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^  OF 

SPORTS  AND   PASTIMES 

EDITED  BY 

MIS   GRACE   THE   DUKE   OF   BEAUFORT.    K.G. 
ASSISTED    BY    ALFRED    E.  T.  WATSON 


^  V.  \to  1 


THE 

POETRY    OF    SPORT 


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THE    BADMINTON    LIBRARY. 

28  Volumes.     Crown  8vo.  los.  6d.  each  Volume. 


ARCHERY.  By  C.  J.  Longman,  Col. 
H.  Walrond,  &c.  195  Illustrations 
and  a  Maps. 

.\THLET1CS  AND  FOOTBALL.  By 
Montague  Shkarman.  51  Illustra- 
tions. 

BIG    GAME    SHOOTING.        By    C. 

Phillipps-Wolley,  &c. 
Vol.  L— Africa    and    Amkkjca. 

Illustrations. 
Vol.    II. —Europe,    Asia,    and    thk 

Arctic  Regions.     73  Illustrations. 

BILLIARDS.  By  Major  W.  Broad- 
foot,  R.  F^.  29  Illustration^  and 
numerous  Diagrams. 

BOATING.  By  W.  B.  W.k)dgate.  4V 
Illustrations. 

COURSING  AND  FALCONRY.  By 
Harding  Cox  and  the  Hon.  Gt:KAi.i> 
Lascei-lks.     76  Illustrations. 

CRICKET.  By  A.  C.  Sikkl  ;ind  the 
Hon.  R.  H.  Lyttklton.  64  Illustra- 
tions. 


CYCLING.  By 
marle  and  G, 
Ulustration.s. 

D.ANCING.      By 
F.R.G.S.,&c. 


77 


the    Earl    of    .A l  he- 
Lacy    Hii.LiKk.      59 

Mrs.    Lilly    Grove, 
131  Illustrations. 


DRIVING.  By  the  Duke  of  Beaufort. 
65  Illustrations. 

FENC1N(;,  BOXING,  AND  WREST- 
LING. By  Waltkr  H.  Pollock. 
F.  C.  Grove,  C.  Prevost,  &c.  42 
Illustrations. 

FISHING.  By  H.  Cholmondkley- 
Pknnell. 

Vol.  L— Salmon,  Trout,  and  Gray- 
ling.    158  Illustrations. 

Vol.  II.— PiKKand  other  Coarse  Fish. 
132  Illustrations. 

GOLF.  By  Horace  Hutchinson,  the 
Right  Hon.  A.  /.  Balfour,  M.P., 
&c.     89  Illustrations. 


HUNTING.  ^  By  the  Duke  of  Beau- 
fort,  K.G.,  and  Mowbray  Morris. 
53  Illustrations. 

MOUNTAINEERING.  ByC.T.DKNT. 
Sir  W.  M.  Conway,  &c.  108  Illus- 
trations. 

POETRY  (THE)  OF  SPORT.  Edited 
by  Hedley  Peek.     106  Illustrations. 

RACING  AND  STEEPLE- 
CHASING.  By  the  Earl  of  Suffolk 
and  Berkshire,  W.  G.  Craven,  &c. 
.58  Illustration*. 

RIDING  AND  POLO.  By  Robert 
Weir,  J.  Moray  Brown,  &c.  59 
Illustrations. 

SEA-FISHING.  By  J»,hn  Bicker- 
dyke.  W.  Senior.  Sir  H.  W.  Gore 
Booth,  Bart.,  and  A.  C.  Harms- 
worth.     197  Illustrations. 

SHOOTING.  By  Lord  Walsingham 
and  Sir  Ralph  Payne-Gallwey, 
Bart. 

Vol.  l.  -Field  and  Covert.  105 
Illustrations. 

Vol.  IL— Moor  and  Marsh.  65  Illus- 
trations. 

SKATING.  CURLING,  TOBOGGAN- 
ING,  &c.  By  T.  M.  Heathcote, 
C.  G.  Tebbutt,  &c.   284  Illustrations. 

SWIMMING.  By  Archibald  Sinclair 
and  William  Henry.  119  Illustra- 
tions. 

TENNIS,  LAWN  TENNIS. 
RACKETS,  AND  FIVES.  By 
J.  M.  and  C.  G.  Heathcote,  &c. 
79  Illustrations. 

YACHTING.      By  Urd   Brassev,   the 
Flarl  of  Onslow,  &c. 
Vol.    L— Cruising,      Construction, 
Racing   Rules,    &c.      114  Illustra- 
tions. 

Vol.  I L— Yachting  in  America  and 
THE  Colonies,  Racing,  &c.  195 
Illustrations. 


LONGMANS,     GREEN,     &     CO. 

London  and  Bombay. 


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"A  Hunting  Poet." 


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THE 


Poetry  of   Sport 


SELECTED     AND      EDITED      BY 

HEDLEY    PEEK 

WITH    A    CHAPTER    ON    CLASSICAL   ALLUSIONS    TO    SPORT 

BY   ANDREW  LANG,  AND  A  SPECIAL  PREFACE  TO 

THE  BADMINTON  LIBRARY  BY  A.  E.  T.WATSON 


ILLUSTRATED   BY 

A.  THORBURN,    LUCIEN  DAVIS,    C.  E.  BROCK' 

AND   OTHERS 


LONGMANS,     GREEN,     AND     CO. 

LONDON  AND   BOMBAY 
1896 


lF-    '  Digitized  by  GoOQIc 

All    rights   Reserved  ^ 


T  H  r.   N  r.  W    y  O  R  K 

PUBLIC   LIBRARY 

51 845 

**T0»,   LENOX  AMO 
T'»»iN  ■■Ui.iNOATIom. 


< 


OR 


\'i  A  9  > 


v/ 


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DEDICATION 

TO 

H.R.H.    THE  PRINCE   OF   WALES 


Badminton  :  May  1885. 

Having  received  permission  to  dedicate  these  volumes, 

the  Badminton  Library  of  Sports  and  Pastimes, 

to  His  Royal  Highness  the  Prince  of  Wales, 

I  do  so  feeling  that  I  am  dedicating  them  to  one  of  the 

vj  best  and  keenest  sportsmen  of  our  time.    I  can  say,  from 

Xf  personal  observation,  that  there  is    no    man  who   can 

^  extricate  himself  from  a  bustling  and  pushing  crowd  of 

horsemen,  when  a  fox  breaks  covert,  more  dexterously 

and  quickly  than  His  Royal  Highness  ;  and  that  when 

hounds  run  hard  over  a  big  country,  no  man  can  take  a 

line  of  his  own  and  live  with  them  better.     Also,  when 

the  wind   has   been    blowing  hard,  often  have   I   seen 

£  His  Royal  Highness  knocking  over  driven  grouse  and 

<:•  partridges   and   high-rocketing   pheasants   in    first-rate 

^  -  Digitized  by  Google 

V 


vi  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

workmanlike  style.  He  is  held  to  be  a  good  yachtsman, 
and  as  Commodore  of  the  Royal  Yacht  Squadron  is 
looked  up  to  by  *  those  who  love  that  pleasant  and 
exhilarating  pastime.  His  encouragement  of  racing  is 
well  known,  and  his  attendance  at  the  University,  Public 
School,  and  other  important  Matches  testifies  to  his 
being,  like  most  English  gentlemen,  fond  of  all  manly 
sports.  I  consider  it  a  great  privilege  to  be  allowed  to 
dedicate  these  volumes  to  so  eminent  a  sportsman  as 
His*  Royal  Highness  the  Prince  of  Wales,  and  I  do 
so  with  sincere  feelings  of  respect  and  esteem  and  loyal 
devotion. 

BEAUFORT. 


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BADMINTON 


PREFACE 


A  FEW  LINES  only  are  necessary  to  explain  the  object 
with  which  these  volumes  are  put  forth.  There  is  no 
modern  encyclopaedia  to  which  the  inexperienced  man, 
who  seeks  guidance  in  the  practice  of  the  various  British 
Sports  and  Pastimes,  can  turn  for  information.  Some 
books  there  are  on  Hunting,  some  on  Racing,  some 
on  Lawn  Tennis,  some  on  Fishing,  and  so  on  ;  but  one 
Library,  or  succession  of  volumes,  which  treats  of  the 
Sports  and  Pastimes  indulged  in  by  Englishmen — and 
women — is  wanting.  The  Badminton  Library  is  offered 
to  supply  the  want.  Of  the  imperfections  which  must 
be   found    in  the  execution  of  such  a  design  we  are 


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viii  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

conscious.  Experts  often  differ.  But  this  we  may  say, 
that  those  who  are  seeking  for  knowledge  on  any  of  the 
subjects  dealt  with  will  find  the  results  of  many  years' 
experience  written  by  men  who  are  in  every  case  adepts 
at  the  Sport  or  Pastime  of  which  they  write.  It  is  to 
point  the  way  to  success  to  those  who  are  ignorant  of 
the  sciences  they  aspire  to  master,  and  who  have  no 
friend  to  help  or  coach  them,  that  these  volumes  are 
written. 

To  those  who  have  worked  hard  to  place  simply  and 
clearly  before  the  reader  that  which  he  will  find  within, 
the  best  thanks  of  the  Editor  are  due.  That  it  has  been 
no  slight  labour  to  supervise  all  that  has  been  written,  he 
must  acknowledge ;  but  it  has  been  a  labour  of  love,  and 
very  much  lightened  by  the  courtesy  of  the  Publisher, 
by  the  unflinching,  indefatigable  assistance  of  the  Sub- 
Editor,  and  by  the  intelligent  and  able  arrangement 
of  each  subject  by  the  various  writers,  who  are  so 
thoroughly  masters  of  the  subjects  of  which  they  treat. 
The  reward  we  all  hope  to  reap  is  that  our  work  may 
prove  useful  to  this  and  future  generations. 

THE   EDITOR. 


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THE    BADMINTON    LIBRARY 
By  Alfred  E.  T.  Watson 

With  this  volume,  the  twenty-eighth  of  the  series,  the  Bad- 
minton Library  comes  to  an  end — at  least,  so  far  as  is  at 
present  contemplated.  The  labours  of  more  than  twelve  years 
are  finished,  except  as  regards  the  task  of  revising  the 
various  books,  and  issuing  new  editions  in  order  to  keep  them 
abreast  of  the  times.  That  these  labours  are  generally  recog- 
nised as  having  been  well  bestowed  those  who  are  most 
closely  connected  with  the  Library  are  best  aware  ;  and  it 
has  been  thought  well  in  this  last  volume  to  give  some  de- 
scription of  the  origin  and  development  of  a  work  which,  with- 
out egotism  on  the  part  of  its  conductors,  may  be  claimed  to 
have  had  a  deep  and  widely  extended  influence  on  the  world 
of  Sport. 

It  has  just  been  said  that  the  publication  of  the  Badminton 
Library  has  been  spread  over  twelve  years  ;  but,  in  fact,  nearly 
fifteen  years  have  passed  since  the  project  was  first  originated. 
Early  in  the  spring  of  1882  a  question  arose  at  39  Paternoster 
Row  as  to  the  desirability  of  bringing  out  a  new  edition  of 
*  Blaine's  Encyclopaedia  of  Sports.'  The  interest  in  several 
popular  pastimes  had  recently  grown  stronger,  others  had 
arisen  since  the  days  of  Blaine,  and  it  was  .evident  that  to  do 
thorough  justice  to  the  subject  was  a  very  considerable  task. 
So    considerable,    indeed,    did    it    appear    on    examination 


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X  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

that  a  member  of  the  firm — Mr.  C.  J.  Longman — suggested 
the  idea  of  several  little  books,  each  devoted  to  a  separate 
sport.  A  volume  might  be  made  out  of  Hunting,  it  was 
thought,  another  out  of  Racing  ;  about  Fishing  there  was 
much  to  be  said,  and  Shooting  also  afforded  material.  Cricket, 
or  perhaps  Cricket  with  a  chapter  or  two  on  Football,  would 
serve  to  prolong  the  series,  and  various  branches  of  athletics. 
Boating,  Swimming,  Skating,  might  be  utilised  to  make  up  a 
library  of  half  a  dozen  books.  The  project  seemed  a  large 
one,  but  its  devisers  so  much  approved  of  it  that  in  a  moment 
of  enthusiasm  it  was  actually  thought  possible  the  Library 
might  finally  include  as  many  as  seven  or  eight  volumes. 

Here  a  few  words  may  be  interpolated  as  to  the  curious 
rise  and  fall  of  favourite  sports  and  pastimes.  Some  few, 
indeed,  are  unaffected  by  time.  Cricket  has  been  the  national 
pastime  for  a  century,  and  as  for  its  introduction,  *  clearly  it 
was  a  boys'  game  in  the  early  days  of  Elizabeth  '  Mr.  Andrew 
Lang  declares  in  his  preface  to  the  *  Cricket '  volume  ;  racing 
has  been  a  national  sport  for  a  period  not  easily  to  be  defined 
—  is  not  the  famous  *  Rowley  Mile'  at  Newmarket  so  called 
because  it  was  the  favourite  course  of  King  Charles  IL  ? — and 
there  never  was  a  time  when,  after  some  fashion  or  other.  Eng- 
lishmen did  not  hunt.  But  other  pastimes  *  have  their  day  and 
cease  to  be,'  vanishing  with  a  celerity  which  only  equals  their 
rise.  Twenty  years  ago  England  in  general  went  rinking. 
Rinks  were  laid  down  in  all  directions  ;  the  manufacture  of 
roller  skates  became  a  busy  industry.  What  could  be  more 
delightful  and  exhilarating?  Enthusiasts  wondered  why  so 
simple  a  contrivance  as  the  roller  skate  had  not  been  invented 
long  since,  and  regretted  the  time  they  had  wasted  on  so  foolish 
a  business  as  croquet  ;  for  croquet  was  formerly  almost  what 
rinking  had  now  become. 

Does  anybody  rink  now  ?  On  an  asphalted  by-street  one 
may  at  times  find  a  belated  little  boy,  probably  with  one  skate, 
making  little  straight  runs  with  a  growing  confidence  which 
ends  in  a  fall.     He  has  found  the  skate  among  some  old  lot  of 


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THE  BADMINTON  LIBRARY  xi 

discarded  rubbish,  to  which  it  was  consigned  to  keep  company, 
perhaps,  with  the  battered  croquet  balls,  hoops  and  mallets  — 
though,  by  the  way,  croquet,  in  a  new  and  more  difficult  shape, 
has  recently  had  something  of  a  revival.  For  midway  in  the 
seventies  anew  craze  arose.  In  1874  Major  Wingfield  patented  a 
game  which  he  called  *  Sphairistike,'  a  game  that  speedily  made 
its  way  in  all  directions  under  its  familiar  name  of  Lawn  Tennis. 
Rinks  could  be  utilised  as  tennis  grounds,  and  to  this  end  multi- 
tudes of  them  came.  Lord  Arthur  Hervey,  afterwards  Bishop  of 
Bath  and  Wells,  an  enthusiastic  tennis  player,  had,  it  was  said, 
played  a  similar  game  on  the  lawn  of  his  Rectory  in  Suffolk, 
and  the  credit  of  its  invention  was  claimed  for  Leamington  and 
elsewhere  ;  but  certainly  it  had  not  been  generally  known  till 
Major  Wingfield  took  it  up,  and  when  he  did  so  it  entirely 
usurped  the  place  of  its  predecessors  in  fleeting  public  favour. 

Everybody  could  hit  a  ball  over  a  net,  or  could  at  least 
try  to  do  so,  and  almost  the  only  persons  who  derided  the 
game  were,  oddly  enough,  tennis  players— the  few  men  who 
appreciated  the  vastly  superior  charms  of  tennis  proper,  the 
game  about  which  Charles  V.  of  France  was  the  first  of  many 
royal  enthusiasts.  Lawn  tennis,  to  use  a  current  colloquialism, 
looked  as  if  it  had  *  come  to  stay,'  and  indeed  its  popularity  is 
not  extinct  if  the  number  and  enthusiasm  of  its  devotees  have 
diminished.  It  was  fatally  injured  by  its  over-perfection.  A 
certain  number  of  ardent  players  became  so  expert  that  the 
game  ceased  to  amuse  the  ordinary  man,  who  grew  tired  of 
sending  over  the  net  bad  serves  with  which  his  opponent  did 
what  he  liked,  and  of  vainly  endeavouring  to  return  balls  which 
went  at  lightning  speed  into  the  most  unexpected  places. 

The  world  was  ready  for  a  new  game  when,  in  a  few  out-of- 
the-way  places,  men  were  occasionally  met  carrying  what  to  the 
casual  eye  looked  like  overgrown  walking-sticks  with  fantastic 
handles.  Better  informed  observers  recognised  in  them  the 
implements  of  Golf,  and  some  few  were  so  well  instructed  as 
to  be  able  to  state  that  the  things  were  known  as  *  clubs.'  A 
further  refinement,  the  capacity  for  distinejuishing  between  a 


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xii  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

cleek,  a  lofter,  and  a  mashie,  was  then  as  rare  as  it  is  now 
common.  Golf  in  Scotland,  as  everyone  knows,  dates  from  a 
period  *  whereof  the  memory  of  man  runneth  not  to  the  con- 
trary ; '  and  why,  after  being  unheeded  by  Englishmen  for  so 
long  a  time,  it  should  suddenly  have  become  the  rage  in  every 
quarter  of  the  country  must  always  remain  one  of  the  eternal 
mysteries.  The  Royal  Game,  its  devotees  declared,  was  not 
only  replete  with  advantages,  it  was  absolutely  devoid  of  dis- 
advantages. *  It  is  a  game  for  players  of  all  degrees  and  ages, 
for  the  veteran  of  seventy  as  for  the  boy  of  seven.*  Lord  Well- 
wood  cordially  asserts  :  *  It  cannot  be  learnt  too  soon,  it  is 
never  too  late  to  begin  it.'  At  any  rate,  golf  spread  more 
rapidly  than  any  other  game  had  done  within  living  memory, 
and  it  was  taken  up  more  ardently.  There  were  districts  of 
England  where  a  person's  moral  character  was  considered  of 
less  importance  than  the  ease  and  precision  of  his  swing.  An 
author  might  have  written  a  valuable  book,  an  inventor  made  a 
brilliant  discovery,  but  how  was  a  creature  to  be  really  respected 
whose  putting  was  so  ludicrously  bad  ?  As  soldier  or  sailor  a 
man  might  have  done  admirable  service,  but  his  persistent 
habit  of  slicing  or  topping  his  ball  was  not  to  be  pardoned. 

That  any  distraction  could  affect  the  ever-spreading 
mania  for  golf  seemed  a  few  years  since  well  nigh  incredible, 
and  that  the  successful  rival  to  the  golf-club  would  be  the  cycle 
was  utterly  beyond  the  pale  of  belief.  During  the  seventies  a 
few  persons  did  ride  cycles,  it  is  true,  but  to  do  so  was  generally 
held  to  be  a  gross  breach  of  that  good  form  which  the  majority 
of  self-respecting  people  would  rather  perish  than  offend  against. 
Someone  looked  at  the  half-abashed  cyclists  of  the  period, 
perched  high  in  the  air  on  their  lofty  wheels,  and  dubbed  them 
*  cads  on  castors.'  The  alliterative  reproach  was  held  exactly 
to  hit  off  the  truth  :  to  ride  on  '  castors '  was,  in  the  opinion  of 
not  a  few  unsympathetic  people,  to  be  a  cad.  The  occupation 
stamped  the  man.  If  five  or  six  years  ago  anybody  had 
wanted  to  make  the  most  ludicrously  outrageous  of  all 
imaginable  prophecies,  it  would  have  been  that  the  day  was  at 


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THE   BADMINTON  LIBRARY  xiii 

hand  when  the  most  fastidious  personages  of  London  society 
would  be  seen  riding  bicycles  ;  and  if  he  had  added  a  forecast 
that  ladies  as  well  as  men  would  do  this,  and  that,  moreover, 
in  the  public  streets,  he  would  have  been  regarded  as  eligible 
for  a  lunatic  asylum.  Inhere  are  bounds  to  unreason,  and  this 
seemed  utterly  beyond  them. 

Cycling  was  under  the  ban  ;  it  was  a  discredited  business 
altogether.  If  occasionally  one  met  at  dinner,  or  at  a  club  of 
reputation,  a  man  who  had  been  seen  on  a  cycle,  he  was  rather 
severely  chaffed  about  it ;  one  felt  that  he  would  scarcely  have 
been  asked  to  dine  if  the  offence  had  been  known,  or,  in  the 
case  of  a  club,  that  the  committee  might  well  give  him  a  little 
salutary  advice.  But  by  degrees  rumour  spread  the  incredible 
tale  that  a  number  of  these  backsliders  from  reputable  ways 
were  accustomed  to  meet  in  a  place  called  Battersea  Park  ; 
and  a  visit  there  in  the  season  of  1894  revealed  an  absolutely 
amazing  condition  of  affairs.  There  they  were,  members  of 
both  Houses  of  the  Legislature,  their  wives  and  sisters  and 
daughters,  the  most  rigid  observers  of  the  strictest  tenets  of  good 
form,  bearers  of  historical  names,  doers  of  great  deeds,  pedal- 
ling up  and  down,  to  and  fro — ^with  very  varying  degrees  of  ease 
and  grace,  no  doubt,  sometimes  in  jeopardy  of  disaster,  occa- 
sionally in  actual  grief,  but  pedalling  all  the  same.  No  one 
was  ashamed,  everyone  was  proud  to  ride  ;  it  was  *  the  thing  ' 
to  do.  The  rumour  ran  that  all  the  royal  family  had  bought 
bicycles,  and  the  man  who  invented  the  phrase  *cads  on 
castors  '  was  set  down  as  an  idiot. 

Thus  fashion  changes.  When  the  Badminton  Library  was 
started  and  it  was  determined  to  have  the  volumes  illustrated 
many  pictures  might  have  been  anticipated  ;  but  one  scene 
which  nobody  conceived  it  would  ever  be  possible  to  draw  was 
that  which  may  now  be  witnessed  a  dozen  times  in  the  course 
of  a  very  brief  journey  by  road  or  rail— a  party  of  men  and  ladies 
passing  along  the  highway  on  bicycles,  with  a  little  concourse 
of  golf  players  in  the  field  behind  them.  And  it  is  for  this 
reason  that  in  speaking  of  the  Library  as  having  come  to  an  end 


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xiv  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

the  words  *  so  far  as  is  at  present  contemplated '  have  been 
added  ;  for  who  can  say,  after  the  brief  summary  in  the  fore- 
going pages,  what  sport  may  not  spring  up  and  take  the  public 
fancy  in  the  course  of  a  year  or  two  ?  If  any  such  does 
arise,  a  volume  about  it  will  doubtless  be  written. 

The  few  words  I  proposed  to  write  have  extended  beyond 
the  space  I  thought  they  would  occupy,  and  I  have  somewhat 
strayed  from  the  history  of  the  Library,  which  I  now  resume. 

