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| WHEN Julius Fabricius, Sub-Prefect of the Weald, | |
| In the days of Diocletian owned our Lower River-field, | |
| He called to him Hobdenius—a Briton of the Clay, | |
| Saying: “What about that River-piece for layin’ in to hay?” | |
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| And the aged Hobden answered: “I remember as a lad | 5 |
| My father told your father that she wanted dreenin’ bad. | |
| An’ the more that you neeglect her the less you’ll get her clean. | |
| Have it jest as you’ve a mind to, but, if I was you, I’d dreen.” | |
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| So they drained it long and crossways in the lavish Roman style— | |
| Still we find among the river-drift their flakes of ancient tile, | 10 |
| And in drouthy middle August, when the bones of meadows show, | |
| We can trace the lines they followed sixteen hundred years ago. | |
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| Then Julius Fabricius died as even Prefects do, | |
| And after certain centuries, Imperial Rome died too. | |
| Then did robbers enter Britain from across the Northern main | 15 |
| And our Lower River-field was won by Ogier the Dane. | |
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| Well could Ogier work his war-boat—well could Ogier wield his brand— | |
| Much he knew of foaming waters—not so much of farming land. | |
| So he called to him a Hobden of the old unaltered blood, | |
| Saying: “What about that River-piece, she doesn’t look no good?” | 20 |
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| And that aged Hobden answered: “’Tain’t for me to interfere, | |
| But I’ve known that bit o’ meadow now for five and fifty year. | |
| Have it jest as you’ve a mind to, but I’ve proved it time on time, | |
| If you want to change her nature you have got to give her lime!” | |
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| Ogier sent his wains to Lewes, twenty hours’ solemn walk, | 25 |
| And drew back great abundance of the cool, grey, healing chalk. | |
| And old Hobden spread it broadcast, never heeding what was in ’t. | |
| Which is why in cleaning ditches, now and then we find a flint. | |
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| Ogier died. His sons grew English—Anglo-Saxon was their name— | |
| Till out of blossomed Normandy another pirate came; | 30 |
| For Duke William conquered England and divided with his men, | |
| And our Lower River-field he gave to William of Warenne. | |
| |
| But the Brook (you know her habit) rose one rainy autumn night | |
| And tore down sodden flitches of the bank to left and right. | |
| So, said William to his Bailiff as they rode their dripping rounds: | 35 |
| “Hob, what about that River-bit—the Brook’s got up no bounds?” | |
| |
| And that aged Hobden answered: “’Tain’t my business to advise, | |
| But ye might ha’ known ’twould happen from the way the valley lies. | |
| Where ye can’t hold back the water you must try and save the sile. | |
| Hev it jest as you’ve a mind to, but, if I was you, I’d spile!” | 40 |
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| They spiled along the water-course with trunks of willow-trees | |
| And planks of elms behind ’em and immortal oaken knees. | |
| And when the spates of Autumn whirl the gravel-beds away | |
| You can see their faithful fragments iron-hard in iron clay. * * * * * | |
| Georgii Quinti Anno Sexto, I, who own the River-field, | 45 |
| Am fortified with title-deeds, attested, signed and sealed, | |
| Guaranteeing me, my assigns, my executors and heirs | |
| All sorts of powers and profits which—are neither mine nor theirs. | |
| |
| I have rights of chase and warren, as my dignity requires. | |
| I can fish—but Hobden tickles. I can shoot—but Hobden wires. | 50 |
| I repair, but he reopens, certain gaps which, men allege, | |
| Have been used by every Hobden since a Hobden swapped a hedge. | |
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| Shall I dog his morning progress o’er the track-betraying dew? | |
| Demand his dinner-basket into which my pheasant flew? | |
| Confiscate his evening faggot under which the conies ran, | 55 |
| And summons him to judgment? I would sooner summons Pan. | |
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| His dead are in the churchyard—thirty generations laid. | |
| Their names were old in history when Domesday Book was made. | |
| And the passion and the piety and prowess of his line | |
| Have seeded, rooted, fruited in some land the Law calls mine. | 60 |
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| Not for any beast that burrows, not for any bird that flies, | |
| Would I lose his large sound council, miss his keen amending eyes. | |
| He is bailiff, woodman, wheelwright, field-surveyor, engineer, | |
| And if flagrantly a poacher—’tain’t for me to interfere. | |
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| “Hob, what about that River-bit?” I turn to him again, | 65 |
| With Fabricius and Ogier and William of Warenne. | |
| “Hev it jest as you’ve a mind to, but”—and here he takes command. | |
| For whoever pays the taxes old Mus’ Hobden owns the land. | |
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