershire, | 175 |
| And loved a dairymaid, but never knew it | |
| Until she’d wed another. So I’ve loved | |
| My life; and when the good years are gone down, | |
Discover what I’ve lost.
I never broke | |
| Out of my blundering self into the world, | 180 |
| But let it all go past me, like a man | |
| Half asleep in a land that’s full of wars. | |
| |
| What a grand thing ’twould be if I could go | |
| Back to the kennels now and take my hounds | |
| For summer exercise; be riding out | 185 |
| With forty couple when the quiet skies | |
| Are streaked with sunrise, and the silly birds | |
| Grown hoarse with singing; cobwebs on the furze | |
| Up on the hill, and all the country strange, | |
| With no one stirring; and the horses fresh, | 190 |
Sniffing the air I’ll never breathe again.
. . . . | |
| You’ve brought the lamp, then, Martha? I’ve no mind | |
| For newspaper to-night, nor bread and cheese. | |
| Give me the candle, and I’ll get to bed. | |