It  being  decided  that  the  books  should  be  published, 
the  question  of  an  Editor  arose,  and  naturally  of  an  Editor 
whose  name  would  carry  the  utmost  weight.  Of  all  English 
sportsmen  none  fulfilled  every  essential  condition  so  fully  as 
the  Duke  of  Beaufort,  hereditary  Master  of  one  of  the  most 
famous  packs  of  hounds  in  England,  a  member  of  the  Jockey 
Club  and  keen  lover  of  the  Turf,  a  coachman  of  unequalled 
skill  and  experience,  an  admirable  shot,  a  most  expert  fisher- 
man. If  only  his  Grace  could  be  induced  to  lend  his 
invaluable  aid  success  was  assured — and,  moreover,  a  pecu- 
liarly attractive  and  appropriate  title  for  the  Library,  *  The 
Badminton,'  naturally  followed.  The  late  Mr.  Tom  Paine,  a 
well-known  sportsman,  and  a  member  of  the  famous  firm  of 
TattersalVs,  was  a  friend  of  Messrs.  Longman,  and  brought  the 
matter  before  the  Duke,  who,  with  the  ready  and  invariable 
kindness  which  has  ever  been  his  chief  characteristic,  called 
at  Paternoster  Row,  discussed  the  idea,  and  consented, 
in  August  1882,  to  edit  the  series— an  assistant-editor  was 
appointed,  and  the  work  of  preparation  begun.  The  Duke 
himself  most  generously  consented  to  write  some  of  the  *  Hunt- 
ing *  volume,  which  was  to  be  the  first,  in  virtue  of  the  fame 
of  his  Hounds  ;  and  Mr.  Mowbray  Morris,  master  of  a  style 
at  once  graphic  and  graceful,  accepted  an  offer  to  contribute 
certain  chapters.  Lord  Suffolk  and  Mr.  W.  G.  Craven 
undertook  *  Racing  ; '  Mr.  Cholmondeley-Pennell,  one  of  the 
best  known  of  fishermen,  agreed  to  prepare  the  volume  on 
the  subject  of  his  craft,  and  Mr.  W.  B.  Woodgate  to  do 
the  *  Boating.'     Other  volumes  were  at  the  time  more  or  less 


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THE  BADMINTON  LIBRARY  xv 

vaguely  contemplated,  and  the  autumn  of  1882  saw  the  scheme 
thus  far  started. 

The  narrative,  to  be  accurate,  must  now  become  to  a 
certain  extent  personal,  a  circumstance  for  which  the  writer 
can  only  apologise.  Early  in  the  summer  of  1883  the  authors 
of  the  *  Racing'  book  found  they  would  not  have  sufficient 
material  to  complete  the  requisite  number  of  pages,  the  idea 
of  including  *  Steeplechasing '  in  the  volume  was  mooted,  and 
I  was  asked  to  supply  the  chapters,  which  I  promised  to  do  if  I 
could  secure  the  co-operation  of  Mr.  Arthur  Coventry,  then  in 
the  height  of  his  fame  as  a  rider  of  races.  For  this  superlatively 
fine  horseman  I  shared  the  warmest  admiration  with  such 
authorities  as  Tom  Cannon  and  the  late  Fred  Archer,  the 
latter  of  whom  once  remarked  to  me  that  though  in  five-furlong 
races,  where  jumping  off  at  the  start  was  so  important,  Mr. 
Coventry  might  be  at  just  the  least  disadvantage  with  jockeys 
who  were  in  constant  practice,  over  a  mile  course  that  gentleman 
was  as  good  as  the  best  of  the  professional  riders.  Mr.  Arthur 
Coventry — though  not  without  some  pressing,  for  he 
protested  that  his  bent  was  not  towards  literature — at  length 
very  kindly  consented  to  supervise  and  guide  my  work ;  and 
in  July  1883  we  signed  a  contract  to  prepare  the  book,  or 
rather  the  portion  of  the  book,  within  six  months. 

If  I  knew  to  what  extent  I  might  write  without  encroaching 
unduly  on  th^  reader's  sympathy,  I  should  like  to  describe  the 
pleasure  of  writing  that  book  in  conjunction  with  such  a  part- 
ner. My  one  leading  idea  was  to  be  practical.  Well-balanced 
phrases,  the  avoidance  of  that  miserable  slang  which  was  at 
one  time  the  chief  characteristic  of  articles  on  sport  and  which 
naturally  disgusts  the  educated  reader,  these  things  were  all  very 
well  so  far  as  they  went.  So  opposed  to  slang  was  the  Editor 
in  chief  that  he  even  disliked  the  generally  accepted  term 
*whip'  for  *  whipper-in,'  declaring  that  a  whip  was  an  im- 
plement, not  a  man.  Simple  English  has  been  our  constant 
aim.  But  if  a  book  is  to  have  any  value,  any  justification  for 
its  existence  in  these  days,  when  such  mountains   of  matter 


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xvi  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

are  annually  poured  out  of  the  Press,  it  must  be  practical.  To 
this  end  I  visited  training-grounds  and  courses,  talked  and 
corresponded  with  cross-country  riders.  Mr.  Arthur  Yates 
was  a  fund  of  information,  and  his  downs  a  fertile  field  of 
ideas  ;  James  Jewitt  took  me  to  Kennett,  and  explained  with 
illustrations  the  art  of  training  and  riding  winners.  To  Joseph 
Cannon  as  a  winner  of  the  Grand  National  I  was  indebted 
for  very  many  hints  ;  the  reminiscences  of  Robert  I'Anson 
were  of  the  utmost  importance  ;  Mr.  J.  M.  Richardson,  rider 
of  two  National  winners,  Reugny  and  Disturbance,  wrote  me 
invaluable  letters  which  I  incorporated  ;  and  Lord  Suffolk, 
keenest  of  humorists  and  shrewdest  of  guides,  was  always  ready 
to  lay  open  the  stores  of  his  knowledge.  My  partner  was  in 
active  practice.  Old  Hesper's  day  was  almost  done,  though  he 
still  came  out  occasionally ;  but  on  The  Dethroned  and  others 
Mr.  Coventry  was  in  the  habit  of  riding  to  victory,  and  continu- 
ally afforded  me  texts.  I  read  him  my  chapters  for  his  criticism 
and  comment,  and  if  any  doubtful  points  arose— though  I 
should  have  been  more  than  satisfied  with  his  judgment — I 
was  always  glad  to  hear  the  decision,  *  We  had  better  go  and 
ask  Tom  Cannon  \ '  for  that  meant  a  delightful  visit  to  Dane- 
bury, the  master  of  which  was  the  spul  of  hospitality,  and  having 
the  horses  out  in  the  morning  for  the  solution  of  diflficulties  by 
observation  of  what  happened  over  the  jumps.  One  reward 
of  this  came  in  1896,  when  Mr.  Campbell,  rider  of  the  winner 
of  the  Grand  National,  with  whom  I  had  not  the  pleasure  of 
previous  acquaintance,  was  good  enough  to  write  and  say 
that  he  wanted  to  let  me  know  he  attributed  his  success  in  a 
great  measure  to  the  advice  given  in  the  Badminton  book  on 
*  Stceplechasing.' 

Early  in  1884,  at  the  time  fixed,  the  MS.  of  *  Steeple- 
chasing  '  w^as  delivered,  the  first  *  copy '  that  had  been  received 
for  the  Library ;  it  was  put  into  type,  corrected,  and  paged  ;  and 
there  matters  for  the  time  ended.  The  assistant-editor  had,  in 
fact,  been  occupied  with  other  business,  and  in  the  course  of  time 
Messrs.  Longman  were  led  to  understand  that  he  would  be  glad 


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THE  BADMINTON.  UBRARY  xvii 

if  he  were  relieved  of  his  engagement  with  them  ;  whereupon 
they  asked  me  if  I  were  willing  to  bring  about  the  relief  by 
undertaking  the  assistant-editorship  should  my  predecessor  wish 
to  give  it  up.  The  task  was  in  every  way  most  congenial. 
In  the  course  of  a  fortnight  the  new  organisation  was  arranged, 
and  an  agreement  between  the  editor,  assistant -editor,  and 
publisher  was  signed,  on  February  6,  1885. 

In  this  chapter  I  am  for  the  first  time  taking  advantage  of 
the  fact  that  I  can  obtain  control  of  the  volume  and  evade  the 
supervision  of  my  chief;  for  otherwise  no  testimony  can  be 
borne  in  the  pages  of  the  Badminton  Library  to  the  immense 
debt  w^hich  all  who  are  interested  in  it  owe  to  the  Duke  of 
Beaufort.  One  little  anecdote  I  may  here  interpolate  as  an 
example  of  the  extraordinary  thoroughness  with  which  the 
editor  hag  fulfilled  the  duties  which— it  need  scarcely  belaid, 
^  without  fee  or  reward ' — he  readily  undertook. 

In  an  early  volume  of  the  Library  reference  was  made  to  a 
lately  deceased  nobleman  as  having  served  in  the  Grenadier 

Guards  in  the  Peninsula.     *  I  don't  think  Lord was  in  the 

Grenadiers,'  the  Duke  wrote  to  me  when  he  returned  the 
proof.  *  I  have  searched  in  every  book  I  can  think  of  at  Bad- 
minton as  likely  to  furnish. information,  but  I  shall  be  going 
to  Bristol  in  a  day  or  two,  and  may  find  one  there  \  if  not, 
when  I  am  in  London  I  can  doubtless  ascertain.'  To  me 
this  seemed  an  excess  of  care,  and  I  replied,  *  Do  you  think 
it  really  matters?  Let  us  say  he  was  "in  the  Guards" — that 
would  cover  the  point ;  or,  indeed,  w^hy  mention  any  regiment  ? 

Would  it  not  be  enough  to  say,  "  Lord ,  who  did  excellent 

service  in  the  Peninsula  "  ?  Nothing  turns  on  his  having  been 
a  Guardsman.'  But  this  did  not  'satisfy  my  chief.  *  No,'  he 
answ^ered,  *  let  us  get  it  right.  My  impression  is  that  he  was  in 
the  Coldstreams,  and  it  is  just  as  well  to  make  sure  if  we  can.^ 
He  was  in  the  Coldstreams,  records  proved  ;  and,  though  I  con- 
sidered the  matter  unimportant,  it  showed  me  the  spirit  in 
which  the  Badminton  Library  was  to  be  written.  I  understood 
that  our  work  in  its  most  trivial  details  was  to  be  as  accurate  as 


a, 

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xviii  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

care  could  make  it ;  that  if  critics  thought  proper  to  differ  from 
our  conclusions,  they  were  not  to  be  allowed  to  disprove  our 
asserted  facts. 

The  system  upon  which  we  have  worked  is  this.  In  con- 
junction with  the  publishers — and  the  absolutely  indefatigable 
labours  of  Mr.  T.  Norton  Longman  more  especially  deserve 
the  most  cordial  recognition,  for  without  him  the  Library 
would  never  have  been  what  it  is,  if  it  had  ever  come  into 
existence — I  have  usually  selected  writers,  submitting  their 
names  to  the  Duke,  who  on  his  part  has  taken  pains  to  ascer- 
tain their  suitability,  and  in  several  cases — notably  the  *  Riding ' 
and  '  Driving '  volumes — has  made  valuable  suggestions  of  his 
own.  I  have  then  discussed  and  arranged  schemes,  obtained 
manuscripts — in  some  instances  ready  for  the  printer,  in  others 
requiring  much  supervision,  in  others,  again,  so  rough  that  the 
matter  needed  practically  rewriting.  Proofs  have  been  sent  to 
the  Duke  after  a  revision  supposed  to  have  been  complete, 
though  in  many  cases  containing  shps  of  various  kinds,  which 
his  diligence  has  seldom  or  never  failed  to  detect.  I  have  not 
left  it  to  the  editor-in-chief  to  strike  out  the  formula  in  which, 
■differently  phrased,  a  great  number  of  the  writers  have  begun — 
that  the  subject  they  were  endeavouring  to  treat  was  exhausted 
long  since,  that  nothing  more  remained  to  be  said,  but  that,  in 
accordance  with  a  flattering  invitation,  they  were  trying  to  say 
something.  To  pass  these  introductory  remarks — which  occurred 
with  amusing  frequency  and  were  of  course  calculated  to  make 
the  reader  suppose  the  author  was  trying  to  thrash  a  dead  horse 
— did  not  seem  to  me  judicious,  the  more  so  for  the  reason 
that  they  were  seldom  justified.  Because,  years  ago,  a  book 
on  a  certain  subject  was  published,  that  subject  could  not  be 
looked  on  as  finally  treated,  particularly  having  regard  to  the 
constantly  varying  conditions  of  sport  and  to  the  fact  that 
the  modern  writer  often  differed  from  the  conclusions  of  ear- 
lier authors. 

The  leading  idea,  as  I  have  said,  was  to  be  practical— to 
obtain  books  from  men  who  had  won  reputation  for  their  skill 


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THE  BADMINTON  LIBRARY  xix 

and  success  in  the  sports  and  pastimes  they  were  asked  to 
describe.  That  most  of  them  would  say  they  never  had  written, 
and  were  sure  they  never  could  write,  was  inevitable ;  but 
whatever  we  got  from  them,  however  roughly  expressed,  was 
sure  to  contain  valuable  information,  the  result  of  actual  experi- 
ence ;  and  for  a  practised  writer  with  some  knowledge  of  the 
matter  under  discussion  to  put  the  manuscript  into  English 
was  never  an  impossible  task,  though  sometimes  an  arduous 
one.  A  serious  business  was  the  making  of  schemes ;  for, 
properly  made,  they  contribute  immensely  to  the  ease  with 
which  a  book  may  be  written  and  to  its  value  when  complete  ; 
clumsily  devised,  they  worry  the  author  and  perplex  or  dis- 
appoint the  reader.  I  venture  to  submit  this  to  the  con- 
sideration of  writers  as  the  outcome  of  a  good  many  years  of 
experience. 

A  few  words  must  also  be  said  about  the  illustrations,  for 
the  magnitude  of  the  task  involved— in  the  performance  of 
which  Mr.  Norton  Longman  laboured  with  untiring  diligence, 
so  much  so  that  he  is  mainly  responsible  for  the  pictorial 
work — cannot  possibly  be  appreciated  by  anyone  who  has  not 
striven  to  obtain  technically  accurate  and  appropriate  drawings 
for  volumes  on  sport  of  all  descriptions.  A  large  number  of 
photographs  have  been  used  in  the  Library,  but  probably 
not  ten  per  cent,  of  those  that  were  taken  have  been  deemed 
serviceable. 

Matters  were  not  at  all  in  a  forward  condition  when,  in 
February  1885,  I  first  looked  into  them.  Mr,  Mowbray  Morris 
had  written  a  few  chapters  of  *  Hunting,'  and  forgotten  all  about 
them.  Lord  Suffolk  had  finished  a  brilliant  sketch  of  New- 
market, and  obtained  deuils  of  a  few  trials  ;  and  Mr.  Craven 
had  been  compiling  a  history  of  racing— but  they,  too,  had  put 
their  work  away.  Mr,  Cholmondeley-Pennell  had  made  most 
progress — so  much,  indeed,  that  it  was  obvious  a  couple  of 
volumes  would  be  occupied  if  '  Fishing '  was  to  be  thorough. 
Three  years  had  elapsed  since  a  Library  had  been  decided 
on,  considerably  more  than  two  since  it  was  arranged  that  it 

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XX  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

should  be  a  *  Badminton  Library/  with  the  Duke  of  Beaufort 
as  editor ;  so  the  thing  to  be  done  was  to  push  on  vigorously, 
and  let  one  of  the  long-talked-of  volumes  appear.  Mr.  Mowbray 
Morris  resumed  his  pen  ;  the  Duke  himself  set  to  work  on  an 
essay  on  *Hunt  Servants  and  their  Duties/  with  incidental 
remarks  on  subjects  which  the  most  experienced  M.F.H.  in  the 
country  was  peculiarly  qualified  to  discuss  ;  Lord  Suffolk,  an 
old  master  of  harriers,  wrote  a  chapter  on  the  sport  he  had  long 
followed ;  a  great  authority  on  the  otter,  the  Rev.  E.  W.  L. 
Davies,  contributed  a  delightful  chapter  on  *The  Otter  and 
his  Ways  ;  *  I  was  asked  to  undertake  the  two  chapters  on 
*  Stables '  and  *  Kennels ' — in  a  great  measure  a  description  of 
the  buildings  and  methods  then  to  be  found  at  Badminton  ; 
and  at  length,  towards  the  end  of  1885,  the  first  volume  of  the 
Badminton  Library  was  issued,  dedicated  by  permission  to 
H.R.H.  the  Prince  of  Wales. 

Meantime  Mr.  Pennell  had  completed  his  two  volumes^ 
and,  after  much  discussion  as  to  what  should  be  omitted  and 
included,  *  Racing '  was  ready  to  be  joined  to  *  Steeplechasing,' 
which  had  been  finished  for  more  than  two  years,  and  so  required 
bringing  up  to  date.  Among  the  best  work  in  the  Library,  if 
I  may  be  allowed  to  express  an  opinion,  I  rank  Lord  Suffolk's 
all  too  brief  description  of  sport  at  Newmarket  in  this  volume, 
which  appeared  in  1886. 

By  this  time  one  thing  was  evident  :  the  Library  was  going 
to  be  a  great  success ;  and  as  for  the  projected  six  books, 
sixteen,  we  began  to  think,  would  be  nearer  the  mark.  Two 
volumes  on  which  we  all  specially  prided  ourselves  wer^  in 
active  preparation— 'Shooting,'  a  subject  which  was  not  to  be 
compressed  into  one  book,  and  about  the  division  of  which 
there  was  much  perplexity  till  it  was  decided  to  separate  the 
parts  into  '  Field  and  Covert,'  *  Moor  and  Marsh.'  No  book 
has  added  more  to  the  reputation  of  the  Library ;  for  Lord 
Walsingham  not  only  enjoys  the  deserved  credit  of  being  an 
unsurpassed  authority  on  all  matters  connected  with  the  sport, 
but  he  is  able  to  impart  his  knowledge  pleasantly  and  graphi- 


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THE  BADMINTON  LIBRARY  jcxi 

cally  -y  Sir  Ralph  Payne-Gallwey's  acquaintance  with  wild-fowl 
and  with  the  construction  of  firearms  is  altogether  exceptional  ; 
and  a  chapter  on  *  Deer '  by  the  late  Lord  Lovat  was  at  once 
recognised  as  the  work  of  a  master  of  the  subject  and  of  a 
dehghtfully  simple,  picturesque  stjde.  Then,  too,  the  illustra- 
tions were  of  exceptional  value,  for  the  bulk  of  them  were 
drawn  by,  or  under  the  immediate  supervision  of,  Mr.  A.  J. 
Stuart-Wortley.  Without  endeavouring  to  *  place '  such  men 
as  Mr.  Stuart-Wortley,  Lords  Walsingham  and  de  Grey, 
and  a  very  few  others,  it  may  be  safely  said  that  for  a  long 
time  Mr.  Wortley  was  one  of  the  half-dozen  best  shots  in 
the  country,  and  an  artist  and  naturalist  as  well  as  a  sports- 
man. 

The  question  had  meantime  arisen— a  question  little  con- 
templated when  the  idea  of  the  Library  was  originated — 
whether  a  volume  on  *  Cycling '  might  not  really  be  seriously 
considered.  *  Shooting '  and  *  Hunting '  had  appealed  chiefly  to 
the  *  classes '  perhaps,  but  we  wished  to  appeal  to  the  *  masses  ' 
also — to  adopt  Mr.  Gladstone's  distinction— and  at  the  time 
never  supposed  that  multitudes  outside  this  latter  category 
would  be  attracted  by  a  book  on  such  a  subject.  Still 
some  persons  did  ride,  the  then  Lord  Bury  among  them,  and 
he  consented  to  write  in  conjunction  with  Mr.  Lacy  Hillier, 
who  was  one  of  the  few  who  had  adopted  *  the  wheel '  with 
distinction.  It  seemed  a  dubious  experiment,  and  we  certainly 
did  not  imagine  that  a  second  edition  would  be  wanted  two 
years  later,  a  third  in  189 1,  a  fourth  in  1894,  and  a  fifth  in  1895 
— figures  which  tend  to  show  how  rapidly  cycling  has  grown 
in  public  favour.  Is  there,  one  wonders,  any  new  pastiipe  in 
store  which  will  make  as  material  an  addition  to  English 
manufactures?  For  think  of  the  enormous  number  of  men 
who  now  gain  their  livelihood  by  the  production  and  repair- 
ing and  selling  of  the  successors  to  the  once  despised  veloci- 
pede. 

A  volume  jointly  made  up  of  *  Athletics '  and  *  Football '  also 
came  out  in  1887  ;  and  to  some  extent  the  recent  craze  for  the 


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xxii  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

latter  game  might  have  been  mentioned  in  what  has  been  said  a 
few  pages  earlier  about  the  rise  and  decline  of  popular  pastimes. 
But  football,  since  the  access  of  professionalism  to  the  ranks  of 
its  players,  appeals  almost  exclusively  to  its  own  public,  though 
that  is  an  enormous  one,  no  doubt,  especially  in  the  North  of 
England.  That  football  has  the  steady  vitality  of  cricket  may 
well  be  doubted,  and  it  certainly  has  not  the  well  nigh  uni- 
versal popularity  of  the  latter  game. 

Eight  volumes  had  now  been  issued,  and  several  of  the 
most  prominent  subjects  were  still  untouched,  notably  *  Cricket' 
and  'Boating.'  These  two  followed.  Mr.  W.  B.  Wood- 
gate  had  for  a  considerable  time  had  in  hand  the  sport 
in  which  he  shone,  and  Dr.  Warre,  Headmaster  of  Eton, 
was  good  enough  to  help.  That  *  Cricket '  would  be  one  of 
the  successes  of  the  Library  needed  little  guessing,  for  the 
plan  of  going  only  to  experts  who  had  made  reputations  in  the 
game  or  sport  they  wrote  about  was  inflexibly  adopted.  Mr. 
A.  G.  Steel  was  then  giving  constant  proof  of  his  capacity — I 
think  it  was  while  engaged  on  this  book  that  he  made  148 
against  Australia — and  he  was  aided  by  Mr.  R.  A.  H.  Mitchell, 
the  Hon.  R.  H.  Lyttelton,  and  Dr.  W.  G.  Grace.  Mr.  SteeFs 
chapter  on  *  Bowling '  was,  I  believe,  the  first  attempt  ever  made 
to  explain  the  whole  science  and  theory  in  a  manner  which 
gave  practical  value  to  the  work.  *  Cricket'  appeared  in 
1888,  and  greatly  strengthened  the  reputation  of  the  Library, 
for  suitable  additions  to  which  we  were  now  diligently  searching. 
A  volume  on  *  Riding  and  Driving '  had  been  contemplated, 
but  we  soon  perceived  that  this  must  be  divided  into  two,  as 
*  Polo '  could  hardly  be  omitted,  and  as,  moreover,  the  Duke 
of  Beaufort  kindly  agreed  to  write  several  chapters  of  a  Driving 
book.  Further  than  this,  a  number  of  his  friends  were  ready 
to  give  active  aid  towards  a  work  on  a  subject  with  which 
as  president  of  the  Coaching  Club  he  was  so  immediately 
identified.  The  late  Duke  of  Somerset,  then  Lord  Algernon 
St  Maur,  jotted  down  graphic  reminiscences  of  old  coaching 
days ;  Lady  Georgiana  Curzon,  whose  ability  on  the  driving 


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THE  BADMINTON  LIBRARY  xxiii 

seat  perhaps  no  other  lady  has  ever  equalled,  showed  that 
she  could  handle  pen  as  skilfully  as  reins ;  and  the  late 
Sir  Christopher  Teesdale,  V.C.,  wrote  a  couple  of  chapters 
in  such  happy  style  as  to  make  it  a  matter  for  sincere 
regret  that  he  had  not  written  more.  The  Earl  of  Onslow, 
who  has  done  excellent  service  in  more  than  one  book,  was 
good  enough  to  send  a  chapter  on  the  'Carriage  Horse.' 
This  indeed  may,  I  think,  be  claimed  as  one  of  the  strong 
points  of  the  Library  :  sportsmen  of  all  descriptions  who  had 
something  to  say  have  been  induced  to  say  it  in  these  volumes, 
whereas  had  they  not  been  approached  and  pressed,  and  in 
not  a  few  instances  over-persuaded  after  early  refusals  based 
on  the  ground  of  asserted  incapacity,  they  would  never  have 
written  at  all. 

But  the  feature  of  the  *  Driving '  book  was  the  oppor- 
tunity it  gave  for  the  delightfully  interesting  recollections  of  the 
Duke  of  Beaufort,  from  the  days  of  his  boyhood,  at  home 
and  abroad.  *  Driving '  thus  became  peculiarly  a  *  Badminton  ' 
book,  and  the  picturesque  descriptions  of  the  road  in  the 
early  days  of  the  century  give  lasting  value  to  the  volume, 
written  as  it  is  by  those  who  took  an  active  part  in  the  scenes 
described.  *  Driving '  was  not  the  only  issue  in  1889. 
'Fencing,  Boxing,  and  Wrestling'  were  joined  together  as 
kindred  subjects. 

Was  there  really  material  for  a  whole  book  on  'Golf 
had  at  one  time  seemed  a  question,  even  if  the  volume  was 
to  take  a  somewhat  wide  scope  and  include  a  chapter  on 
*The  Humours  of  Golf  by  Mr.  Arthur  Balfour,  M.P.  As 
a  matter  of  fact,  I  had  to  cut  out,  if  I  recollect  aright,  close 
on  a  hundred  pages,  and  then  the  book  remained  one  of 
the  longest  in  the  Library.  With  *  Golf,'  in  1890,  appeared 
•Tennis,  Lawn  Tennis,  Rackets  and  Fives,'  that  distin- 
guished player  Mr.  J.  M.  Heathcote  being  the  chief  of  many 
contributors. 

'Riding,'  separated  from  its  once  allotted  companion 
subject   *  Driving,'    had    meantime   been   making    progress. 


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xxiv  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

delayed  somewhat  by  the  difficulty  I  had  experienced  in 
finding  an  author  for  a  chapter  on  *Race  Riding.'  The 
idea  of  letting  experts  only  write  had  been  unswervingly  fol- 
lowed, but  as  I  could  not  discover  an  authority  to  do  this 
directly,  I  made  several  authorities  do  it  indirectly —that  is 
to  say,  I  discussed  the  art  with  the  leading  jockeys  of  the 
day,  e.g.  the  late  F.  Archer,  Tom  Cannon,  F.  Webb,  and  a 
very  few  others — and  put  into  shape  what  I  gleaned  from 
them.  The  late  Captain  Moray  Brown  filled  a  part  of  the 
book  with  some  careful  chapters  on  *  Polo.* 

The  Library  had  now  extended  to  fifteen  volumes.  That 
some  should  have  been  more  popular  than  others  was  inevi- 
table, as  different  sports  and  pastimes  enjoy  different  degrees 
of  popularity  ;  but  the  reception  of  these  fifteen  was  such  as 
to  convince  the  projectors  that  if  they  could  produce  fifteen 
more  volumes  on  the  same  lines  they  would  all  be  cordially  re- 
ceived. *  Mountaineering '  appealed  forcibly  to  a  certain  class  of 
travellers,  and  in  1892  this  was  issued  ;  Sir  W.  M.  Conway, 
Messrs.  C.  T.  Dent,  D.  W.  Freshfield,  and  others  co-operating. 
*  Skating '  and  other  ice  sports  could  not  of  course  be  omitted 
if  the  series  was  to  be  complete,  and  this  book  was  published  in 
the  same  year.  *  Swimming '  was  obviously  a  matter  deserving 
treatment,  and  though  both  'Coursing and  Falconry'  have  failed 
to  hold  their  own  as  popular  sports,  neither  is  obsolete — the 
interest  taken  in  the  Waterloo  Cup  proves  that  coursing  has 
still  very  many  followers.  These  two  together  were  therefore 
contemplated  and  carried  out — *  Falconry '  by  an  enthusiast, 
Mr.  Gerald  I^scelles. 

*  Yachting '  had  been  in  preparation  for  I  cannot  say  how 
many  years,  and  the  time  expended  on  it  naturally  complicated 
its  treatment ;  for  mental  activity  is  peculiarly  brisk  among 
designers  of  yachts,  and  the  latest  ideas,  by  the  time  they 
were  described  and  illustrated,  had  been  superseded  by  later 
still.  To  Mr.  R.  T.  Pritchett,  the  artist,  special  credit  is  due 
for  these  two  volumes,  as  his  knowledge  of  the  best  men 
to  select  for  the  very  various  subjects  was  of  immense  assis- 


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THE  BADMINTON  LIBRARY  xxv 

tance.  The  theme,  too,  was  infinitely  more  extensive  than  was 
imagined.  There  were  so  many  things  to  be  included,  such  as 
a  description  of  the  boat  which  Lord  Dufferin  was  accustomed 
to  sail  single-handed — often  on  days  when  no  mariner  on  the 
Italian  coast,  where  the  owner  of  the  '  Hermione '  first  sailed 
her,  could  be  persuaded  to  put  to  sea.  The  late  Lord  Pem- 
broke, too,  one  of  the  most  quietly  humorous  and  picturesque 
of  all  the  Badminton  authors,  had  a  branch  of  the  subject  to 
discuss  which  had  specially  appealed  to  him — the  pleasure 
that  might  be  enjoyed  by  the  employment  of  yachts'  sailing 
boats. 

Started  in  1891,  *  Yachting  '  was  not  out  till  1894,  the  same 
year  that  saw  the  publication  of  another  two-volume  book — 
*  Big  Game  Shooting.'  Big  game  was  a  big  subject,  as  will  be 
readily  supposed,  seeing  the  number  of  European,  Asiatic,  and 
American  beasts  that  it  includes.  There  was  one  writer,  also,  we 
were  peculiarly  anxious  to  find,  and  long  sought  in  vain,  one  who 
remembered  and  could  describe  the  Africa  of  half  a  century 
since,  before  the  game  had  been  disturbed  by  Europeans  carry- 
ing arms  of  precision,  when  the  whole  country  was  alive  with 
beast  and  bird.  Such  a  man,  by  the  greatest  of  good  luck,  we 
lighted  on — the  late  Colonel  W.  C.  Oswell,  friend  and  long-time 
companion  of  Livingstone.  Colonel  Oswell's  old  muzzle-loader 
would  look  strange  as  an  arm  of  precision  by  the  side  of  modern 
inventions  in  gunnery,  but  he  did  marvellous  execution  with  it : 
if  not  as  elegant  and  convenient  as  the  rifle  of  the  present  day, 
it  was  extraordinarily  effective.  Assuredly  Colonel  OswelFs 
wholly  admirable  contribution  remains  one  of  the  strongest 
features  of  the  Library. 

But  to  extract  the  work  from  the  modest  old  sportsman 
was  a  very  hard  business.  He  had  kept  diaries.  Moreover, 
Wolff,  the  famous  painter  of  animals,  had  drawn  various  pictures, 
illustrating  scenes  described,  under  the  careful  supervision  of 
the  writer  ;  but  Colonel  Oswell  protested  that  the  descriptions 
were  altogether  of  too  rough  and  ready  a  character  to  do  duty 
in  a  book.     He  did  not,  in  fact,  realise  how  vivid  and  graphic 


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xxvi  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

his  narrative  was  :  let  the  reader  judge,  for,  with  comparatively 
little  editing,  the  chapters  appear  as  he  wrote  them.  Mr.  Jack- 
son, who  carried  on  the  tale  as  regards  sport  in  modern  Africa, 
was  equally  nervous,  and  found  in  particular  the  difficulty  of 
making  a  start  which  so  often  besets  the  unaccustomed  penman  ; 
but  the  start  once  made,  he  did  admirably.  Mr.  Clive  Phillipps- 
Wolley  superintended  the  production  of  these  two  volumes,  and 
persuaded  Mr.  St.  George  Littledale  to  write  about  aurochs, 
creatures  of  whose  existence  even  many  persons  were  unaware. 
I  rather  think,  too,  that  the  avis  poll  was  first  made  familiar  to 
readers  by  the  Big  Game  books ;  and  from  a  multitude  of  Indian 
sportsmen  we  chose  Lieut.-Colonel  R.  Heber-Percy.  One  of 
our  lasting  regrets  is  that  we  could  not  utilise  some  chapters 
written  by  the  late  Sir  Samuel  Baker.  His  pen,  however,  had 
been  so  constantly  employed — as  was  natural  in  the  case  of  a 
man  who  had  seen  so  much,  and  who  described  it  so  forcibly 
and  picturesquely — that  he  found  it  impossible  to  avoid 
traversing  ground  which  he  had  already  trodden.  But  he 
wrote  a  too  brief  memoir  of  his  old  friend.  Colonel  Oswell, 
a  touching  tribute  to  that  kindly  and  genial  pioneer  of  African 
sport. 

At  this  time  we  considered  and  rejected  the  idea  of  books 
on  *  Baseball,  Lacrosse,  Hockey,  and  Other  Ball  Games  '  as  not 
appealing  to  a  sufficiently  large  class.  *  Physical  Recreation  ' 
was  also  declined,  because  we  did  not  see  how  five  hundred 
pages  of  readable  matter  could  be  filled,  and  we  had  already 
dealt  with  training  and  athletics.  *  Chess,'  too,  was  rejected, 
but  *  Billiards'  was  put  in  hand,  the  Duke  having  specially 
declared  that  it  must  not  be  omitted,  though  for  a  long  time  it 
was  again  set  aside,  as  we  did  not  consider  the  first  MS. 
obtained  satisfactory.  Later  on,  to  the  competent  and  careful 
hands  of  Major  Broadfoot  was  confided  the  preparation  of 
a  fresh  book,  which  we  hope  and  think  has  given  satisfac- 
tion. 

Previously  to  this,  however,  the  question  of  *  Archery '  had 
been  considered  and  decided  in  the  affirmative,  for  Mr.  C.  J. 


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THE  BADMINTON  LIBRARY  xxvii 

Longman,  himself  an  ex- champion  archer,  was  ready  to  under- 
take what  was  to  him  a  labour  of  love.  He  knew  where  to 
find  the  best  archers  to  help  him,  and  to  his  energetic  labours  the 
thoroughness  which  may  safely  be  claimed  for  the  volume  is 
mainly  due.  We  hope  and  imagine  that  the  book  has  given  some 
fillip  to  this  ancient  pastime,  and  certainly  there  are  many  quaint 
and  interesting  chapters — not  least  that  which  quotes  the  essay 
of  an  enthusiastic  bowman  who  set  himself  to  show  why  for 
all  purposes  of  war  and  sport  his  weapon  was,  and  ever  must 
remain,  infinitely  superior  to  the  new-fangled  gun — so  short  and 
circumscribed  w^as  human  foresight. 

*Sea  Fishing'  as  a  sport  had  made  vast  way  since  the 
Library  was  first  contemplated.  Visitors  to  the  seaside  had 
from  time  immemorial  gone  out  in  boats  and  dangled  leaded 
lines,  baited  with  mussels,  over  the  sides  ;  some  few  had  used 
a  rod  from  the  end  of  a  pier  ;  but  very  little  indeed  was  gene- 
rally known  about  sea  fish  and  the  best  methods  of  taking 
them.  Not  one  in  a  hundred  of  those  who  fished  for  a  moment 
imagined  what  a  vast  amount  of  genuine  sport  the  sea  provided  ; 
and  we  found  an  ardent  sea  fisherman,  with  a  really  marvellous 
knowledge  of  the  subject,  anxious  to  spread  the  information 
he  had  accumulated.  I  think  no  book  in  the  Library  is  more 
complete  than  Mr.  John  Bickerdyke*s  volume. 

*  Dancing '  had  been  suggested  to  a  member  of  the  firm  of 
publishers,  but  for  a  long  time  we  hesitated,  fearing  the  obvious 
criticism  that  it  was  *  not  a  sport,*  though  it  is  the  oldest  and 
most  universal  of  all  pastimes.  It  was  nevertheless  a  pastime, 
and  one  which  lent  itself  to  picturesque  treatment.  The  sub- 
ject remained  in  abeyance  until  at  a  meeting  of  the  British 
Association  in  1893  I  noticed  that  a  paper  on  Dancing  had 
been  read  by  Mrs.  Lilly  Grove,  F.R.G.S.,  and  this  turned  the 
scale.  Mrs.  Grove,  on  being  communicated  with,  expressed 
her  readiness  to  write,  so  we  faced  the  criticism,  and  *  Dancing  ^ 
was  written. 

It  had  frequently  been  impressed  upon  us  while  the  Library 
was  in  preparation  what  an  enormous  quantity  of  verse  had 


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xxviii  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

■been  written  on  the  subject  of  sport,  and  that  amongst  it  there 
was  a  not  inconsiderable  proportion  of  poetry  which  was 
swamped  in  the  mass  of  rubbish  and  forgotten..  The  task  of 
investigating  the  mountain  of  matter  and  selecting  what  seemed 
worthy  of  preservation  was  simply  stupendous^  and  required  an 
amount  of  patience  and  care  not  easily  to  be  realised.  The 
percentage  of  those  melancholy  effusions  which  begin  with  a 
flatulent  invocation  to  *01d  Sol' — a  divinity  still  introduced 
daily  into  the  compositions  of  '  sporting '  reporters  and  writers 
of  the  baser  sort — is  incredible,  and  then  as  a  general  rule  the 
verses  go  on  to  muddle  and  misapply  the  commonplaces  of 
heathen  mythology.  We  felt  that  a  selection  of  what  was 
best  in  the  *  Poetry  of  Sport '  would  make  an  excellent  book, 
but  were  less  satiguine  about  finding  anyone  equipped  with 
the  requisite  knowledge  where  to  look,  the  judgment  where 
to  choose,  and  the  courage  to  undertake  the  task.  At 
length  the  untiring  student  whom  we  sought  was  discovered 
in  Mr.  Hedley  Peek,  and  here  is  the  result  of  three  years 
of  labour,  the  twenty-eighth  volume  of  the  Library,  to  speak 
for  itself. 

The  name  of  the  *  Badminton '  has  become  so  familiar  to 
those  who  have  thus  launched  the  Library  that  readers  will 
understand  a  natural  reluctance  to  cea.se  active  work  under  the 
title,  and  it  is  to  this  reluctance  that  the  *  Badminton  Magazine ' 
owes  its  origin.  As  for  this  chapter,  it  was  suggested  by  the 
publishers,  and  readily  undertaken  by  me,  because  during  the 
last  twelve  years  we  have  received  such  innumerable  proofs  of 
kindly  interest  from  all  quarters,  at  home  and  abroad,  as  to 
make  us  gladly  recognise  the  pleasant  circumstance  that  many 
of  our  readers  have  become  friends  rather  than  mere  purchasers. 
For  all  this  kindness  we  take  the  present  opportunity  of 
returning  grateful  thanks.  There  is  the  Library  ;  we  have  done 
our  very  best  to  make  it  sound  and  thorough,  and  our  reward 
has  been  that  this  has  been  so  cordially  acknowledged. 

The  twenty-eight  volumes  of  the  Badminton  Library  are 
made  up  as  follows  ;  - 


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THE  BADMINTON  LIBRARY 


•THE   BADMINTON   LIBRARY. 

Edited  by  the  Duke  of  Beaufort,  K.G.,  and 
Alfred  E.  T.  Watson. 

Dedicated  by  Special  Permission  to  H.R.H.  the  Prince  of  Wales. 

Hunting,  By  the  Duke  of  Beaufort,  K.G.,  Mowbray  Morris,  the 
Earl  of  Suffolk  and  Berkshire,  the  Rev.  E.  W.  L.  Davies,  Digby 
Collins,  Alfred  E.  T.  Watson,  George  H.  Longman,  Sir 
Marteine  Llpyd,  Bart.,  and  J.  T.  Gibbons.  Illustrated  by  J. 
Charlton,  J.  Sturgess,  A.  C.  Sealy,  Miss  Agnes  Biddulph,  and 
G.  D.  Giles. 

Fishing.  By  H.  Cholmondeley-Pennell,  Major  John  P.  Traheme, 
H.  R.  Francis,  H.  S.  Hall,  Frederic  M.  Halford,  Thomas 
Andrews,  William  Senior,  R.  B.  Marston,  G.  Christopher 
Davies,  and  the  Marquis  of  Exeter.  Illustrated  by  C.  Whymper 
and  Conway  Lloyd- J  ones.     2  vols. 

Racing  and  Steeple-chasing,  By  the  Earl  of  Suffolk  and  Berkshire, 
W.  G.  Craven,  the  Hon.  F.  Lawley,  Arthur  Coventry,  and 
Alfred  E.  T.  Watson.     Illustrated  by  J.  Sturgess. 

Boating,  By  W.  B.  Woodgate,  the  Rev.  Edmond  Warre,  D.D., 
and  R.  Harvey  Mason.  Illustrated  by  Frank  Dadd,  and  from 
photographs. 

Cycling.  By  the  Earl  of  Albemarle  and  G.  Lacy  Hillier.  Illus- 
trated by  the  Earl  of  Albemarle,  J.  P.ennell,  G.  Moore,  and  S.  T. 
Dadd. 

Shooting.  By  Lord  Walsingham,  Sir  Ralph  Payne-Gallwey,  Bart., 
the  Hon.  Gerald  Lascelles,  A.  J.  Stuart- Wortley,  Lord  Charles 
Lennox  Kerr,  and  Lord  Lovat.  Illustrated  by  A.  J.  Stuart- 
Wortley,  Harper  Pennington,  C.  Whymper,  J.  H.  Oswald 
Brown,  G.  E.  Lodge,  and  J.  G.  Millais.     2  vols. 

Athletics  and  Football.  By  Montague  Shearman,  W.  Rye,  Sir 
Richard  Webster,  Q.C.,  Walter  Camp  and  A.  Sutherland. 
Illustrated  by  Stanley  Berkeley,  and  from  photographs. 

Cricket.  By  A.  G.  Steel,  the  Hon.  R.  H.  Lyttelton,  A.  Lang, 
F.  Gale,  R.  A.  H.  Mitchell,  and  W.  G.  Grace.  Illustrated  by 
Lucien  Davis,  and  from  photographs. 

Driiring.     By  the  Duke  of  Beaufort,  K.G.,  the  Earl  of  Onslow, 


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XXX  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

G.C.M.G.,  Colonel  Hugh  Smith-Baillie,  the  Duke  of  Somerset, 
Major  Henry  Dixon,  Lady  Georgiana  Curzon,  W.  C.  A.  Blew, 
George  N.  Hooper,  Major-General  Sir  Christopher  Teesdale, 
V.C,  K.C.M.G.,  and  Alfred  E.  T.  Watson.  Illustrated  by  J. 
Sturgess  and  G.  D.  Giles. 

Golf,  By  Horace  G.  Hutchinson,  Lord  Wellwood,  Sir  Walter 
Simpson,  Bart.,  A.  Lang,  H.  S.  C.  Everard,  and  the  Right 
Hon.  A.  J.  Balfour.  Illustrated  by  Thomas  Hodge  and  Harry 
Fumiss. 

TenniSy  Lawn  Tennis^  Rackets^  and  Fives.  By  J.  M.  Heathcote, 
the  Hon.  A*lfred  Lyttelton,  W.  C.  Marshall,  C.  G.  Heathcote, 
Miss  L.  Dod,  H.  W.  W.  Wilberforce,  H.  F.  Lawford,  Spencer 
W.  Gore,  R.  D.  Sears,  Herbert  Chipp,  E.  O.  Pleydell-Bouverie, 
and  A.  C.  Ainger.  Illustrated  by  Lucien  Davis,  C.  M.  Newton, 
and  from  photographs. 

Riding  and  Polo.  By  the  Duke  of  Beaufort,  K.G.,  Captain  Robert 
Weir,  the  Earl  of  Suffolk  and  Berkshire,  Alfred  E.  T.  Watson, 
the  Earl  of  Onslow,  G.C.M.G.,  E.  L.  Anderson,  and-J. Moray 
Brown.  Illustrated  by  G.  D.  Giles,  J.  Stuart  Allan,  and 
Frank  Dadd. 

Coursing  and  Falconry.  By  Harding  Cox  and  the  Hon.  Gerald 
Lascelles.  Illustrated  by  J.  Charlton,  R.  H.  Moore,  G.  E. 
Lodge,  and  Lancelot  Speed,  and  from  photographs. 

Skating.  By  J.  M.  Heathcote,  C.  G.  Tebbutt,  T.  Maxwell 
Witham,  the  Rev.  John  Kerr,  Ormond  Hake,  and  Henry  A. 
Buck.  Illustrated  by  C.  Whymper,  R.  M.  Alexander,  and  from 
photographs. 

Mountaineering.  By  C.  T.  Dent,  Sir  W.  M.  Conway,  D.  W. 
Freshfield,  C.  E.  Mathews,  C.  Pilkington,  Sir  F.  Pollock,  Bart., 
H.  G.  Willink,  and  Mr.  Justice  Wills.  Illustrated  by  H.  G. 
Willink  and  Ellis  Cam 

Fencing,  Boxings  and  Wrestling,  By  W.  H.  Pollock,  F.  C.  Grove, 
Camille  Prevost,  E.  B.  Michell,  W.  Armstrong,  and  Egerton 
Castle.    With  illustrations  from  photographs. 

Swimming.  By  Archibald  Sinclair  and  William  Henry.  Illus- 
trated by  S.  T.  Dadd,  and  from  photographs. 

Big  Game  Shooting.  By  Clive  Phillipps-Wolley,  W.  C.  Oswell, 
F.  J.  Jackson,  F.  C.  Selous,  Sir  Samuel  W.  Baker,  Warburton 
Pike,  Arnold  Pike,  Lieut- Col,  R.  Heber  Percy,  Major  Algernon 


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THE  BADMINTON  LIBRARY  xxxi 

C.  Heber  Percy,  W.  A.  Baillie  Grohman,  Sir  Henry  Pottinger, 
Bart.,  the  Earl  of  Kilmorey,  Abel  Chapman,  W.  J.  Buck,  and 
St.  George  Littledale.  Illustrated  by  C.  Whymper,  J.  Wolff, 
H.  Willink,  and  from  photographs.     2  vols. 

Yachting.  By  Sir  Edward  Sullivan,  Bart.,  Lord  Brassey,  K.C.B., 
C.  E.  Seth-Smith,  C.B.,G.  L.  Watson,  R.  T.  Pritchett,  Sir  George 
Leach,  K.C.B.,  the  Earl  of  Pembroke  and  Montgomery, 
E.  F.  Knight,  the  Rev.  G.  L.  Blake,  the  Marquis  of  Dufferin 
and  Ava,  K,P.,  James  McFerran,  E.  W.  and  Robert  Castle, 
T.  B.  Middleton,  H.  Horn,  G.  Christopher  Davies,  Lewis 
Herreshoff,  and  the  Earl  of  Onslow,  K.C.M.G.  Illustrated  by 
R.  T.  Pritchett,  and  from  photographs.     2  vols. 

Archery,  By  C.  J.  Longman,  Col.  H.  Walrond,  Miss  Leigh, 
Viscount  Dillon,  Major  C.  Hawkins  Fisher,  the  Rev.  Eyre  W. 
Hussey,  the  Rev.  W.  K.  R.  Bedford,  J.  Balfour  Paul,  and  L.  W. 
Maxson.  Illustrated  by  reproductions  from  engravings,  prints, 
and  photographs. 

Dancing,  By  Mrs.  Lilly  Grove,  F.R.G.S.,  Miss  Middleton,  the 
Countess  of  Ancaster,  and  the  Hon.  Mrs.  Armytage.  Illus- 
trated by  Percy  Macquoid,  and  by  reproductions  from  engrav- 
ings, prints,  and  photographs. 

Sea  Fishing,  By  John  Bickerdyke,  W.  Senior,  A.  C.  Harms- 
worth,  and  Sir  H.  W.  Gore- Booth,  Bart.  Illustrated  by  C.  Napier 
Hemy,  R.  T.  Pritchett,  and  W.  W.  May. 

Billiards.  By  Major  W.  Broadfoot,  R.E.,  A.  H.  Boyd,  Sydenham 
Dixon,  W.  J.  Ford,  Dudley  D.  Pontifex,  Russell  D.  Walker, 
and  Reginald  H.  R.  Rimington- Wilson.  Illustrated  by  Lucien 
Davis,  and  from  photographs. 

The  Poetry  of  Sport.  By  Hedley  Peek,  Andrew  Lang,  and  Alfred 
E.  T.  Watson.  Illustrated  by  Charles  Brock,  A.  Thorburn, 
Lucien  Davis,  and  numerous  reproductions  from  engravings 
and  prints. 


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PUBLISHERS'   NOTE 

The  Publishers  desire  to  acknowledge  the  kindness  of  the  follow- 
ing Copyright  owners,  Messrs.  MACM1LLAN&  Co.,  Messrs.  V^INTON 
&  Co.,  and  Miss  Stoddart,  for  permission  to  reprint  in  this 
volume  various  poems,  each  of  which  is  separately  acknowledged 
in  the  Index  of  Authors. 


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CONTENTS 


INTRODVCTORY 

I'AGK 

The  Badminton  Library ix 

By  Alfred  E,  T.  Watson. 

Is  Sport  a  Fitting  Subject  for  the  Poet?        .     .         i 
By  Hedley  Peek. 

Classical  Sport 8 

By  Andreut  Latif^. 

SPORTING  EXTRACTS 

Introduction 17 

The  Extracts 29 

POEMS,  SONGS  AND  BALLADS 

Introduction 137 

Hunting      .  152 

Fishing 238 

b 

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xxxiv  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

PAGE 

Shooting 270 

Cricket 289 

Various 306 

HUMOROUS  SONGS  AND  PARODIES 

Hunting 338 

Various .  376 

Index  to  Authors 403 

Index  to  First  Lines 4^3 


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ILLUSTRATIONS 

(Reproduced  by  the  Swan  Electric  Engraving  Co.) 


A  Hunting  Poet 


The  sielie  beast  to  scape  the  dogs 

DID  JUMPE   upon    a   ROOTE        .  .       . 

His  good  swerde  he  drewe  out  than 
And  smote  upon  the  wylde  swyne 
Like  to  an  eagle  in  his  kingly  pride 
What  shall   he   have  that  kild   the| 

Deare? I 

Here,  kenneld  in  a  brake,   she  finds! 

A  hound I 

And  watrie  fowles  out  of  the  marrish  ) 

FENNES f 

WiNDE    JOLLIE     HUNTSMEN,     YOUR     NKAT] 

bugles  shrilly ) 

The  Stag  Hunt 

Behind  a  shady  Oak,  conceal'd  I  stood 
When    Emma    hunts,     in    huntsman's | 

habit  drest ) 

Grateful  calls  us  to  a  short  repast  . 
Leaves  his  close  haunt  and  to  some] 

tree  repairs I 


ARTIST 

C.  E.  Brock    Frontispiece 

TO   FACE    PAGE 


C.  Hancock         .     . 

24 

C.  E.  Brock  . 

36 

Archibald  Thorbum 

41 

C,  E.  Brock       .     . 

46 

>» 

52 

Archibald  Thorbum 

56 

C.  E.  Brock  . 

63 

B,  Adams          .     . 

67 

C.  E.  Brock  . 

78 

>» 

83 

j» 

92 

Archibald  Thorbum     1 02 


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THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 


Or  viewed  afoot  at  midnight  Ball    . 
The  best  of  hunters,  Pan         .        .     . 
When  Bucks  a  hunting  go    . 
o  mercy  !  mercy  !  noble  lord  ; 
Spare  the  hard  pittance  of  the  poor 
A  fine  old  toast  he  gave  them    . 
Yet  my  heart  bounds  whene'er  I  hear 

YOICKS  !    HARK   AWAY  !   AND   TALLY    HO  !     . 

*  What  the  deuce  do  you    stay   for  ? '  \ 
we  heard  him  exclaim   .        .        .  } 
Beneath  this  Oaken  umbrage  let  us  lay 
When  suddenly   the   waters    rushed, 

AND   swelled,    and  UP  THERE   SPRUNG 
A   HUMID   MAID   OF   BEAUTY'S   MOULD 

And  see  the  Royal  Bowmen  strive 
Wha  far  the  feather'd  Arrows  drive 
When  gelid  frosts  encrust  the  faded | 

GROUND I 

Another  a  love  tale  betraying 
Is  aim'd  with  a  blush  at  the  red 
From  their  dkwy  couch  on   whirring  i 

WING ) 

Through  the  sparkling  snow 

a  skaiting  we  go 

The  appallin*  fallin'  'unt!. 

Then  to  the  master  him  they  brought 

The  net  is  waiting  ready 

His  gun  went  off,  and  shot  his  dog  . 

But  a  stick  and  nothing  more    . 


ARTIST  TO  FACE  PAGE 

Lucien  Davis,  117 

C.  E.  Brock       .     .     152 

„  .  161 


»»                      • 

189 

»f                 •            • 

204 

»1                      •       • 

210 

»» 

220 

Lticien  Davis     .     . 

251 

C.  E.  Brock  . 

253 

Lucien  Davis     .     . 

272 

Archibald  Thorbum 

278 

Lucien  Davis     .     .     284 
Archibald  Th4n'bum     287 


Lucien  Davis 
C.  E,  Brock    . 


C.  E.  Brock 


322 
362 
371 
378 
380 
400 


And  numerous  illustrations  in  text. 


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THE  POETRY  OF   SPORT 

INTRODUCTION 

IS   SPORT   A    FITTING   SUBJECT    FOR   THE    POET? 

A  Booke  !  is  this  the  early  exercise 
I  I  did  prescribe?  instead  of  following  health, 

Which  all  men  covet,  you  pursue  your  disease. 

Where's  your  great  Horse,  your  hounds,  your  set  at  Tennis? 

Your  Balloone  ball,  the  practice  of  your  dancing, 

Your  casting  of  the  sledge,  or  learning  how 

To  tosse  the  pike ;  all  chang'd  into  a  Sonnet  ? 

J.  Ford  (1629). 

The  student  who  has  thought  it  worth  his  while  to  make  a 
careful  study  of  the  criticisms,  past  and  present,  relating  to 
poetry  can  hardly  fail  to  arrive  at  the  conclusion  that  there  is 
scarcely  a  single  subject  treated  by  verse-writers  that  has  not 
alternately  been  condemned  as  unsuitable  and  approved  as 
suitable  for  poetical  treatment.  Styles  of  poetry  become  the 
fashion  and  are  discredited  with  almost  as  sure  regularity  as 
fashions  in  dress ;  and  it  is  rather  amusing  to  mark  the  con- 
temptuous epithets  hurled  at  those  who  refuse  to  be  guided 
by  the  designers  of  metrical  fashion-plates. 

We  have  for  some  years  been  passing  through  an  epoch, 
now  fortunately  well  nigh  over,  which  has  done  much  to 
bring  about  that  maximum  of  verse- writers  and  minimum 
of  verse-readers  so  often  deplored  of  late  years.     This  epoch 

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2  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

will  in  the  future  probably  be  classified  as  the  sweet  senti- 
mentality period,  and  has  its  counterparts  in  almost  all 
centuries.  It  is  important  not  to  fall  into  a  similar  error,  and 
because  we  have  been  cloyed  with  too  much  vapid  sweetness, 
say  that  this  style  has  not  its  fitting  place  and  use.  At  the 
present  time,  when  education  is  not  a  possession  of  the  few,  it 
is  obvious  that  such  verse-writers  will  be  in  excess  of  the  require- 
ments of  their  audience.  Most  women  and  many  men  pass 
at  one  time  through  a  sentimental  phase  ;  but,  whilst  correct 
writing  and  the  power  of  metrical  expression  are  acquirements 
possible  to  many  ;  power,  imagination,  and  genius  are  rare  : 
thus  the  more  fashion  tends  to  encourage  the  former  acquire- 
ments at  the  expense  of  the  latter  gifts,  so  much  the  more 
are  we  likely  to  be  overdone  with  mediocrity  ;  and  hence  will 
result  a  want  of  manly  instinct  and  an  effeminacy  of  style  and 
thought  which  nearly  concern  our  present  subject.  We  can 
imagine  a  critic  of  the  period  treating  our  title  in  the  following 
contemptuous  manner  : — 

*  Sport  in  its  relation  to  poetry  is  an  absurdity.  What  has 
sport  to  do  with  those  delicate  emotions  which  it  is  the  poet's 
duty  to  bring  before  us  ? ' 

It  has  even  been  stated  that  a  hunting  poet  is  an  anomaly ; 
but  in  charity  we  will  refrain  from  mentioning  the  critic's 
name  :  suffice  it  to  say,  that  he  had  at  one  time  been  an 
unsuccessful  verse- maker,  but  never  a  sportsman.  No  doubt 
he  did  not  consider  Byron  a  poet,  yet  would  doubtless  have 
not  objected  to  sharing  a  fraction  of  that  hunting  verse- writer's 
popularity.  The  present  time  (when  the  more  thoughtful  are 
beginning  to  realise  the  fallacy  of  this  exclusiveness)  seems 
a  peculiarly  suitable  one  to  place  before  the  public  a  work 
from  which  they  will  be  able  to  judge  for  themselves  how 
many  great  writers  in  the  past  looked  on  this  matter. 

It  would  be,  perhaps,  the  truest  criticism  to  say  that  there 
is  no  passion,  whether  mental  or  physical,  that  stirs  men's  hearts 
which  is  not  a  fitting  object  for  poetry  ;  but  it  is  also  true 
that  to  deal  adequately  with  such  a  subject  as  the  one  before 


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INTRODUCTION  ,  3 

us  requires  a  master-hand  ;  for,  to  meet  with  one  capable  of 
describing  the  passions  of  war  or  the  passions  of  sport  without 
at  times  sinking  into  the  region  of  commonplace,  we  must  find 
a  rare  combination  in  the  writer— a  man  whose  mind  and  body 
are  evenly  balanced.  Such  a  one  was  Homer ;  and  it  is  the 
very  rarity  of  this  versatility  that  has  made  his  work  not  only 
immortal,  but  so  full  of  charm  to  men,  in  all  times,  and  of 
well  nigh  all  dispositions. 

It  must  be  borne  in  mind  that  many  songs  and  ballads 
included  in  this  collection  were  never  meant  to  reach  the 
standard  of  poetry ;  some  are  included  for  their  wit,  some  to 
mark  the  changes  of  thought  and  manner,  and  others  are  little 
more  than  curiosities,  valuable,  as  cracked  china,  for  their  age 
or  ugliness.  But  the  reader  who  shall  fail  to  discover  in  the 
following  pages  an  answer  in  the  affirmative  to  the  question, 
*  Is  Sport  a  fitting  subject  for  the  Poet  ? '  must  either  have 
a  mind  warped  by  prejudice,  or  have  never  known  the  true 
passion  of  a  sportsman. 

Want  of  manliness  has  been  in  many  verse- writers  the  one 
thing  lacking  to  give  their  gift  of  true  metrical  expressiveness 
the  power  which  alone  can  appeal  to  the  healthy  mind.  A 
few  hours  daily  spent  in  the  hunting-field,  or  in  some  other 
manly  sport,  would  have  enabled  them  to  see  how  diseased 
and  one-sided  were  many  of  their  views  of  life.  If  it  is 
necessary  for  men  of  ordinary  ability  to  keep  the  body  in 
perfect  health,  how  much  more  important  must  it  be  for  one 
whose  imagination  is  apt  to  take  the  bit  in  its  teeth  and  bolt 
out  of  the  region  of  common  sense  !  unless,  of  course,  w^e 
believe,  with  some  scoffers,  that  poetry  is  but  the  outcome 
of  a  diseased  brain— a  verdict  not  flattering  to  the  poet  nor  in 
any  way  borne  out  by  facts. 

Our  greatest  poets  were  men  of  action,  not  drawing-room 
pets,  stringing  out  sweet-sounding  platitudes  for  the  sake  of 
acquiring  reputation.  Shakespeare  is  a  good  example  ;  for  it 
was  during  his  hard  life  as  an  actor  that  he  learnt  his  know- 
ledge of  men,  and  acquired  that  power  which  has  placed  him 

B  2 

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4  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

among  the  immortal  writers,  not  of  England  only,  but  of  the 
world.  He  had  his  work  to  do,  and  one  part  of  that  work 
was  to  write  his  plays — plays  that  would  often  be  acted  chiefly 
before  an  audience  who  were  quite  incapable  of  fully  appre- 
ciating them — but  with  the  spirit  of  an  artist  he  wrote  his  best ; 
and  as  he  found  men  in  daily  life,  so  he  portrayed  them, 
doubtless  unconscious  that  his  works  w^ere  destined  to  be  the 
delight  of  the  intellectual  world  through  all  time.     The  poet 


The  Society  pet 


should  of  all  men  be  the  last  to  despise  or  neglect  those 
instincts  which  are  planted  in  men  for  the  perfecting  of  the  body. 
Is  there  nothing  to  appeal  to  him  in  perfect  symmetr>'  of  form, 
in  the  wild  freedom  of  health,  in  graceful  movement,  in  the 
ecstasy  of  life  for  life's  sake  when  the  animal  nature  (if  he 
choose  so  to  call  it)  fulfils  the  perfect  law  of  its  being  ?  \V*e 
hear  a  good  deal  at  the  present  time  of  the  pagan  instincts  of 
some  of  our  poets,  and  the  expression  is  used  not  as  a  term 


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INTRODUCTION  5 

of  reproach,  but  as  giving  an  added  charm  to  their  writings. 
This  word  is  meant  doubtless  to  express  a  disposition  in  which 
the  love  of  nature  and  of  animal  life  and  of  joy  preponderate  ; 
and  Robert  Buchanan,  in  applying  this  term  to  the  late  Hon. 
Roden  Noel,  gives  a  happy  illustration  from  his  work, 

I  bathe  and  wade  in  the  pools,  rich  wrought  witfi  flowers 
of  the  ocean, 

Or  over  the  yellow  sand  run  swift  to  meet  the  sea, 
Dive  under  the  walls  of  foam  or  float  on  a  weariless  motion 

Of  the  alive,  clear  wave,  heaving  undulant  under  me  ! 

In  these  lines  the  poet  and  the  sportsman  meet.  The 
delight  of  action,  the  healthy  body  fighting  for  a  mastery  with 
nature,  a  combat  that  is  play,  yet  a  play  that  leads  to  the 
perfecting  of  the  player.  And  is  not  this  the  essence  of  sport  ? 
A  fight  with  diflficulties,  in  which  battle  some  part  or  quality 
is  slowly  strengthened  and  improved.  Hand  and  eye  become 
more  steady ;  the  muscles  and  nerves  are  braced  to  fresh 
power ;  courage,  calmness,  and  patience  are  exercised  and 
developed.  This  is  sport  in  its  true  sense,  whether  it  be 
practised  for  the  development  of  our  own  bodies,  or  the  bodies 
of  those  lower  lives  that  serve  us.  Surely  the  man  who  holds 
that  this  field  of  sport  lies  outside  the  poet's  boundary  must 
have  a  low  opinion  of  poetry  itself. 

We  have  thus  endeavoured,  after  the  manner  of  modern 
editors,  to  do  full — and  perhaps  more  than  full — ^justice  to  our 
subject.  The  view  has  been  taken  only  from  one  side,  a 
fault  which  may  be  observed  in  well  nigh  every  introduction 
to  modern  editorial  work.  Thus  some  poet  long  neglected  is 
dragged  into  the  daylight,  and  the  genius  and  attractiveness 
of  his  work  held  up  to  the  admiration  of  those  who  are 
sufficiently  cultivated  to  appreciate  it.  It  is  right  to  be  some- 
what sceptical  about  such  revelations  ;  for  as  a  rule  time  judges 
truthfully,  and  the  poor  poet's  writings  are  too  often  but 
dragged  from  their  graves  to  be  re- buried  in  a  more  elaborate 
coffin.  Those  who  have  read  such  productions  will  also  have 
noticed  an  invisible  writing  between  the  lines  ;  the  eulogy  rings 


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6  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

somewhat  cracked,  the  voice  has  too  often  the  metallic  clang 
of  advertisement,  too  little  of  the  silvery  note  of  conviction. 
It  may  be  well,  therefore,  in  this  case  to  conclude  with  a 
few  remarks  which  are  more  often  to  be  found  only  between 
the  lines. 

Sport  is  a  fitting  subject  for  poetry,  but  not  by  any  means  one 
of  the  highest  subjects.  We  should  have  been  forced  to  come 
to  this  conclusion  even  if  it  had  not  agreed  with  our  previous 
opinions.  After  having  gone  carefully  through  the  works  of 
between  two  and  three  hundred  writers  of  verse,  we  find  the 
theme,  though  often  referred  to,  not  dwelt  upon  for  long  by 
the  true  poet,  and  in  the  exceptions  to  this  rule  the  poems 
often  suffer.  One  reason  may  be  that  those  writers  who 
depended  upon  their  work  were  seldom  wealthy  enough  to 
come  personally  in  contact  with  the  pleasures  of  country  life  ; 
but  there  is  more  than  this.  Sport  is  a  pastime,  and  if  dealt 
with  too  seriously  is  apt  to  play  games  with  the  poet,  to  make 
him  appear  comic  when  he  has  no  intention  of  being  so.  It 
has  been  our  endeavour  to  avoid  as  far  as  possible  the  poems 
where  this  defect  is  prominent,  but  some  will  doubtless  strike 
the  reader  in  the  following  collection.  But  even  in  these, 
when  we  take  them  from  beneath  the  microscopic  lens  of 
higher  poetic  criticism,  much  may  be  found  that  is  delightful 
to  the  sportsman,  interesting  to  the  student,  and  pleasing  to 
the  lover  of  poetry  both  in  thought  and  metre.  Humour  and 
wit  are  also  by  no  means  lacking ;  but  this  subject  will  be 
treated  more  fully  later  on. 

In  such  a  collection  as  this,  which  to  all  intents  and 
purposes  involved  the  breaking  up  of  new  ground,  or  rather 
of  ground  which  had  for  long  lain  fallow,  it  is  necessary  to 
appeal  both  to  the  reader  and  critic  for  a  certain  amount  of 
leniency.  No  pains  have  been  spared  to  make  the  collection 
both  representative  and  complete  ]  but  the  enormous  amount 
of  verse  written  on  the  subject  has  made  the  task  an  unusually 
difficult  one,  especially  as  many  of  the  songs  have  been  altered 
and  revised   by  succeeding   generations  till   they  are   almost 


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INTRODUCTION  7 

unrecognisable.  We  have  endeavoured  to  make  use  only  of 
the  earliest  editions  from  which  the  extracts  have  been  re- 
produced verbatim  et  literatim,  and  as  far  as  possible  have 
arranged  the  pieces  according  to  date.  In  certain  cases,  how- 
ever, where  these  dates  are  supposed  to  be  known,  they  have 
been  rejected  either  because  the  evidence  on  which  they  have 
been  accepted  does  not  seem  trustworthy,  or  because,  from 
certain  allusions  to  sport,  or  from  the  peculiarity  of  type  or 
paper  used,  they  are  obviously  inaccurate.  The  dates  at  the 
foot  of  the  poems  are  of  the  editions  used. 


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CLASSICAL   SPORT 

By  Andrew  Lang 

The  disinterested  destruction  of  animal  life  for  the  mere  plea- 
sure of  the  pursuit  which  we  call  *  Sport '  can  only  begin  under 
conditions  of  civilisation.  Pastimes,  on  the  other  hand,  or 
amusement  in  the  exercise  of  speed  and  skill,  are  as  old  as  the 
life  of  animals.  Beasts  hunt  for  food,  no  doubt  deriving  much 
enjoyment  from  the  exercise,  and  early  man  does  precisely 
the  same  thing.  Still,  the  hunt  among  savages  is  not  so  much 
sport  as  a  form  of  industry.  Bread  being  quite  unknown,  the 
males  of  a  party  of  Australian  blacks  are  not  the  bread- 
winners, but  the  food -winners.  They  stalk  and  spear  emus 
and  kangaroos,  they  spear  fish,  or  hunt  honey-bees,  not  for 
diversion,  but  as  we  dig  and  plough.  Still,  they  have  sportive 
competitions  in  running,  leaping,  dancing,  in  throwing  spears 
at  marks,  with  the  boomerang,  and  at  a  kind  of  football. 
Similar  was  the  condition  of  the  Red  Indians,  and  of  other 
non-cultivating  races,  who  neither  tilled  the  soil  nor  kept 
domestic  cattle.  To  all  such  peoples  sport  was  business. 
Therefore,  strictly  speaking,  they  were  not  sportsmen  any  more 
than  our  fishing  population. 

Sport,  as  distinct  from  pastime,  can  only  begin  when 
supplies  of  food  are  secured  by  way  of  tillage,  and  by  the  milk 
and  flesh  of  sheep,  goats,  and  kine.  There  is  still  occasion  to 
slay  dangerous  animals,  big  game,  lions,  bears,  and  tigers  ;  and 
venison  is  still  desirable.     But  the  pursuit  of  big  gajme  and 


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CLASSICAL  SPORT  9 

deer  becomes  the  diversion  of  kings  and  nobles.  The  Assyrian 
monuments  show  us  the  king  spearing  lions,  or  shooting  wild 
beasts  with  bows  and  arrows  ;  the  Egyptian  wall-pictures  and 
reliefs  exhibit  the  pursuit,  not  only  of  lions,  as  by  Rameses  II., 
but  of  wild  ducks.  On  the  bronze  blades  of  Mycenaean 
daggers  (1400  B.C.  ?)  wild  ducks  are  represented  in  gold  inlaid 
work  as  being  put  up  in  the  papyrus  swamps  by  cats,  and  else- 
where the  Egyptian  sportsman  throws  a  kind  of  boomerang  at 
the  birds.  On  the  Mycenaean  daggers,  too,  men,  guarded  under 
enormous  shields,  pursue  and  spear  lions.  Sport,  in  fact,  has 
begun,  and,  with  war,  is  the  chief  occupation  of  the  nobles. 
Man  retains  the  hunting  instinct  of  the  animal  long  after  hunt- 
ing or  fishing  has  ceased  to  be  his  only  way  of  gaining  a 
livelihood. 

About  early  Greek  sport,  our  only  authorities,  of  course,  are 
the  Iliad  and  the  Odyssey.  Homer  draws  many  similes  from 
the  pursuit  of  the  lion,  usually  undertaken  by  bands  of  armed 
men,  who  surround  the  beast  with  a  circle  of  spears.  This, 
however,  was  mainly  the  work  of  a  banded  peasantry,  moved 
less  by  sporting  instincts  than  by  the  necessity  of  the  case, 
since  the  lion  preyed  on  their  herds.  Boar-hunting  was  the 
diversion  of  princes.  In  the  Nineteenth  Book  of  the  Odyssey 
we  hear  how  Odysseus,  as  a  young  man,  went  to  see  his 
cousins,  the  sons  of  Autolycus,  and  how,  at  early  dawn,  they 
pursued  the  boar  in  the  glades  of  Parnassus.  The  hounds 
run  foremost  on  the  track  of  a  boar,  the  beaters  follow  after, 
and  behind  them  the  young  princes.  The  great  boar  lies  in  a 
thick  tangled  cover,  unpierced  by  the  wet  winds  or  the  sun's 
rays ;  he  hears  the  footsteps  of  the  hunters,  the  yell  of  the 
hounds,  and  he  leaps  out,  all  bristling,  and  stands  at  bay  with 
eyes  of  flame.  Odysseus  rushes  in  foremost,  spear  in  hand  ; 
he  is  gashed  in  the  thigh  by  the  boar's  tusk,  but  drives  the 
lance  into  the  right  shoulder  of  the  beast,  which  falls  and  dies. 
Then  the  cousins  of  Odysseus  staunch  his  blood  with  such  a 
magical  song  as  Jeanne  d'Arc  would  not  suffer  to  be  chanted 
over  her  wound  beneath  the  English  wall.     This  is  the  most 


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lo  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

vivid  sketch  of  sport  in  Homer.  More  famous  is  the  descrip- 
tion of  the  hero's  dog,  Argus,  which,  while  it  was  young,  no 
wild  beast  could  escape  in  the  woodland  deeps,  and  men  led  it 
forth  to  chase  wild  goats  and  hares.  In  the  Iliad,  Achilles, 
not  having  opportunity  or  leisure  for  sport,  keeps  *  table-dogs  ' 
and  terriers  for  company.  Thus  the  Homeric  Greeks  had 
collies  which  snarled  and  snapped  at  strangers  near  the  farm- 
houses ;  little  dogs  for  society ;  and  tall  deer-hounds  like 
Argus. 

As  to  angling,  Homer  speaks  of  *  bent  hooks,'  which  carry 
down  bait  and  death  to  fishes  in  the  sea  ;  but  his  heroes  never 
fish  while  they  can  get  venison.  In  the  haunted  isle  of  Circe 
Odysseus  fares  up  through  the  wild  wood  alone,  and  meets  in 
the  forest  path  a  tall-antlered  stag  coming  down  to  the  burn 
to  drink,  for  the  heat  of  the  sun  is  upon  him.  The  hero 
strikes  it  on  the  spine  with  his  spear,  and  the  stag  falls  blaring 
in  the  dust.  Odysseus  binds  its  feet  together  with  withes, 
slings  it  over  his  shoulders,  and  carries  it  to  the  ship,  leaning 
on  his  spear.  The  rest  gather  round  and  admire  it,  so  royal  a 
stag  it  is,  and  then  they  cook  it.  Such  are  glimpses  of  sport 
in  the  morning  of  the  world — the  scent  of  the  dew  is  on  the 
bracken  and  the  birchwood.  But  angling,  it  seems,  was  rather 
contemned  by  these  sturdy  hunters,  nor  do  we  hear  much  of 
the  use  of  the  bow  and  arrow  in  sport.  On  a  gem  in  the 
collection  of  Mr.  Story  Maskelyne  we  see  a  bare-legged  angler, 
in  the  kind  of  sailor's  cap  usually  worn  by  Odysseus.  He  is 
fishing  carefully  with  a  light  one-handed  rod  (no  reel  !),  and 
carries  his  fish  not  in  a  basket,  but  in  a  pot-bellied  kind  of 
vessel,  probably  made  of  leather.  The  description  of  the 
golden  fish  caught  in  a  dream  by  the  old  fisherman  in  Theocritus 
is  very  realistic.  We  are  told  how  the  angler  struck,  how  the 
rod  bent,  how  he  gave  line,  and  finally  landed  his  spoil ;  but 
this  was  sea-fishing,  as  in  the  hackneyed  tale  of  Cleopatra's 
trick  upon  Anthony,  .^lian  also  describes  the  use  of  the 
artificial  May  fly  by  the  Illyrians.  They  seem  to  have  dubbed 
with  red  hackles,  and  to  have  *  daped  '  under  boughs  of  trees. 


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CLASSICAL  SPORT  ii 

for  you  cannot  cast  well  with  a  six-foot  line  !  To  -^lian  the 
artificial  fly  was  a  novelty,  and  the  trout  itself  a  strange  fish  ; 
however,  he  describes  a  rise  of  May  fly  very  well.  The  Greeks 
had  hooks  with  them  at  Troy,  otherwise  the  men  of  Odysseus 
could  hardly  have  found  tackle  on  the  desert  isle,  Thrinacia, 
where  pastured  the  cattle  of  Hyperion.  But*  the  Greeks,  on 
the  whole,  were  not  an  angling  people  by  way  of  sport :  nor 
were  the  Romans.  The  great  Latin  poets  of  the  best  period, 
such  as  Virgil  and  Lucretius,  never  speak  of  fishing,  at  least 
as  the  contemplative  man's  recreation.  Clemens  Alexandrinus, 
however,  advises  early  Christians  to  wear  the  effigy  of  an 
angler,  not  of  a  pretty  girl  (as  the  heathen  use),  on  their  signet- 
rings.  Clemens  may  have  been  fond  of  fishing,  or  he  may  only 
have  referred  to  the  Apostles,  who  mostly  used  nets,  though 
Peter,  when  he  took  a  fish  with  a  coin  in  its  mouth,  probably 
employed  rod  and  line. 

After  the  Homeric  age,  the  Greeks,  at  least  in  Attica,  became 
a  nation  of  citizens  and  town-keeping  men.  Attica  was  over- 
cultivated  and  over-populated  3  the  Ilissus,  no  doubt,  was 
fished  out,  and  ground  game  became  very  scarce.  There  is,  on 
a  fine  vase  in  the  British  Museum,  a  picture  of  a  hare  which 
has  got  inside  a  house,  and  is  making  a  rush  for  a  window.  A 
man  is  in  the  act  of  throwing  a  huge  stone  at  it,  and  a  dog  is 
after  it ;  but  we  can  scarcely  call  this  sport.  Theocritus,  in 
Sicily,  talks  of  sticks  for  throwing  at  hares,  and  an  epigram  of 
the  Anthology  bids  people  *  tell  the  bees  '  how  old  Leucippus 
*  perished  in  his  hare  hunting '  in  winter.  Probably  he  followed 
them  by  their  singular  tracks  in  the  snow.  Netting  of  boars, 
birds,  and  hares  was  very  common,  and  is  referred  to  by 
Horace.  The  ancients  regarded  the  use  of  nets  and  snares  as 
quite  a  sporting  practice  :  we  cannot  expect  much  of  demo- 
cratic republics- 

The  city  life  to  which  the  Greeks— at  least  the  Greeks  who 
have  left  a  literature — were  so  prone  made  athletics  take  the 
room  of  sport.  This  is  not  the  place  for  a  discussion  of  Greek 
athletics.     Everybody  knows  that  the  ancients  delighted  in 


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12  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

the  Prize  Ring,  the  boxers  wearing  heavily  loaded  gloves. 
Chariot  races,  foot-races  for  men  and  boys,  wrestling,  throwing 
the  weight,  and  leaping  were  the  main  exercises.  Of  the  times, 
naturally,  we  know  nothing,  and  not  very  much  of  the  distances, 
while  training  meant  eating  enormous  quantities  of  beef.  There 
was  a  regular  craze  for  athletics,  of  which  the  philosophers 
complain,  much  as  philosophers  do  still.  The  Greek  physi- 
cian of  the  Persian  king  bragged  prodigiously  about  having 
married  a  daughter  of  Milo,  the  celebrated  bruiser,  as  we  read 
in  Herodotus.  When  the  Souls  choose  a  new  earthly  life 
in  the  Platonic  Vision  of  Er,  the  soul  of  Atalanta  chooses  the 
lot  of  an  athlete,  because  of  the  honours  and  rewards.  For  a 
boy  to  be  made  immortal  in  an  Ode  of  Pindar,  and  to  see 
his  naked  statue  set  up  in  Olympia,  must  have  encouraged 
boundless  conceit.  A  little  place  like  Tanagra  must  have 
been  unfit  to  live  in  where  such  a  boy  was  swaggering. 
About  all  these  things  the  Greeks  were  extremely  boyish,  and, 
as  the  philosophers  thought,  abundantly  absurd.  A  Sophist 
ready  to  lecture  on  good  and  evil,  and  morals,  and  metaphysics, 
must  have  felt  crushed  when  his  audience  went  away  to  stare  at 
a  lad  who  had  won  the  hundred  yards  at  the  Isthmus,  or  gained 
the  wrestling  prize  *  under  fifteen.'  Probably  a  great  many 
talents  changed  hands  over  these  affairs,  and  when  Alcibiades 
entered  a  number  of  chariots,  who  could  guess  on  which  a  man 
like  him  stood  to  win  ?  No  doubt  he  *  cleared  out  the  Talent :  * 
hence,  perhaps,  his  sudden  unpopularity  in  certain  circles.  No 
present  was  more  esteemed  by  a  sporting  young  Athenian  blade 
than  that  of  a  gamecock  or  a  fighting  quail,  and  Socrates  him- 
self was  a  patron  of  the  cock-pit.  Though  we  hear  little  of  it 
(at  least  before  the  Byzantine  Empire),  doubtless  there  was  a 
great  deal  of  betting— and  it  would  be  very  strange  if  the 
Greeks  did  not  sell  matches  and  races,  but  always  played  on 
the  square.  They  had  no  cricket,  of  course,  and  to  recognise 
golf  in  Catnbuca  or  anything  else  is  hasty.  Pila^  I  take 
it,  was  more  like  tennis,  or  *  balloon,'  than  football.  Cicero 
and  Maecenas  played,  and   we  cannot  imagine  Cicero  in  a 


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CLASSICAL  SPORT  13 

scrummage,  or  Maecenas  tackling  Horace  neatly  on  the  goal 
line.  The  Phoenicians,  in  Homer,  practised  catching  '  out  i  n 
the  country,'  and  probably  would  have  fielded  well ;  but  we 
never  hear  of  bats  or  wickets,  while  it  would  be  difficult  to 
find  a  decent  pitch  in  rocky  Ithaca.  Even  boxing  was 
very  unscientific,  round  blows  were  delivered  at  the  ears  ;  but 
Polydeuces,  in  Theocritus,  fought  a  neat  battle  with  the 
Berbycian  Big  One,  and  there  is  some  pretty  fibbing  in  the 
-li^neid.  The  ladylike  Virgil  and  the  sweet  Theocritus  were 
obviously  fond  of  the  Fancy,  and  knew  what  they  were  writing 
about.  * 

Pindar,  on  the  other  hand,  was  obviously  bored  by  his 
task,  and  shirked  the  sporting  details.  It  is  as  if  JieiPs  Life  had 
evaded  the  actual  facts  in  a  set-to,  and  published  a  page  of 
Smith's  *  Dictionary  of  Mythology.'  Virgil  and  Theocritus  were 
much  better  sportsmen,  and  much  more  intelligible  poets.  It 
is  as  if  one  were  offered  fi\Q  pounds  to  celebrate  Mr.  G.  O. 
Smith,  and  then  wrote  an  ode  on  Hephaestus.  This  can 
scarcely  have  been  satisfactory  to  a  young  winner,  but  such 
was  Pindar's  way. 

The  best  and  most  authoritative  account  of  classical  hunting 
i.s,  doubtless,  that  given  by  Xenophon  in  his  Cynegetica, 
Though  an  Athenian  by  birth,  Xenophon  loved  the  Spartans, 
who  pursued  the  chase  on  Mount  Taygetus.  His  delight 
was  to  be  in  military  and  sporting  circles,  despite  his  pleasure 
in  the  company  of  Socrates.  He  begins  by  proclaiming  the 
lofty  origin  of  sport  :  Apollo  and  Artemis  are  hunters  :  and 
he  gives  a  list  of  sportsmen,  as  Theseus,  Cephalus,  and 
Odysseus,  among  the  heroes.  Hippolytus,  a  mighty  hunter, 
was  remarkable  for  his  personal  virtue — the  Joseph  of  Greek 
tradition.  Xenophon  infers  that  hunting  is  a  noble  branch 
of  education,  for  the  chase  (as  Mr.  Jorrocks  also  says)  is  the 
image  of  war,  and  the  best  training  for  soldiers.  As  soon  as  he 
ceases  to  be  a  child,  a  man  should  take  to  hunting.    Xenophon 

*  In  an  old  Blackwood's  MagazineWrgiXs  boxing  match  is  cleverly  rendered 
into  the  slang  of  the  ring,  probably  by  Maginn. 


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14  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

then  describes  the  making  of  nets,  at  some  now  needless 
length.  Dogs  he  divides  into  Castorides  (from  Castor),  and 
Alopekides,  with  a  strain  of  the  fox  in  their  pedigree.  He 
discusses  the  varieties  of  hounds,  and  their  manners  in 
hunting  :  some  silent,  some  noisy,  some  wagging  tails  or  ears, 
some  *  yelling  like  mad,'  some  staunch  followers  of  a  scent, 
some  *  with  no  nose,'  some  following  false  scents.  Hare- 
hunting  occupies  Xenophon  first.  Men  hunted  on  foot  and 
used  nets.  In  spring  *  they  stinking  violets '  spoil  the  scent 
(yi  yri  i$avOov<ra  pXairr^i  ra?  icvva^,  €is  to  avro  (rvfjifjuyvvovcra.  rtov 
dvOuiv  Ta9  oo-yxa?).  City  folks  are  no  sportsmen,  Xenophon 
says,  and  you  may  not  land  dogs  on  sacred  islands.  Dusky 
corries,  burn-sides,  dells,  glens  are  the  best  places  for  hunting. 
The  light-clad  pursuer  only  carries  a  club  in  hare- hunting, 
and  had  better  move  in  silence.  The  dogs  are  tied  up,  the 
nets  are  set,  a  prayer  is  made,  'a  hunting  mass,'  to  Apollo 
and  Artemis  Agrotera,  then  the  cleverest  hound  is  slipped, 
and  so  the  others.  When  the  scent  is  once  hit  upon,  the 
hounds  are  encouraged  each  by  name  :  Ei*y€,  cvyt,  w  klWs/ 
€vy€  ^v;(t;,  €vy€  TiopBiav  ! 

For  hunting  fawns  and  hinds,  Indian  dogs  are  used  ;  the 
hunters  carry  light  throwing- spears.  For  w^ild  boars,  Indian, 
Cretan,  Locrian  hounds,  and  *the  Spartan  breed'  are  best. 
Lions,  pards,  panthers,  and  bears  are  onlv  to  be  found  in  foreign 
parts  and  in  Macedonia,  though  they  were  familiar  to  Homeric 
Greece.  Xenophon  ends  by  a  vigorous  defence  of  hunting. 
*  Men  who  hunt  are  ready  to  defend  their  country  in  her  greatest 
interests  ; '  they  are  sportsmanlike^  true,  and  honest  ;  people 
who  do  not  hunt  are  timid,  lazy  voluptuaries,  .'the  worst  of 
men.'  They  can  neither  be  just  nor  pious  ;  they  are  sophists, 
not  real  philosophers.  Sportsmen  are  your  only  good  citizens, 
and  even  women  have  attained  renown  by  dint  of  hunting,  as 
Atalanta  and  Procris. 

These  are  very  English  reflections.  Xenophon's  is  a  pro- 
test against  a  purely  urban  life,  an  existence  of  pleasure, 
lawsuits,  *  culture,'  politics,  and  'hearing  or  telling  some  new 


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CLASSICAL  SPORT  15 

thing/  as  St.  Luke  has  it.  Sport  keeps  alive  the  original, 
wholesome  barbarian  in  our  nature,  as  it  did,  he  confessed,  in 
the  apostle  of  culture — in  Matthew  Arnold.  But  *  sport '  does 
not  mean  betting  on  horses,  nor  looking  on  at  billiard  matches. 
The  labour  and  toil  of  sport  endear  it  to  Xenophon,  that  illus- 
trious commander,  the  most  English  of  the  Athenians.  Horace, 
we  know,  preached  the  same  doctrine,  but  Horace  would  have 
cut  a  poor  figure  if  confronted  with  a  boar  at  bay,  or  obliged 
to  crawl  through  crag  and  bog  after  a  stag.  Sport  is  best  when 
most  natural,  and  least  accompanied  by  hot  luncheons.  Xeno- 
phon would  have  despised,  not  unjustly,  the  luxuries  of  many 
modern  marksmen  who  have  a  name  to  be  sportsmen,  *  falsely 
so-called.'  He  would  rather  have  esteemed  the  hardy  hunter, 
and  the  pursuer  of  big  game  m  Asia  and  Africa.  The  experi- 
ence of  Greece  proved  that  athletics  are  no  substitute  for  the 
life  of  unexpected  dangers  and  sudden  resolutions  on  hillsides 
and  among  pards  and  boars.  But  the  increase  of  population, 
as  in  modern  days,  narrowed  the  field  of  sport,  and  heightened 
the  enthusiasm  for  running  and  jumping,  as  now  for  those  ex- 
cellent pastimes,  cricket,  football,  and  rowing.  Of  these  foot- 
ball would  have  been  most  to  the  austere  taste  of  Xenophon. 

These  brief  notes  on  classical  sport  would  be  incomplete 
without  some  remark  on  the  manner  in  which  ancient  hunting 
reflected  itself  in  poetry.  The  poets  whose  works  have  reached 
us  were  not  sportsmen  themselves,  but  would  appreciate  the 
charm  of  the  chase,  in  wild  woods  and  hills,  when  pursued  by 
Artemis  and  her  maiden  band  of  archers.  They  were  inte- 
rested in  the  fate  of  *one  Acton,'  as  Squire  Western  calls 
Actaeon,  and  perceived  the  charm  of  a  pursuit  which  might 
bring  the  hunter  into  view  of  wood-nymphs  bathing.  Thus, 
as  a  Pompeian  painter  designs  a  Nereid  in  place  of  drawing  a 
river  or  a  fountain,  so,  in  place  of  a  description  of  a  chase  (as 
in  *  The  Lady  of  the  I^ke '),  the  poet  gives  his  line  to  Artemis 
and  her  maidens,  speeding  along  the  summit  of  Taygetus 
or  Erymanthus.  Details  are  avoided  ;  we  have  no  Somervile, 
no  Scott,  no  Dennys,  among  the  poets  of  (ireece.     Nature 


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THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 


and  the  chase  assume  a  *  theanthropic '  form,  to  the  disregard 
of  detail  of  landscape  :  in  accordance  with  the  prevailing 
principles  of  Greek  art.  Detail,  particular  description,  had  to 
wait  for  the  northern  and  mediaeval  poets  and  romancers.  For 
these  reasons  our  knowledge  of  classical  sport  is  meagre  and 
general.  A  more  special  picture  occurs  in  the  passage  on  the 
death  of  the  boar,  in  Mr.  Swinburne's  *  Atalanta  in  Calydon.' 
After  Homer  the  Greek  poets  were  men  of  the  alcove,  the 
market-place,  the  theatre,  as  were  many  of  our  own  writers, 
between  Shakspeare  and  Scott.  The  sporting  races,  as  in 
Thessaly  and  Sparta,  were  not  literary  :  the  poets  of  Boeotia 
were  few,  and  references  to  the  chase,  as  a  rule,  deal  in  a 
somewhat  conventional  way  with  the  characters  of  the  remote 
heroic  age. 


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INTRODUCTION    TO    SPORTING    EXTRACTS 

Before  introducing  readers  to  Sporting  Songs  and  Ballads,  it 
will  be  interesting  to  look  at  some  of  the  allusions  to  sport 
found  scattered  through  the  works  of  our  English  poets  and 
verse-writers.  To  one  who  is  only  acquainted  with  the  names 
of  some  fifty  or  sixty  of  these  the  labour  of  selection  may 
appear  easy,  and  the  fear  of  omitting  anything  of  interest 
slight ;  but  if  it  be  remembered  that  for  every  well-known 
author  we  have  ten  but  little  known,  the  difficulty  of  the  under- 
taking will  be  better  realised.  In  fact,  the  limit  of  research 
must,  in  all  such  cases,  be  determined  by  the  conscientiousness 
of  the  workers. 

There  are  about  1,800,000  books  to  be  found  in  the  British 
Museum  ;  how  many  of  these  contain  verse  in  one  form  or 
another  is  a  question  that  must  be  left  for  some  future  biblio- 
maniac to  discover.  We  should  roughly  estimate  them  between 
a  quarter  and  half  a  million,  and  yet  the  works  of  at  least  a 
sixth  of  the  older  minor  poets  are  not  to  be  found  there.  It  is, 
moreover,  not  safe  to  take  for  granted  that  it  is  easy  to  decide 
who  is  or  who  is  not  likely  to  write  on  sporting  subjects.  The 
reader  would  hardly  have  expected  to  find  a  hunting  song  by 
Bishop  Heber,  yet  one  of  the  best  in  this  collection  was  written 
by  him.  Verily  the  ways  of  poets  are  past  understanding,  and 
the  number  of  verse- writers  who  can  calculate  ! 

In  making  the  following  collection  of  extracts  we  have 
had  three  objects  chiefly  in  view — the  excellence  of  the  verse, 

c 

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j8  the  poetry f of  SPORT 

the  accuracy  of  description,  and  the  historical  interest.  Any 
piece  has  been  included  which  marks  the  changes  of  sport, 
either  in  spirit,  manner,  or  costume,  thereby  enabling  the 
reader  to  gain  considerable  information  on  the  subject  which 
he  might  find  much  difficulty  in  acquiring  elsewhere.  To 
carry  out  this  object  further,,  a  considerable  number  of  plates 
copied  from  little-known  ancient  paintings  and  engravings  have 
been  included.  These  will  l^e  found  to  illustrate  far  better 
and  more  accurately  than  any  modern  work  the  customs  and 
costumes  of  the  various  times,  and  help  to  explain  many 
allusions  which  might  otherwise  be  more  or  less  unintelligible. 

In  dealing  with  English  verse  it  is  fortunately  only  neces- 
sary to  go  back  about  fis^  hundred  years.  Before  the  time  of 
Chaucer  there  is  little  or  nothing  of  poetical  interest  to  be 
found.  The  printing  press  had  not  brought  either  its  blessing 
or  its^curse,  and  songs  of  excellence,  if  such  there  were,  must 
have  perished  or  lived  only  as  memory  preserved  them  in  a 
mangled  form.  It  is  more  than  probable  that  many  early 
writers  have  received  credit  for  much  that  was  not  their  own 
and  which  they  never  wished  to  appropriate.  An  instance  of 
this  is  doubtless  to  be  found  in  the  first  printed  hunting  song 
found  in  the  *Boke  of  St.  Albans'  and  attributed  to  Dame 
Juliana  Berners.  Fiction  has  been  allov/ed  to  play  some 
liberal  freaks  with  this  lady's  histor)%  which  doubtless  would 
amuse  her  greatly  if  she  could  only  read  them,  one  writer 
after  another  having  piled  up  tales  of  imagination  and  given 
them  forth  as  facts,  till  anyone  who  so  wishes  can  read  quite  a 
thrilling  history  of  the  Hunting  Abbess.  Not  one  word.,  how- 
ever, of  this  romance  appears  to  be  founded  on  even  a  ground- 
work of  truth,  and  the  world  is  indebted  to  Mr.  William  Blades 
for  having  finally  exploded  this  iridescent  bubble. 

In  his  introduction  to  the  reprint,  1881,  of  the  'Boke  of 
St.  Albans,'  after  giving  a  most  interesting  account  of  how 
history  is  manufactured,  he  concludes  with  this  verdict : — 

*  What  is  really  known  of  the  Dame  is  almost  nothing,  and 
may  be  summed  up  in  the  following  words.     She  probably 


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INTRODUCTION  TO  SPORTING  EXTRACTS        19 

lived  at  the  beginning  of  the  fifteenth  century,  and  she  possibly 
compiled  from  existing  manuscripts  some  rhymes  on  Hunting.' 

Strutt  thinks,  and  most  likely  correctly,  that  the  *  Boke  of 
St.  Albans  is  compiled  from  a  tract  by  William  Twici  or  Twety, 
huntsman  to  King  Edward  II.,  or  from  an  enlargement  of  the 
same  by  Henry  IV.,  for  the  use  of  his  son  Prince  Henry. 
Anyway,  it  is  evidently  a  school-book,  so  written  that  a  pupil 
whilst  learning  to  read  might  at  the  same  time  become  familiar 
with  the  terms  of  venery. 

It  would  be  out  of  place  to  give  more  than  an  extract  or 

two  from  this  doggerel,   which  is  only  of  value   for  certain 

allusions   to   sport,    such   as   the   following  description   of  a 

greyhound  : — 

A  grehounde  shulde  be  heded  like  a  snake, 

And  necked  like  a  drake, 

Foted  like  a  kat, 

Tayled  like  a  rat, 

Sydd  like  a  teme, 

Chyned  '  like  a  beme.*^ 

Tfu  Boke  of  St.  Albans,  i486. 

We  find  here,  also,  the  names  of  beasts  of  sport  divided 
into  three  classes  :  ist,  venery  ;  2nd,  chase  ;  3rd,  raskall  From 
which  it  will  be  seen  that  the  fox  was  considered  a  beast  of 
chase  at  that  time. 

Foure  maner  bestys  of  venery  there  are  : 

The  first  of  theym  is  the  hert,  the  secunde  is  the  hare, 

The  bore  is  oon  of  tho,  the  wolff  and  not  oon  moo. 

And  where  that  ye  cum  in  playne  or  in  place, 

I  shall  you  tell  which  be  bestys  of  enchace, 

Oon  of  thym  is  the  bucke,  a  nother  is  the  Doo. 

The  fox  and  the  martion  and  the  wilde  roo, 

And  ye  shall  my  dere  chylde  other  bestys  all 

Where  so  ye  hem  fynde  rascall  ye  shall  hem  call. 

Tke  Boke  of  St.  Albans,  i486. 

Some  \\Titers  have  stated  that  foxhunting  as  a  recognised 
sport  was  of  much  later  date,  but  we  have  the  authority  of 
William  Twici  that  the  fox  was  classed  with  the  buck,  the  doe, 
and  the  roe  in  Edward  II.'s  time. 

1  Backed.  >  V.  I.  breme. 

c  2 


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20  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

In  the  fourteenth  century  hunting  was  a  very  popular  sport 
with  ladies,  and  if  we  are  to  credit  the  illustrated  manuscripts 
of  the  date,  these  sporting  dames  were  quite  capable  of  making 
up  parties  by  themselves,  of  blowing  the  horns,  managing  the 
hounds,  and  doing  all  the  work  of  huntsmen.  In  these  cases 
they  rode  astride,  but  when  accompanying  the  men  it  seems  to 
have  been  more  usual  for  them  to  sit  sideways  in  a  pillion 
behind  their  favourite  knights.  What  the  unfortunate  horse 
thought  of  this  latter  arrangement  history  does  not  relate,  but 
from  the  engravings  the  horses  seem  to  have  had  pretty  broad 
backs,  and  resemble  slightly  melted-down  cart-horses. 

Lydgate  (1370- 1440),  who  wrote  about  the  close  of  this 
century,  gives  *  A  satirical  description  of  his  Lady  : ' — 

Of  huntyng  she  beryth  the  greet  pryse, 
For  buk  or  doo,  bothe  herts  and  hynde  ; 
But  whan  she  dotyth  and  wyl  be  nyse, 
Maale  deer  to  chaase  and  to  fynde, 
That  can  hym  feede  on  bark  or  rynde, 
And  in  hire  park  pasturyd  been. 
That  weels  can  beere  ^  with  a  tynde,^ 
Under  hire  daggyd '  hood  of  green. 

Harl.  MS.  2255. 

The  importance  attached  to  the  training  of  youths  in  all 
field  sports  is  frequently  alluded  to,  as  in  the  following  frag- 
ment taken  from  a  romance  written  at  this  period,  and  called 
*  Ipomydon.'  Speaking  of  the  education  of  the  king's  son,  the 
writer  says  : — 

Both  of  howndes  and  hawkes  game 
After,  he  taught  hym  all ;  and  same 
In  se,  in  feld,  and  eke  in  ryvere. 
In  wodde  to  chase  the  wild  dere 
And  in  feld  to  r>'de  a  stede 
That  all  men  had  joy  of  hys  dede. 

Harl.  MS.  2252.     Strutt  copy. 

That  hunting  and  hawking  were  necessities  as  well  as 
amusements  in  these  days  is  also  shown  in  the  following  lines 
by  W.  J.  Langland,  written  about  1360  : — 

>  thrust.  »  tine  of  the  horns.  '  notched  at  the  edges. 

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INTRODUCTION   TO  SPORTING  EXTRACTS       21 

And  go  hunt,  hardely,  to  hares  and  to  foxes, 
To  bores  and  to  brocks  '  that  breken  adowne  my  hedges  ; 
And  go  affayte  '*  the  Fawcons,  wilde  fowles  to  kyll, 
For  such  Cometh  to  my  croft,  and  cropeth  mi  whete. 

Vision  of  Piers  Plowman,  1550. 

In  this  same  book  are  some  lines  on  swimming,  perhaps  the 
oldest  that  have  been  printed.  They  point  out  the  importance 
of  learning  the  art,  and  it  would  be  well  if  the  same  lesson 
could  be  impressed  more  on  men  and  women  in  our  own  time  : — 

Take  two  stronge  men  and  in  Temes  cast  hem. 

And  both  naked  as  a  nedle,  ther  non  sikerer  than  other  ;  ^ 

The  one  hath  cunnynge  and  can  swymme  and  dyve, 

The  other  is  lewd  *  of  ye  labour,  lemed  never  to  swym, 

Which  trowest  ye  of  those  two,  in  Temese  is  most  in  dred. 

He  that  never  dived  ne  nought  can  of  swymmyng. 

Or  the  swymer  that  is  safe,  be  so  himself  like  ? 

There  hys  felow  flete  forth,  as  the  flowd  liketh 

And  is  in  dread  to  drench,  that  never  did  swymme. 

Vision  of  Piers  Plomman,  1550. 

In  Chaucer's  *  Canterbury  Tales,'  as  in  other  of  his  works, 
we  find  endless  references  to  sport,  chiefly  hunting  and 
hawking  \  but  few  of  them  are  of  sufficient  length  or  interest  to 
quote  without  the  context.  In  a  time  when  no  man  of  con- 
sequence travelled  without  his  hawk  and  hounds,  it  would  be 
surprising  if  we  did  not  come  upon  a  number  of  such  lines  as 

these  : — 

Ne  what  hawkes  sytten  on  perchen  above, 
Ne  what  houndes  lyggen  on  the  flour  adoun. 

They  were,  no  doubt,  suggested  by  seeing  a  nobleman  and 
his  guests  seated  at  table,  their  hawks  being  placed  upon 
perches  over  their  heads,  and  their  hounds  lying  on  the 
pavement  round  them.  He  frequently  also  rebukes  the  monks 
for  being  better  skilled  in  hunting  and  hawking  than  in 
divinity,  and  caring  more  for  blowing  the  horn  than  the 
service  of  God.  It  is  strange  to  think  that  Sydenham  Hill  and 
Norwood  were  at  this  time  the  private  hunting  preserve  of  the 


badgers.  "^  get  ready, 

neither  Stifer  than  the  other.  ^  unskilled. 

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22  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

Archbishops  of  Canterbury,  and  it  is  more  than  likely  that 
where  the  Crystal  Palace  now  stands  Thomas  a  Becket  (who 
was  a  keen  sportsman)  may  often  have  killed  the  wild  boar 
after  an  exciting  run. 

Later  on  will  be  found  an  extract  from  *The  Dream  of 
Chaucer,'  which  is  full  of  interest  to  sportsmen,  and  in  which 
he  gives  a  most  graphic  description  of  a  wood  :   - 

Where  many  an  hart  |  and  many  an  hynde 
Was  bothe  before  me  and  behynde. 
Of  fawnes  |  sowers  '  |  bukes  |  does 
Was  ful  the  wodde  |  &  many  roes. 

The  Works  of  Geffray  Chaucer,  1532. 

In  the  present  day,  when  it  is  often  so  difficult  to  find 
animals  to  hunt  that  in  despair  we  are  sometimes  reduced 
to  following  the  trail  of  that  quickest  of  all  scents,  a  drag,  it  is 
tantalising  to  read  of  such  abundance  even  in  a  dream.  Our 
sleep  is  more  likely  to  be  disturbed  by  the  vision  of  a  great 
blank. 

This  superabundance  of  game  is  noticeable  in  all  the 
old  sporting  prints ;  in  the  oldest  the  hunted  seemed  often 
to  outnumber  the  hunters,  and  it  must  have  been  a  sad  trouble 
to  the  huntsman  of  those  times  to  avoid  frequent  changes  of 
scent,  if  he  ever  troubled  his  mind  on  the  subject,  which  is 
doubtful.  These  pictures  must  not  be  taken  too  literally,  for 
the  artists  of  those  times  were  evidently  anxious  to  get  in  as 
much  subject-matter  as  possible,  and  often  introduced  two  or 
three  separate  hunts  in  the  same  picture. 

It  is,  however,  very  evident  that  in  those  days  game  was 
exceedingly  plentiful,  and  the  shorter  the  run  the  better  pleased 
were  both  footmen  and  riders.  Neither  were  the  horses  and 
hounds  fitted  for  a  modern  burst.  What  we  should  term  in 
the  present  day  most  unsportsmanlike  methods  of  limiting  the 
victim's  chance  were  employed — traps,  nets,  and  spears,  as 
well  as  the  more  deadly  crossbow,  being  freely  used.  In  fact, 
these  practices  seem  to  have  more  or  less  continued  up  to  the 

'  bucks  in  the  fourth  vedr. 


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INTRODUCTION  TO  SPORTING  EXTRACTS        23 

time  of  James  I.,  for  in  writing  a  set  of  rules  for  his  eldest  son, 
Henry,  Prince  of  Wales,  he  says  : — 

*  I  cannot  omit  here  the  hunting,  namely,  with  running 
houndes,  which  is  the  most  honourable  and  noblest  sort 
thereof  ;•  for  it  is  a  theivish  forme  of  hunting  to  shoote  with 
gunnes  and  bowes  ;  and  greyhound  hunting  is  not  so  martial 
a  game.' 

It  is  very  difficult  fully  to  realise  the  sporting  life  of  this 
time,  when  books  were  few,  and  those  who  could  read  them 
even  fewer  ;  when  there  was  as  great  a  dearth  of  amuse- 
ment as  of  comfort  in  the  home,  and  men  revelled  in  exercise 
of  all  kinds,  but  chiefly  in  such  as  was  accompanied  with 
excitement  and  danger,  we  can  fancy  what  horror  they  must 
have  felt  for  enforced  inaction.  A  short  poem  written  by 
Henry  Howard,  Earl  of  Surrey,  while  he  was  imprisoned  in 
Windsor,  strikingly  shows  this.  It  was  composed  shortly  before 
his  execution,  which  took  place  on  January  19,  1547  ;  and  as 
we  read  it  we  can  fancy  that  the  sound  of  the  horn  must  have 
reached  him  in  his  solitude,  and  that  his  thoughts  had  thus 
been  drawn  back  to  the.  days  of  freedom,  when  he,  too,  was 
one  of  the  merry  huntsmen  : — 

Prisoned  in  Windsor^  he  recounteih  his  pleasure  there  passed. 

With  silver  droppes  the  meade  yet  spred  for  ruth. 
In  active  games  of  niniblenes  and  strength, 
Where  we  did  straine,  trained  with  swarmes  of  youth, 
Our  tender  limmes,  that  yet  shot  up  in  length  : 
The  secret  groves,  which  oft  we  made  resound 
Of  pleasaunt  plaint,  and  of  our  ladies  praise. 
Recording  oft  what  grace  eche  one  had  found, 
What  hope  of  spede,  what  dread  of  long  delaies  : 
The  wilde  forest,  the  clothed  holtes  with  grene  : 
With  rains  availed,  and  swift  ybreathed  horse, 
With  crie  of  houndes,  and  mery  Wastes  betwene, 
Where  we  did  chase  the  fearfull  hart  of  force. 
Howard  (Henry),  Kakt.  of  Surrky,  Songcs  and  Somttes,  1557. 

In  1570  was  printed  Turbervile's  *  Book  of  Hunting  and 
Hawking,'  one  of  the  most  interesting  works  that  we  possess 
on  ancient  sport.      One  of  the  illustrations  is  reproduced  on 


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24  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

page  287.  This  work  is  of  considerable  value,  and  very  scarce 
in  a  complete  form,  even  the  second  edition  (161 1)  being 
much  prized  by  collectors.  It  contains  a  good  deal  of  verse, 
some  of  which  will  be  found  in  its  place.  The  following  is  a 
short  example  of  his  style  : — 

Of  a  Hare  complaining  of  the  hatred  of  Dogs 

The  senting  Houndes  pursude 

the  hastie  Hare  of  foote  ; 
The  sielie  Beast  to  scape  the  Dogs 

did  jumpe  upon  a  roote. 
The  rotten  scrag  it  burst, 

from  Cliffe  to  seas  he  fell : 
Then  cride  the  Hare  :  unhappie  mee, 

for  now  perceive  1  well 
Both  lande  and  Sea  pursue 

and  hate  the  hurdesse  Hare  : 
And  eake  the  dogged  Skies  aloft, 

if  so  the  Dog  be  thare. 

GK(i.  TrRBKkViLK,  Epitaphs,  &.c.  1570. 

When  we  come  to  the  works  of  Spenser,  we  find  a  great 
number  of  allusions  to  sport,  many  of  which  are  both 
interesting  and  beautiful.  His  *  Faerie  Queene,'  rich  in  illustra- 
tions drawn  from  sporting  subjects,  gives,  among  many  others, 
the  three  following  on  hunting,  hawking,  and  fishing  : — 

As  gentle  Hynd,  whose  sides  with  cruell  Steele 
Through  lanched,'  forth  her  bleeding  life  does  raine 
Whiles  the  sad  pang  approching  she  does  feele 
Braies  out  her  latest  breath,  and  up  her  eies  doth  seele. 

Herselfe  not  saved  yet  from  daunger  dredd 

She  thought,  but  chaung'd  fi-om  one  to  other  feare 
Like  as  a  fearefull  partridge,  that  is  fledd 
From  the  sharpe  hauke  which  her  attacked  neare 
And  fals  to  ground  to  seeke  for  succor  theare, 
Whereas  the  hungry  Spaniells  she  does  spye 
With  greedy  jawes  her  ready  for  to  teare. 

That  he  descryde  and  shonned  still  his  flight 
The  fish  that  once  was  caught  new  bayt  will  hardly  byte. 

Tfu:  Faerie  Qucency  by  Edmund  Spenskr,  1590-96. 

^  pierced. 

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*  The  sielie  beast  to  scape  the  dogs 
did  jumpe  upon  a  roote." 


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INTRODUCTION  TO  SPORTING  EXTRACTS        25 

Though  woven  into  his  story,  his  illustrations,  even  when 
severed  from  it,  are  often  gems  of  art ;  and  as  they  combine 
close  observation  with  metrical  excellence,  a  few  of  them  will 
be  included  further  on  among  his  longer  extracts. 

Among  the  *Satyres'  of  John  Marston,  printed  in  1598,  there 
is  one  which  will  be  of  interest  to  every  master  of  hounds  who 
is  not  already  acquainted  with  it,  showing,  as  it  does,  that  the 
expense  of  keeping  a  pack  was  as  serious  in  its  way  three 
hundred  years  ago  as  now. 

Satvre  4 

The  harniles  hunter,  with  a  ventrous  eye 
When  unawares  he  did  Diana  spie 
Nak'd  in  the  fountaine,  he  became  straightway 
Unto  his  greedy  hounds  a  wished  pray, 
His  owne  delights  taking  away  his  breath, 
'    And  all  ungratefull  forc'd  his  fatall  death. 

(And  ever  since  Hounds  eate  their  Maisters  cleane, 
For  so  Diana  curst  them  in  the  streame). 

John  Marston,  The  Metamorphosis  of  Piginalion  s  Image 
and  Cfftaine  Sa tyres,  1598. 

We  now  come  to  the  time  of  Shakspeare.  His  writings 
are  full  of  scenes  taken  from  various  sports,  similes  drawn 
from  the  same  source,  and  endless  references  to  the  subject. 
The  work  of  selection  is  made  in  his  case  more  than  usually 
difficult  by  the  weaving  and  interweaving  of  alien  subjects  ; 
this,  whilst  it  adds  greatly  to  the  interest  of  the  plays  them- 
selves, makes  many  of  his  writings  unsuitable  for  quotation  in 
a  work  of  this  kind. 

The  extracts  that  appear  of  most  interest  will  be  found 
in  their  place  here.  It  may  be  mentioned  that  it  is  almost 
impossible  to  make  any  arbitrary  divisions  in  this  book  ;  our 
object  has  been  in  this  first  part  to  confine  attention  to  extracts 
which  it  would  be  a  pity  to  omit,  but  which  are,  nevertheless, 
obviously  incomplete  in  themselves. 

Perhaps  at  no  time  in  our  history  did  the  spirit  of  sport 
hold  such  power  as  at  the  close  of  the  sixteenth  century.  Ben 
Jonson  makes  one  of  his  characters  say,  *  Why  you  know  an  a 


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26  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

man  have  not  skill  in  the  hawking  and  hunting  languages  now 
a  dayes,  I'll  not  give  a  rush  for  him.  They  are  more  studied 
then  the  Greeke,  or  the  Latine.'  He  also  in  another  place 
sharply  reproves  those  who  (to  alter  the  quotation  slightly)  :  -  - 

Excuse  the  faults  they  have  a  mind  to 
And  turn  to  sins  the  joys  they're  blind  to. 

*■  Nor  cast/  he  says  to  such, 

*  Before  your  hungry  hearers,  scrupulous  bones 
As  whether  a  christian  may  hawke  or  hunt.' 

The  Alchemist.  1612. 

But  our  own  hungry  readers  may  begin  to  think  that  we  are 
casting  before  them  too  many  introductory  bones  ;  and,  find- 
ing them  rather  tough,  are  desirous  of  the  more  satisfactory 
extracts  awaiting  their  attention.  If  among  these  some  should 
be  found  seemingly  unworthy  of  reproduction,  a  further  ex- 
amination may  show  the  reason  for  their  inclusion. 

It  would  have  been  interesting  to  make  use  of  the  material 
before  us  for  the  purpose  of  writing  a  short  history  on  the 
growth  of  sport,  but  it  will  be  obvious  that  such  temptation 
must  be  avoided,  not  only  on  account  of  the  limitation  of 
space,  but  also  because  too  frequent  notes  and  comments 
become,  as  before  said,  wearisome.  If  a  work  of  this  kind  is 
arranged  with  care,  it  should  speak  for  itself,  and,  with  the  help 
of  the  illustrations  (which  have  been  produced  by  the  most 
accurate  and  skilful  artists  of  their  time),  there  should  be 
little  difficulty  in  calling  up  the  forgotten  pictures  of  the  past — 
in  living,  for  the  time  being,  in  those  bygone  days  when 
sport  was  more  a  necessity  and  less  simply  an  amusement ; 
when  the  wild  forest  was  often  as  Nature  planted  it,  and  if  there 
were  few  well-trimmed  hedges,  there  were  at  least  no  barbed- 
wire  fences  ;  when  a  railway  was  not  even  a  dream  of  the 
imagination,  and  if  the  horses  and  hounds  were  slow,  the  game 
was  plentiful  and  varied  ;  whilst  no  small  part  of  the  huntsman's 
pleasure  was  doubtless  the  thought  of  the  haunch  of  venison 
that  would  be  enjoyed  on  some  future  day. 


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INTRODUCTION  TO   SPORTING  EXTRACTS        27 

Following  out  the  purpose  which  the  Editor  of  the 
Badminton  Library  has  chiefly  in  view — viz.  the  advancement 
of  modem  English  sport — little  space  has  been  devoted  to  any 
obsolete  pastime,  but  now  and  again,  where  any  pieces  on  the 
subject  seemed  of  singular  merit,  they  have  been  included. 

The  reader  may  also  notice  omissions  of  certain  well-known 


^.Vti 


Barbed  wire— a  modern  curse 


c^©- 


pieces,  notably  in  the  selections  from  such  a  writer  as  Somervile, 
who  has  been  fitly  termed  the  sportsman  poet.  It  is  obvious 
that  to  have  included  all  his  writings  on  sport  would  have  been 
beyond  the  limit  of  space,  even  had  it  seemed  prudent.  The 
same  omissions  in  a  less  degree  may  be  observed  in  many  other 
cases,  as  it  has  been  our  object  only  to  choose  the  best  from 
each  writer. 


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28 


THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 


The  earlier  extracts  may  possibly,  on  account  of  their 
quaint  spelling  and  phraseology,  appeal  less  as  poetry  to  the 
general  reader  than  those  taken  from  later  writers  ;  but  what 
may  be  lost  on  this  account  will  be  amply  compensated  for  by 
the  historical  interest  attached  to  them  ;  and,  considering  the 
ignorance  that  is  too  often  shown  on  the  earlier  history  of 
this  subject,  it  has  seemed  advisable  to  spare  no  pains  to  throw, 
if  it  be  but  a  few,  additional  sparks  of  light  on  a  matter  of  so 
great  general  interest. 


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SPORTING    EXTRACTS 


Dyana  and  Acceon 

This  Acceon,  as  he  wel  myght, 

Above  al  other  cast  his  chere/ 

And  used  it  from  yere  to  yere, 

With  houndes  &  with  grete  homes 

Among  the  wodes  &  the  thornes 

To  make  his  huntyng  &  his  chace. 

Where  hym  best  thought  in  every  place 

To  fynde  game  in  his  way, 

Ther  rood  he  for  to  hunte  &  play. 

So  hym  byfelle  upon  a  tyde 

On  his  huntyng  as  he  cam  ryde 

In  a  forest  allone  he  was. 

He  sawe  upon  the  grene  gras 

The  fayre  fressh  floures  sprynge  ; 

He  herd  among  the  leves  synge 

The  throstel  with  the  nyghtyngale. 

Thus  er  he  wyst  in  to  a  dale 

He  cam  wher  was  a  lytel  pleyne 

Al  round  about  wel  beseyn 

With  busshes  grene  &  cedres  hyghe  ; 

And  ther  within  he  caste  his  eye. 

A  myddes  the  pleyne  he  sawe  a  welle 

So  fayr  ther  myght  no  man  telle, 

In  whiche  Dyana  naked  stood 

To  bathe  &  play  hyr  in  the  flood 

With  many  a  nimphe  which  her  serveth 

But  he  his  eye  awey  ne  suerveth. 

Fro  her  whiche  was  naked  al. 

And  she  was  wonder  wroth  with  al, 


put  his  delight 


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30  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

And  hym,  as  she  whiche  was  goddesse 
Forshoop  *  anone  &  the  lykenesse 
She  made  hym  take  of  an  herte 
Whiche  was  to  fore  his  hoQdes  sterte, 
That  ronne  besylyche  ^  aboute 
With  many  an  home  &  many  a  route 
That  maden  moche  noyse  &  crye. 
And  at  the  last  unhappelye 
This  hert  his  owne  houdes  slough, 
And  hym  for  vengeauce  al  to  drough. ' 

John  Gower,  Confessio  Amantis,  1483.     Caxton. 

From  *  The  Dreame  of  Chaucer  ' 


And  as  I  lay  thus,  wonder  lowde 
Me  thought  I  herde  an  hunte  blowe 
Tassay  *  his  great  home  |  and  for  to  knowe 
Whether  it  was  clere  |  or  horse  of  sowne. 

And  I  herde  goynge  bothe  up  and  downe, 
Men  I  horse  |  houndes  |  and  other  thynge  ; 
And  al  men  speke  of  huntynge, 
Howe  they  wolde  see  the  harte  with  strength, 
And  howe  the  harte  had  upon  length 
So  moche  enbosed  *'  |  I  not  nowe  what. 
Anone  ryght  whan  I  herde  that 
Howe  that  they  wolde  ,  on  hunt>Tige  gone, 
I  was  ryght  glad  {  and  up  anone 
Toke  my  horse  |  and  forthe  I  wente 
Out  of  my  chambre  |  I  never  stente 
Tyl  I  come  to  the  felde  without. 
There  over  toke  I  a  grete  route 
Of  hunters  |  and  eke  of  foresters. 
And  many  relayes "  and  lymers  ^ 
And  hyed  hem  to  the  forest  fast 
And  I  with  hem  |  so  at  the  last 
I  asked  one  ladde**  |  a  lymere  : — 
Say  felowe  I  who  shal  hunte  here 
(Quod  I)  and  he  answered  ayen, 

Syr  I  the  Emperour  Octonyen 
(Quod  he)  and  is  here  fast  by 

A  goddes  halfe®  |  in  good  tyme.  (quod  I) 
Go  we  fast  |  and  gan  to  ryde. 
Whan  we  come  to  the  forest  syde 
Every  man  dyd  ryght  soone 
As  to  huntynge  fel  to  done. 

1  Transformed.  *  busily.  '  tore  to  pieces. 

-»  To  try.  *  Taken  to  the  thicket.         •*  fresh  packs. 

7  hounds  held  in  leash.         '  one  who  led.  »  By  Goa's  name. 


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THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

The  mayster  hunte  |  anone  fote  hote 
With  his  home  blewe  thre  mote 
At  the  uncoupl>Tige  of  his  houndes. 
Within  a  whyle  |  the  harte  founde  is 
I  halowed  *  |  and  rechased  fast 
Longe  tyme  |  and  so  at  the  last 
This  harte  roused  and  stale  away 
Fro  al  the  houndes  a  prevy  way. 

The  houndes  had  over  shot  hym  al, 
And  were  upon  a  defaulte  yfal.  w 

Therwith  the  honte  |  wonder  faste 
Blewe  a  forloyn  '  at  the  laste. 
I  was  go  walked  fro  my  tre 
And  as  I  went  |  there  came  by  me 
A  whelpe  |  that  fawned  me  as  I  stoode 
That  had  yfolowed  |  and  coude  no  goode. 
It  came  and  crepte  to  me  as  lowe 
Right  as  it  had  me  yknowe  » 

Helde  down  his  heed  !  and  ioyned  his  eeres 
And  layde  al  smothe  downe  his  heeres. 

I  wolde  have  caught  it  anone 
It  fledde  |  and  was  fro  me  gone 
As  I  him  folowed  |  and  it  forthe  went. 
Downe  by  a  floury  grene  it  went 
Ful  thycke  of  grasse  [  ful  softe  and  swete 
With  floures  fele  *  |  fay  re  under  fete, 
And  lytel  used  |  it  semed  thus 
For  bothe  Flora  |  and  zepherus. 
They  two  j  that  make  floures  growe. 
Had  made  her  dwellyng  there  I  trowe. 
Vox  it  was  on  to  beholde 
As  though  the  erthe  envye  wolde 
To  be  gayer  than  the  heven 
To  have  mo  floures  |  suche  seven 
As  in  the  welken  sterres  be. 
It  had  forget  the  poverte 
That  wynter  |  through  his  colde  morowes 
Had  made  it  suffre  |  and  his  snrowes. 
Al  was  foryeten  |  and  that  was  sene 
For  al  the  woode  was  woven  grene 
Swetnesse  of  dewe  I  had  made  it  wave.* 

It  is  no  nede  eke  for  to  ave  ' 
Where  there  were  many  grene  greves 
Of  thycke  of  trees  |  so  ful  of  leves. 
And  every  tree  stode  by  him  selve 
F'ro  other  |  wel  ten  foote  or  twelve. 
So  great  trees  |  so  huge  of  strength 

View-hallooed.        *  recall.  '  many.         ♦  V.L  waxe.        *   /'./.  axe. 

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SPORTING  EXTRACTS  33 

Of  fourty  or  fyfty  fedome  length 

Cleane  without  bowe  or  stycke 

With  croppes  brode  |  and  eke  as  thycke — 

They  were  not  an  ynche  a  sonder — 

That  it  was  shadde  over  al  under. 

And  many  an  hart  {  and  many  an  hynde 

Was  bothe  before  me  |  and  behynde, 

Of  fawnes  |  sowers  *  |  buckes  |  does 

Was  ful  the  wodde  |  and  many  roes. 

And  many  squyrrels  |  that  sete 

Ful  hygh  upon  the  trees  and  ete 

And  in  her  maner  made  feestes. 

Shortly  |  it  was  so  ful  of  beestes 

That  though  Argus  |  the  noble  countour 

Sate  to  reken  in  his  countour 

And  reken  with  his  fygures  ten — 

For  by  tho  fygures  newe  al  ken  - 

If  they  be  crafty  |  reken  and  nombre 

And  tel  of  every  thyng  the  nombre — 

Yet  shulde  he  fayle  to  reken  even 

The  wonders  me  met  in  my  sweven.' 

The  Works  of  Geffray  Chaucer,  1532. 

From  '  Canterbury  Tales ' 

A  monk  ther  was,  fair  for  the  maistre, 

Whiche  afore  that  tyme  hadde  he 

An  out  ryder,  he  loved  venore  ; 

A  manly  man  to  be  an  abbot  able. 

Ful  many  a  deynte  hors  hadde  he  in  stabil ; 

And  when  he  wod  men  mighte  his  bridil  here 

Gyngelynge  &  whistelinge  in  the  wynd  clere. 

Grehoundis  he  hadde  as  mylk  whit ; 

Of  prykynge  and  of  huntynge  for  the  hare 

Was  al  his  lust,  for  no  thing  wolde  he  spare. 

Chauckr.  Caxton,  1478  (?) 

From  '  The  Knyghtes  Tale ' 

The  destenye  and  the  mynister  generall 
That  executeth  in  the  worlde  over  all 
The  purveyaunce  |  y'  god  hath  sayd  byfome, 
So  strog  it  is  |  y*  thogh  y«  world  had  sworn 
The  contrary  of  thyng  by  ye  or  nay 

'  bucks  in  the  fourth  year.  '  people.  ^  dream. 

D 


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34  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

Yet  somtyme  it  shall  fall  on  a  day 

That  fell  never  yet  in  a  thousande  yere. 

For  certaynly  our  appetytes  here 

Be  it  of  warre  |  peace  |  hate  |  or  love 

All  is  ruled  by  the  syght  above. 

This  meane  I  nowe  by  mighty  Theseus 

That  for  to  hunte  is  so  desyrous, 

And  namely  at  the  great  harte  in  May 

That  in  his  bed  there  daweth  him  no  day 

That  he  nys  *  clad  |  and  redy  for  to  ryde 

With  hunt  and  home  |  and  houndes  him  besyde. 

For  in  his  huntyng  hath  he  suche  delyte 

That  it  is  all  his  ioye  and  appetyte 

To  ben  him  selfe  the  great  hartes  bane, 

For  after  Mars  |  he  serveth  nowe  Dyane. 

Clere  was  the  day  I  as  I  have  tolde  or  this 
And  Theseus  |  with  all  ioye  and  blys 
With  his  Ipolita  |  the  fayre  quene 
And  Emely  |  yclothen  all  in  grene 
An  huntyng  ben  they  rydden  ryally. 
And  to  the  grove  |  that  stode  there  fast  by 
In  which  ther  was  an  harte  |  as  me  him  told 
Duke  Theseus  the  streyght  way  hath  hold. 
And  to  the  launde  *  |  he  rydeth  him  full  ryght 
For  thy  J  was  y*  hart  wot  to  have  his  flight 
And  over  a  broke  |  and  so  forthe  on  his  wey. 

Tfu  Canterbury  Tales,' i^^l^. 

From  '  Syr  Eglamoure  of  Artoys  ' 

He  tolde  me  and  my  maydens'  hende"* 

That  he  to  the  ryver  wolde  wende 

With  houndes  and  haukes  ryght. 

The  erle  sayde  so  mote  I  the  * 

With  him  wyll  I  ryde  that  syght  to  se. 

On  the  morowe  whan  it  was  daye 

Syr  Eglamoure  toke  the  waye 

To  the  ryver  full  ryght. 

The  erle  made  hym  redy  there 

And  both  they  rode  to  the  rive  re 

To  se  some  fayre  flyght. 

Syr  yf  you  be  on  huntynge  founde 
I  shall  you  gyve  a  good  greyhounde 
That  is  dunne  as  a  doo. 
For  as  I  am  a  trewe  gentylwoman 

^  is  not.  ^  fores*.  •'  courteously. 

*  so  may  I  prosper.  *  fond. 


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SPORT/A G  EXTRACTS  35 

There  was  never  dere  that  he  at  ran 
That  myght  scape  him  fro. 

His  home  he  blewe  in  that  tyde. 
Hartes  rose  up  on  every  syde 
,  And  a  noble  dere  fulprest.* 

[The  houndes  at  the  dere  gan  baye 
That  herde  the  gyaunt  where  he  laye 

It  let  hym  of  his  reste. 
t  Methynketh  by  houndes  that  I  here 

'  That  there  is  one  huntynge  my  dere 

It  were  better  that  ye  seace. 
j  By  hym  that  ware  the  crowne  of  thome 

I  In  a  worse  tyme  blewe  he  never  borne 

I  Nederer  bought '  a  messe. 

Marrocke  the  gyaunt  toke  the  waye 

Throughe  the  forest  there  it  laye. 

To  the  gate  he  set  his  backe 

Syr  Eglamoure  hath  done  to  deed 

Slayne  an  harte,  and  smytten  of  his  heed. 

The  pryce '  he  blewe  full  shryll, 

And  whan  he  came  there,  the  gyaunt  was. 
'  Good  syr  he  sayd,  let  me  passe 

If  that  it  be  your  wyll. 

Naye  traytoure  thou  art  tane 

My  pryncipall  hart  thou  hast  slayne 

Thou  shalt  it  lyke  full  yll. 

Syr  eglamoure  that  knight  awoke 

And  pryvely  stode  under  an  oke 

Tyll  morowe  the  sonne  shone  bryght. 

Into  the  forest  fast  did  he  hye 

Of  the  bore  he  hard  a  crye 

And  nerer  he  gan  gone  ryght. 

Fayre  helmes  he  founde  in  fere 

That  men  of  armes  had  lefte  there 

That  the  bore  had  slayne. 

Eglamoure  to  the  clyffe  went  he 

He  sawe  the  bore,  come  fro  the  see 

His  mome  draught  had  he  tane. 

The  bore  sawe,  where  the  knyght  stode. 

His  tuskes  he  whetted  as  he  were  wode.* 

To  hym  he  drewe  that  tyme. 

Syr  Eglamoure  wened  well  to  do 

With  a  Speare  he  rode  him  to 

As  fast  as  he  myght  ryde. 


1  at  once.  '  More  needfully  =^  he  were  Jjetter  buy. 

»  capture  call  on  the  bugle.  *  mad. 

D  2 

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36  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

All  yf  he  rode  never  so  fast 
The  good  speare  asonder  brast 
It  wolde  not  in  the  hyde. 
That  bore  dyd  him  wo  ynoughe 
His  good  horse  uncier  him  he  sloughe 
On  foote  than  must  he  byde. 
Eglamoure  sawe  no  bote  *  that  tyde 
But  to  an  oke  he  set  his  syde 
Amonge  the  trees  great. 
His  good  swerde  he  drewe  out  than 
And  smote  upon  the  wylde  swyne 
Two  dayes  and  somdele  *  more. 
Tyll  the  thyrde  daye  at  none 
Eglamoure  thought  his  life  was  done 
For  fyghtynge  with  that  bore. 
Than  Eglamoure  with  eger  mocde 
Smote  of  the  bores  heed 
His  tuskes  he  smote  of  there. 
The  kynge  of  Satyn  on  huntynge  dyd  fare 
With  fyftene  armed  men  and  moare 
The  bore  loude  herde  he  yell. 
He  commaunded  a  squyer  to  fare. 
Some  man  is  in  peryl  there 
I  trowe  to  longe  we  dwell. 
No  longer  wolde  the  squyer  tary 
But  thyder  rode  fast  by  saynt  mary, 
He  was  therto  fullsnell.^ 
Up  to  the  clyffe  rode  he  thore 
Syr  Eglamoure  fought  fast  with  the  bore 
With  strokes  fyers  and  fell. 
The  squyer  stode  and  behelde  them  two 
•  He  went  agayne  and  tolde  so 
Forsoth  the  bore  is  slayne. 

(1570?) 

From  *  The  Squyr  of  Lowe  Degre  ' 

To  morowe  ye  shall  on  hunting  fare 
And  ryde,  my  doughter,  in  a  chare. 

A  lese  of  Grehound  with  you  to  streke 

and  hert  and  hynde  and  other  lyke. 

Ye  shal  be  set  at  such  a  tryst 

that  herte  and  hynde  shall  come  to  your  fyst, 

your  dysease  to  dryve  you  fro. 

To  here  the  bugles  there  y  blow 

*  help.  '  some  part.  s  fuji  quickly. 

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SPORTING  EXTRACTS  37 

With  theyr  bugles  in  that  place, 

And  sevenscore  raches  *  at  his  rechase. 

Homward  thus  shall  ye  ryde 

On  haukyng  by  the  ryvers  syde 

with  Goshauke  and  with  gentyll  fawcon 

With  Eglehome  *  and  merlyon. 

Farewell  hawkes  and  farewell  hounde 
Farewell  markes  and  many  a  pounde 
Farewell  huntynge  at  the  hare 
Farewell  harte  and  hynde  for  evermare. 

(1550?) 

George  Gascoigne,  in  commendation 
of  the  noble  Arte  of  Venerie 

As  God  himselfe  declares,  the  life  of  man  was  lent, 
Bicause  it  should  (with  feare  of  him)  in  gladsome  wise  be  spent. 

And  Salomon  doth  say,  that  all  the  rest  is  vaine, 
Unlesse  that  myrth  and  merie  cheere,  may  follow  toile  and  paine. 

If  that  be  so  in  deede,  what  booteth  then  to  buylde 
High  towers  &  halles  of  stately  port,  to  leave  an  unknown  child. 

Or  wherefore  hoord  we  heapes  of  coyne  and  worldly  wealth, 
Whiles  therwithall  that  caytif  care,  conies  creeping  in  by  stelth  ? 

The  needie  neighbors  grudge  to  see  the  rychman  thr>'ve. 
Such  malice  worldly  mucke  doth  breede  m  every  man  alyve. 

Contention  commes  by  coyne,  and  care  doth  contecke  *  sew. 
And  sodeine  death  by  care  is  caught,  all  this  you  know  is  true. 

Since  death  is  then  the  end,  which  all  men  seeke  to  flye. 
And  yet  are  all  men  well  aware,  that  Man  is  borne  to  dye. 

Why  leade  not  men  such  lives,  in  quiet  comely  wise, 
As  might  with  honest  sport  &  game,  their  worldly  minds  suffise? 

Amongst  the  rest,  that  game,  which  in  this  booke  is  taught 
Doth  seeme  to  yeld  as  much  content,  as  may  on  earth  be  sought. 

And  but  my  simple  Muze,  both  myrth  and  meane  mistake. 
It  is  a  meane  of  as  much  mirth,  as  any  sport  can  make. 

It  occupies  the  mynde,  which  else  might  chaunce  to  muse 
On  mischiefe,  malice,  filthe  and  fraudes,  that  mortall  men  do  use. 

And  so  for  exercise,  it  seemes  to  beare  the  bell, 
Since  by  the  same,  mens  bodies  be,  in  health  mamteyned  well. 

It  exercyseth  strength,  it  exercyseth  wit, 
And  all  the  poars  and  sprites  of  Man,  are  exercisde  by  it. 

It  shaketh  off  all  slouth,  it  presseth  downe  all  pryde. 
It  cheres  the  hart,  it  glads  the  eye,  &  through  the  ears  doth  glyde. 

I  might  at  large  expresse  how  earely  huntsmen  ryse, 
And  leave  the  sluggish  sleepe  for  such,  as  leachers  lust  devyse. 

*  bitch-hounds.  '  ?  heron  eagle  =  peregrine.  ^  quarrelling. 


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3«  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT  i 

How  true  they  tread  their  steps,  in  exercises  traine, 
Which  frisking  flings  &  lightbraind  leaps,  may  seeme  always   to 
staine. 

Howe  appetite  is  bred  (with  health)  in  homely  cates. 
While  Surfet  sits  in  vaine  excesse,  &  Banquet  breeds  debates. 

How  cries  of  well  niouthd  hounds,  do  countervail  the  cost,  ( 

Which  many  a* man  (beyond  his  reach)  on  instruments  hath  lost  ■ 

How  setting  of  Relayes,  may  represent  the  skyll,  ] 

Which  souldiours  use  in  Embushes,  their  furious  foes  to  kyll. 

How  Foxe  and  Badgerd  both,  make  patterns  (in  their  denne) 
Of  Plotformes^  Loopes^  and  CasamatSy  devisde  by  warlike  men. 

How  fighting  out  at  Bay,  of  Hart,  Bucke,  Goate,  or  Bore,  ' 

Declares  the  valiant  Romains  deaths  when  might  may  do  no  more. 

How  sight  of  such  delights,  doth  scome  all  common  showes, 
Of  Enterludes,  of  Tumblers  tricks,  of  antikes,  mocks  &  mowes.  ] 

And  how  the  nimble  Hare,  by  turning  in  hir  course, 
Doth  plainly  proue  that  Pollicie,  sometime  surpasseth  force. 

The  Venson  not  forgot,  most  meete  for  Princes  dyshe  : 
All  these  with  more  could  I  rehearse,  as  much  as  wit  could  wyshe. 

But  let  these  few  suffice,  it  is  a  Noble  Sporty  ' 

To  recreate  the  mindes  of  Men^  in  good  and  godly  sort.  i 

A  sport  for  Noble  peeres^  a  sport  for  gentle  bloods  ^ 
The  paine  I  leave  for  servants  such,  as  beate  the  bushie  woods,  ^ 

To  make  their  masters  sport.     Then  let  the  Lords  reioyce^  \ 

Let  gentlemen  beholde  the  glee ^  and  take  thereof  the  choyce. 

For  my  part  (being  one)  I  must  needes  say  my  minde, 
That  Hunting  was  ordeyned  firsts  for  Men  of  Noble  kinde. 

And  unto  them  therefore,  I  recommend  the  same. 
As  exercise  that  best  becomes,  their  worthy  noble  name.  ^ 

The  Noble  Arte  of  Venerie  or  Hunting.     Georgk:  Turbkkvilk.    1575. 

The  Blazon  pronounced  by  the  Huntsman 

I  Am  the  Hunte,  whiche  rathe  and  earely  ryse,  ' 

(My  bottell  filde,  with  wine  in  any  wise)  ^ 

Twoo  draughts  1  drinke,  to  stay  my  steppes  withall, 

For  eche  foote  one,  bicause  I  would  not  fall. 

Then  take  my  Hownde,  in  liam  '^  me  behinde. 

The  stately  Harte,  in  fryth  or  fell  to  finde.  ^ 

And  whiles  I  seeke  his  slotte  where  he  hath  fedde. 

The  sweete  byrdes  sing,  to  cheare  my  drowsie  hedde. 

And  when  my  Hounde,  doth  streyne  upon  good  vent, 

I  must  confesse,  the  same  dothe  me  content. 

But  when  I  have  my  coverts  walkt  aboute, 

And  harbred  ^  fast,  the  Harte  for  commyng  out  : 

1  traps.  *    leash.  ^  set  watchers.  i 

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SPORTING  EXTRACTS  39 

Then  I  retume,  to  make  a  grave  reporte, 
Whereas  I  finde,  th'  assembly  doth  resorte. 
And  lowe  I  crouche,  before  the  Lordings  all, 
Out  of  my  Home,  the  fewmets  *  lette  I  fall, 
And  other  signes,  and  tokens  do  I  tell, 
To  make  them  hope,  the  Harte  may  like  them  well. 
Then  they  commaunde,  that  I  the  wine  should  taste, 
So  biddes  mine  Arte :  and  so  my  throte  I  baste. 
The  dinner  done,  I  go  streightwayes  agayne. 
Unto  my  markes,  and  shewe  my  Master  playne. 
Then  put  my  Hounde,  upon  the  view  to  drawe, 
And  rowse  the  Harte,  out  of  his  layre  by  la  we. 
O  gamsters  all,  a  little  by  your  leave. 
Can  you  suche  ioyes  in  triflyng  games  conceave  ? 
The  Noble  Arte  of  Vcnerie  or  Hunting,     Gko.  Turbervile.     1575. 

From  '  The  Visions  of  Petrarch  ' 

BEiNCf  one  day  at  my  window  all  alone, 
So  manie  strange  thipgs  hapned  me  to  see, 
As  much  it  grieveth  me  to  thinke  thereon. 
At  my  right  hand  a  Hinde  appearde  to  me. 
So  faire  as  mought  the  greatest  God  delite  ; 
Two  egre  dogs  did  her  pursue  in  chace, 
Of  which  the  one  was  black,  the  other  white  : 
With  deadly  force  so  in  their  cruell  rac^e 
They  pinchte  the  haunches  of  this  gentle  beast, 
That  at  the  last,  and  in  shorte  time,  I  spied. 
Under  a  rocke,  where  she  (alas)  opprest, 
Fell  to  the  grounde,  and  there  untimely  dide. 

Cruell  death  vanquishing  so  noble  beautie. 

Oft  makes  me  waile  so  hard  a  destenie. 

Kdmunu  Spenser,  1569. 

Sonnet  LXVII 

Lyke  as  a  huntsman  after  weary  chace, 
Seeing  the  game  from  him  escapt  away, 
Sits  downe  to  rest  him  in  some  shady  place, 
With  panting  hounds  beguiled  of  their  pray  : 

So,  after  long  pursuit  and  vaine  assay, 
\Vhen  I  all  weary  had  the  chace  forsooke. 
The  gentle  deare  returnd  the  selfe-same  way, 
Thinking  to  quench  her  thirst  at  the  next  brooke  : 

There  she,  beholding  me  with  mylder  looke, 
Sought  not  to  fly,  but  fearlesse  still  did  bide  ; 
*  droppings. 


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40  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

Till  I  in  hand  her  yet  halfe  trembling  tooke, 
And  with  her  owne  goodwill  her  fyrmely  tyde. 
Strange  thing,  me  seemd,  to  see  a  beast  so  wyld, 
So  goodly  wonne,  with  her  owne  will  beguyld. 

P^DMUND  Spenser,  1595. 

From  '  Astrophel ' 

In  wrestling  nimble,  and  in  rennin^  swift, 
In  shooting  steddie,  and  in  swimmmg  strong  : 
Well  made  to  strike,  to  throw,  to  leape,  to  lift. 
And  all  the  sports  that  shepheards  are  eniong  : 
In  every  one  he  vanquisht  every  one  ; 
He  vanquisht  all,  and  vanquisht  was  of  none. 

Besides,  in  hunting  such  felicitie, 

Or  rather  infelicitie,  he  found, 

That  every  field  and  forest  far  away 

He  sought,  where  salvage  beasts  do  most  abound. 

No  beast  so  salvage  but  he  could  it  kill. 

No  chace  so  hard  but  he  therein  had  skill. 

Kdmund  Spenser,  1595. 

From  '  Mother  Hubberds  Tale* 

And  lothefull  idlenes  he  doth  detest. 

The  canker  worme  of  everie  gentle  brest  ; 

The  which  to  banish  with  faire  exercise 

Of  knightly  feates,  he  day  lie  doth  devise  : 

Now  menaging  the  mouthes  of  stubbome  steedes, 

Now  practising  the  proofe  of  warlike  deedes. 

Now  his  bright  armes  assaying,  now  his  speare. 

Now  the  nigh  aymed  ring  away  to  beare. 

At  other  times  he  casts  to  sew  *  the  chace 

Of  swift  wilde  beasts,  or  runne  on  foote  a  race, 

T'   enlarge    his   breath,   (large   breath  in    armes    most 

needfuU) 
Or  els  by  wrestling  to  wex  strong  and  heedfull. 
Or  his  stifFe  armes  to  stretch  with  Eughen  bowe, 
And  manly  legs,  still  passing  too  and  fro, 
Without  a  gowned  beast  him  fast  beside, 
A  vaine  ensample  of  the  Persian  pride  ; 
Who,  after  he  had  wonne  th'  Assyrian  foe, 
Did  ever  after  scome  on  foote  to  goe. 

Edmund  Spenser,  1613. 
^  follow. 


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!  SPORTING  EXTRACTS  41 

From  *  The  Faerie  Queene  * 

As  hagard  hauke  presuming  to  contend 
[  With  hardy  fowle,  above  his  hable  might, 

His  wearie  pounces  all  in  vaine  doth  spend, 
To  trusse  the  pray  too  heavy  for  his  flight ; 
►  Which,  comming  down  to  ground,  does  free  it  selfe  by  fight. 

Book  i.  c.  xi.  verse  19. 

As  when  a  Vulture  greedie  of  his  pray, 
j  Through  hunger  long,  that  hart  to  him  doth  lend, 

I  Strikes  at  an  Heron  with  all  his  bodies  sway, 

That  from  his  force  seemes  nought  may  it  defend  ; 
The  warie  fowle,  that  spies  him  toward  bend 
His  dreadfull  souse,^  avoydes  it,  shunning  light, 
\  And  maketh  him  his  wing  in  vaine  to  spend  ; 

j  That  with  the  weight  of  his  owne  weeldlesse  might 

[  He  faUeth  nigh  to  ground,  and  scarse  recovereth  flight. 

[  Book  iv.  c.  iii.  verse  19. 

As  when  a  Faulcon  hath  with  nimble  flight 

Flowne  at  a  flush  of  Ducks  foreby  the  brooke, 
The  trembling  foule  dismayd  with  dreadfull  sight  / 

^  Of  death,  the  which  them  almost  overtooke, 

Doe  hide  themselves  from  her  astonying  looke. 
Amongst  the  flags  and  covert  round  about. 

Book  V.  c.  ii.  verse  54* 

Like  to  an  Eagle,  in  his  kingly  pride 

Soring  through  his  wide  Empire  of  the  aire 
To  weather  his  brode  sailes,  by  chaunce  hath  spide 
A  Goshauke,  which  hath  seized  for  her  share 
Uppon  some  fowle  that  should  her  feast  prepare  ; 
With  dreadfull  force  he  flies  at  her  bylive,"^ 
That  with  his  souce,  which  none  enduren  dare, 
Her  from  the  quarrey  he  away  doth  drive. 

And  from  her  griping  pounce  the  greedy  prey  doth  rive. 

Book  V.  c.  iv.  verse  42. 
[Tristram  speaks  thus  : — ] 

*  All  which  my  daies  I  have  not  lewdly  spent. 
Nor  spilt  the  blossome  of  my  tender  yeares 
^  In  ydlesse  ;  but  as  was  convenient, 

Have  trayned  bene  with  many  noble  feres  ^ 
In  gentle  thewes,  and  such  like  seemly  leres  : 
Mongst  which  my  most  delight  hath  alwaies  been 
To  hunt  the  salvage  chace,  amongst  my  peres. 
Of  all  that  raungeth  in  the  forrest  greene, 

Of  which  none  is  to  me  unknowne  that  evY  was  seene. 

*  stoop.  *  suddenly.  ^  companions. 

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42  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

*  Ne  is  there  hauke,  which  mantleth  her  on  pearch, 

Whether  high  towring,  or  accoasting  *  low, 
But  I  the  measure  of  her  flight  doe  search, 
And  all  her  pray,  and  all  her  diet  know. 
Such  be  our  joyes  which  in  these  forrests  grow  : 
Onely  the  use  of  armes,  which  most  I  joy. 
And  fitteth  most  for  noble  swayne  to  know, 
I  have  not  tasted  yet ;  yet  past  a  boy, 
And  being  now  high  time  these  strong  joynts  to  imploy.* 

Book  vi.  c.  ii.  verses  31,  32. 

As  when  a  cast  of  Faulcons  make  their  flight 
At  an  Hemeshaw,  that  lyes  aloft  on  wing, 
The  whyles  they  strike  at  him  with  heedlesse  might, 
The  warie  foule  his  bill  doth  backward  wring  ; 
On  which  the  first,  whose  force  her  first  doth  bring, 
Her  selfe  quite  through  the  bodie  doth  engore, 
And  falleth  downe  to  ground  like  senselesse  thing. 
But  th'  other  not  so  swift,  as  she  before, 

Fayles  of  her  souse,  and  passing  by  doth  hurt  no  more. 

Book  vi.  c  vii.  verse  9. 

[Sir  Calidore  speaks  thus  : — ] 

*  Sometimes  1  hunt  the  Fox,  the  vowed  foe 

Unto  my  Lambes,  and  him  dislodge  away  ; 
Sometime  the  fawne  I  practise  from  the  Doe, 
Or  from  the  Goat  her  kidde,  how  to  convay  : 
Another  while  I  baytes  and  nets  display 
The  birds  to  catch,  or  fishes  to  beguyle  : 
And  when  I  wearie  am,  I  downe  doe  lay 
My  limbes  in  every  shade  to  rest  from  toyle, 
And  drinke  of  every  brooke  when  thirst  my  throte  doth  boyle.' 

Book  vi.  c.  ix.  verse  23. 
Edmcnd  SrKNSKK,  1590-1596. 

From  Translations  by  Sir  John  Harington 

And  as  the  hound  that  men  the  tumbler  name, 
When  he  a  hare  or  cunnie  doth  espie, 
Seemeth  another  way  his  course  to  frame 
As  though  he  meant  not  to  approach  more  nie. 
But  yet  he  meeteth  at  the  last  his  game. 
And  shaketh  it  untill  he  make  it  die. 


Ev'n  as  the  hunters  that  desirous  are. 

Some  present  pastime  for  their  hounds  to  see, 


'  stooping. 

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SPORTING  EXTRA CTS  43 

In  stubble  fields  do  seeke  the  fearfull  hare, 
By  ev'rie  bush  and  under  ev'rie  tree, 

Like  to  a  horse  that  running  swiftest  pase. 
Doth  last  set  out,*  and  first  doth  win  the  race. 

Even  as  a  grewnd,  which  hunters  hold  in  slip, 

Striving  to  breake  the  string,  and  slide  the  coller, 
(Seeing  the  fearfull  Deare,  before  him  skip. 
Hunted  belike  with  some  Aciceons  scholler) 
And  when  he  sees  he  can  by  no  meanes  slip, 
Howleth,  and  whines,  and  bites  the  string  for  choler. 

Ariosto,  Orlando  Furioso.    Translated  by  John  Haringto.     1591. 

Sonnet  by  Thomas  Watson 

Diana  and  her  nimphs  in  silvane  brooke. 

Did  wash  themselues  in  secret  farre  apart : 
But  bold  Ackpon  dard  on  them  to  looke. 
For  which  fair  Phoebe  turned  him  to  a  Hart. 
His  hounds  unweeting  of  his  sodaine  change. 
Did  hale  and  pull  him  downe  with  open  crie  : 
He  then  repenting  that  he  so  did  range. 
Would  sp^ake  but  could  not,  so  did  sigh  and  die. 

The  Tears  of  Fancie  or  Ijwe  Disdaintd.     Reprinted  from  the  unique  copy 
of  1593,  in  the  collection  of  S.  Christie-Miller,  Esq. 

The  Pleasant  Comodie  of  Patient  Grisill 

Enter  the  Marquesse,  Pavia,  Mario,  Lepido,  and  huntsmen  : 
all  like  Hunters.    A  noyse  of  homes  within 

Marquesse.  Loke  you  so  Strang  my  hearts,  to  see  ourlimbes 
Thus  suite4  in  a  Hunters  livery  ? 
Oh  tis  a  lovely  habite,  when  greene  youth 
Like  to  the  flowry  blossome  of  the  spring, 
Conformes  his  outward  habite  to  his  minde,  .... 
For  hunting  is  a  sport  for  Emperors. 

Pavia,  ....  This  day  you  vowed  to  wed  :  but  now  I  see. 
Your  promises  turne  all  to  mockerie 

Marq.  How  much  your  judgmens  erre  :  who  gets  a  wife 
Must  like  a  huntsman  beate  untrodden  pathes, 
To  gaine  the  flymg  presence  of  his  love. 
Looke  how  the  yelping  beagles  spend  their  mouthes 
So  Lovers  doe  their  sighes  :  and  as  the  deare, 
Out-strips  the  active  hound,  and  oft  turnes  backe 

^  An  old  form  of  handicap  in  races. 

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44  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

To  note  the  angrie  visage  of  her  foe, 

Who  greedy  to  possesse  so  sweet  a  pray, 

Never  gives  over  till  he  ceaze  on  her, 

So  fares  it  with  coy  dames,  who  great  with  scome 

Shew  the  care-pined  hearts,  that  sue  to  them 

Yet  on  that  feined  slight  (Love  conquering  them) 

They  cast  an  eye  of  longing  backe  againe. 

As  who  would  say,  be  not  dismaid  with  frownes, 

For  though  our  tongues  speake  no  ;  our  hearts  sound  yea, 

Or  if  not  so,  before  theile  misse  their  lovers, 

Their  sweet  breathes  shal  perfume  the  Amorous  ayre 

And  brave  them  still  to  run  in  beauties  Chase  : 

Then  can  you  blame  me  to  be  hunter  like, 

When  I  must  get  a  wife  :  .  .  .  . 

Lets  ring  a  hunters  peale,  and  in  the  eares 

Of  our  swift  forrest,  Cittizens  proclaime. 

Defiance  to  their  lightnes  :  our  sports  done, 

The  Venson  that  we  kill  shall  feast  our  bride, 

If  she  prove  bad,  ile  cast  all  blame  on  you. 

But  if  sweet  peace  succeede  this  amorous  strife 

Ile  say  my  wit  was  best  to  choose  a  wife.        [Exeunt. 

H.  Chktti.k,  1603. 


From  'Ourania* 


Two  Grey-hounds  swift  and  white  as  whitest  snow, 

Attend  her  to  pursue  the  nymble  Deere  : 

And  in  her  hand  she  bare  a  dreadefull  bowe. 

To  kill  the  game,  if  any  should  appeere. 

Or  any  deadly  foe  approach  too  neere, 

Thus  stands  great  Cynthia  in  the  midst  of  May, 

With  all  her  Traine  to  heare  Endymions  Lay. 

The  fawning  Dog  full  of  sagacitie  ; 

Excelling  in  sense  and  capacitie. 

The  hardie  Mastife,  and  nimble  Greyhound, 

The  omamdnt  of  Floras  blessed  round, 

Whose  use  we  know,  the  Hart  doth  feare  his  might. 

The  squatting  Hare  doth  tremble  at  his  sight. 

The  noble  chaunting  Hound  with  pleasing  throat, 

With  bace  and  treble,  me.ine,  and  tenor  noat. 

Warbling  his  voice,  making  the  home  to  sound, 

Orderly  tunes  l'  immortilize  the  Hound  : 

Quicke  senting  Spannell,  fit  for  Princelie  game. 

To  pearch  the  Pheasant,  and  rare  Birds  of  name. 

To  set  the  Heath-cockc,  Partrich  and  the  Quaile, 


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SPORTING  EXTRACTS  45 

The  Snypc,  the  Woodcocke,  and  the  dainty  Raile. 
To  serve  the  Spar-hawke,  Faulcon  and  Laneret, 
The  Gosse-hawke,  Ger-faulcon  and  young  Eglet. 
The  Marlyon,  Hobby,  Hawkes  of  swiftest  wing, 
Which  many  pleasures  unto  Ladies  bring. 
Deserveth  praise  of  the  best  fluent  Pen, 
That  ever  wrote  the  benefits  of  men. 

N.  Baxter,  1606. 

'As  You  Like  It' 

ACT  Ih   SCENE  I. 

Duke  Senior.  Come,  shall  we  goe  and  kill  us  venison  } 
And  yet  it  irkes  me  the  poore  dapled  fooles 
Being  native  Burgers  of  this  desert  City, 
Should  in  their  owne  confines  with  forked  heads 
Have  their  round  hanches  goard. 

I  Lord.  Indeed  my  Lord 
The  melancholy  /agues  grieves  at  that, 
And  in  that  kinde  sweares  you  doe  more  usurpe 
Then  doth  your  brother  that  hath  banish'd  you  : 
To  day  my  Lord  of  A  miens ^  and  my  selfe, 
Did  steale  behinde  him  as  he  lay  along 
Under  an  oake,  whose  anticke  roote  peepes  out 
Upon  the  brooke  that  brawles  along  this  wood, 
To  the  which  place  a  poore  sequestred  Stag 
That  from  the  Hunters  aime  had  tane  a  hurt. 
Did  come  to  languish  ;  and  indeed  my  Lord 
The  wretched  annimall  heav'd  forth  such  groanes 
That  their  discharge  did  stretch  his  leatherne  coat 
Almost  to  bursting,  and  the  big  round  teares 
Cours'd  one  another  downe  his  innocent  nose 
In  pitteous  chase  :  and  thus  the  hairie  foole. 
Much  marked  of  the  melancholic  y^^w^j. 
Stood  on  th'  extremest  verge  of  the  swift  brooke, 
Augmenting  it  with  teares. 

Duke  Senior.  But  what  said  /agues  ? 
Did  he  not  moralize  this  spectacle  ? 

I  Lord.  O  yes,  into  a  thousand  similies. 
First,  for  his  weeping  into  the  needlesse  streame  ; 
Poore  Deere  quoth  he,  thou  mak'st  a  testament 
As  worldlings  doe,  giving  thy  sum  of  more 
To  that  which  had  too  must  *  ;  then  being  there  alone. 
Left  and  abandoned  of  his  velvet  friend  ; 
'Tis  right  quoth  he,  thus  miserie  doth  part 
The  Fluxe  of  companie  :  anon  a  carelesse  Heard 
Fuil  of  the  pasture,  jumps  along  by  him 


^   y.l.  much. 

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46  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

And  never  stales  to  greet  him  :  I  quoth  /agues, 

Sweepe  on  you  fat  and  greazie  Citizens, 

'Tis  just  the  fashion  ;  wherefore  doe  you  looke 

Upon  that  poore  and  broken  bankrupt  there  ? 

Thus  most  mvectively  he  pierceth  through 

The  body  of  Countrie,  Citie,  Court, 

Yea,  and  of  this  our  life,  swearing  that  we 

Are  mere  usurpers,  tyrants,  and  whats  worse 

To  fright  the  Annimals,  and  to  kill  them  up 

In  their  assign'd  and  native  dwelling  place. 

Duke  Senior.  And  did  you  leave  him  in  this  contem- 
plation ? 

2  Lord.  We  did  my  Lord,  weeping  and  commenting 
Upon  the  sobbing  Deere. 

ACT   IV.   SCENE   II. 

What  shall  he  have  that  kild  the  Deare  ? 

His  Leather  skin,  and  homes  to  weare  : 

Then  sing  him  home,  the  rest  shall  beare  this  burthen  ; 

Take  thou  no  scome  to  weare  the  home, 

It  was  a  crest  ere  thou  wast  borne. 

Thy  fathers  father  wore  it. 

And  thy  father  bore  it, 

The  home,  the  home,  the  lusty  home, 

Is  not  a  thing  to  laugh  to  scorne. 


*  The  Taming  of  the  Shrew ' 

ACT  I.   SCENE  I. 

Lord.  Huntsman  I  charge  thee,  tender  wel  my  hounds 
Brach  Meriman^  the  poore  Curre  is  imbost, 
And  couple  Clowder  with  the  deepe-mouth'd  brach, 
SaVst  thou  not  boy  how  Silver  made  it  good 
At  the  hedge  comer,  in  the  couldest  fault, 
I  would  not  loose  the  dogge  for  twentie  pound. 

Hunts.  Why  Belntan  is  as  good  as  he  my  Lord, 
He  cried  upon  it  at  the  meerest '  losse. 
And  twice  to  day  pick'd  out  the  dullest  sent, 
Tmst  me,  I  take  him  for  the  better  dogge. 

Lord.  Thou  art  a  Foole,  if  Eccho  were  as  fleete, 
I  would  esteeme  him  worth  a  dozen  such  : 
But  sup  them  well,  and  looke  unto  them  all. 
To  morrow  I  intend  to  hunt  againe. 


'  most  absolute. 


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"What  shall  he  have  that  kild  the  Deare?" 

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SPORTING  EXTRACTS  47 

*  A  Midsummer  Night's  Dream  ' 

ACT   IV.   SCENE  I. 

Theseus.  Goe  one  of  you,  finde  out  the  Forrester, 
For  now  our  observation  is  perform'd  ; 
And  since  we  have  the  vaward  of  the  day, 
My  Love  shall  heare  the  musicke  of  my  hounds. 
Uncouple  in  the  Westerne  valley,  let  them  goe  ; 
Dispatch  I  say,  and  finde  the  Forrester. 
We  will  faire  Queene,  up  to  the  Mountaines  top. 
And  marke  the  musicall  confusion 
Of  hounds  and  eccho  in  coniunction. 

Hippolyta,  I  was  with  Hercules  and  Cadmus  once, 
When  in  a  wood  of  Creete  they  bayed  the  Beare 
With  hounds  of  Sparta  ;  never  did  I  heare 
Such  gallant  chidmg.     For  besides  the  groves, 
The  skies,  the  fountaines,  every  region  neere, 
Seeme  all  one  mutuall  cry.     I  never  heard 
So  musicall  a  discord,  such  sweet  thunder. 

Thes.  My  hounds  are  bred  out  of  the  Spartan  kinde, 
So  fleVd,  so  sanded,  and  their  heads  are  hung 
With  eares  that  sweepe  away  the  morning  dew, 
Crooke  kneed,  and  dew-lapt,  like  Thessalian  Buls, 
Slow  in  pursuit,  but  matched  in  mouth  like  bels, 
Each  under  each.     A  cry  more  tuneable 
Was  never  hallowed  to,  nor  cheer'd  with  home, 
In  Creete^  in  Sparta^  nor  in  Thessaly  ; 
Judge  when  you  heare. 

"Henry  VI.' 

PART  I.   ACT  IV.   SCENE   II. 

Tal.  How  are  we  park'd  and  bounded  in  a  pale  ? 
A  little  Heard  of  Englands  timorous  Deere, 
Maz'd  with  a  yelping  kennell  of  French  Curres. 
If  we  be  English  Deere,  be  then  in  blood. 
Not  Rascall — like  to  fall  downe  with  a  pinch, 
But  rather  rooodie  mad  :     And  desperate  Stagges, 
Tume  on  the  bloody  Hounds  with  heads  of  Steele, 
And  make  the  Cowards  stand  aloofe  at  bay  : 

'Henry  VI.' 

PART  11.   ACT  II.   SCENE  I. 

Queene.  Beleeve  me  Lords,  for  flying  at  the  Brooke, 
I  saw  not  better  sport  these  seven  yeeres  day  : 
Yet  by  your  leave,  the  Winde  was  very  high, 
And  ten  to  one,  old  Joane  had  not  gone  out. 


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48  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

King,  But  what  a  point,  my  Lord,  your  Faulcon  made 
And  what  a  pytch  she  flew  above  the  rest : 
To  see  how  God  in  all  his  Creatures  workes, 
Yea  Man  and  Birds  are  fayne  of  climbing  high. 

Suff,  No  marvell,  and  it  like  your  Majestie, 
My  Lord  Protectors  Hawkes  doe  towre  so  well, 
They  know  their  Master  loves  to  be  aloft, 
And  beares  his  thoughts  above  his  Faulcons  Pitch. 

Glost.  My  Lord,  'tis  but  a  base  ignoble  minde, 
That  mounts  no  higher  then  a  Bird  can  sore  : 

Card,  I  thought  as  much,  hee  would  be  above  the  Clouds. 

Glost.  I  my  Lord  Cardinall,  how  thinke  you  by  that  ? 
Were  it  not  good  your  Grace  could  flye  to  Heaven  ? 

'  Antony  and  Cleopatra ' 

ACT  II.   SCENE  V. 

Cleo.  Give  me  nime  Angle,  weele  to'  th'  River  there 
My  Musicke  playing  farre  off.     I  will  betray 
Tawny  fine  fishes,  my  bended  hooke  shall  pierce 
Their  shmy  jawes  :  and  as  I  draw  them  up. 
He  thinke  them  ever>'  one  an  Anthony^ 
And  say,  ah  ha,  y'  are  caught. 

Char,  'Twas  merry  when  you  wager'd  on  your  Angling, 
when  your  diver  did  hang  a  salt  fish  on  his  hooke  which  he 
with  fervencie  drew  up. 


'  The  Tempest ' 


ACT  II.   SCENE  I. 

Fran.  Sir  he  may  live, 
I  saw  him  beate  the  surges  under  him. 
And  ride  upon  their  backes  ;  he  trod  the  water 
Whose  enmity  he  flung  aside  :  and  brested 
The  surge  most  swolne  that  met  him  :  his  bold  head 
'Bove  the  contentious  waves  he  kept,  and  oared 
Himselfe  with  his  good  armes  in  lusty  stroke 
To  th'  shore  ;  that  ore  his  wave-worne  basis  bowed 
As  stooping  to  releeve  him  :  I  not  doubt 
He  came  alive  to  Land. 

'  Julius  Caesar* 

ACT  I.   SCENE  II. 

Cassi,  For  once,  upon  a  Rawe  and  Gustie  day, 
The  troubled  Tyber,  chafing  with  her  Shores, 
Casar  saide  to  me  Dar'st  thou  Cassius  now 


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SPORTING  EXTRACTS  49 

Leape  in  with  me  into  this  angry  Flood, 

And  swim  to  yonder  Point  ?     Upon  the  word, 

Accoutred  as  I  was,  I  plunged  in, 

And  bad  him  follow  :  so  indeed  he  did. 

The  Torrent  roar*d,  and  we  did  buffet  it 

With  lusty  Sinewes,  throwing  it  aside, 

And  stemming  it  with  hearts  of  Controversie. 

But  ere  we  could  arrive  the  Point  propos'd, 

Ccesar  cride,  Helpe  me  Cassius^  or  I  sinke. 

I  fas  jEneas^  our  great  Ancestor, 

Did  from  the  Flames  of  Troy,  upon  his  shoulder 

The  old  Anchyses  beare)  so,  from  the  waves  of  Tyber 

Did  I  the  tyred  Ccesar. 

'  Love's  Labour  Lost ' 

ACT  V. 

Qu.  Nay  my  good  Lord,  let  me  ore-rule  you  now  ; 
That  sport  best  pleases,  that  doth  least  know  how. 
Where  Zeale  strives  to  content,  and  the  contents 
Dies  in  the  Zeale  of  that  which  it  presents  : 
Their  forme  confounded,  makes  most  forme  in  mirth, 
When  great  things  labouring  perish  in  their  birth. 

Shaksperi:,  Dramatic  Works,  fol,  ed.  1623. 

Venus  urges  Adonis  to  choose  the 
less  dangerous  Sports 

Thou  hadst  bin  gone  (quoth  she)  sweet  bby  ere  this. 
But  that  thou  toldst  me,  thou  woldst  hunt  the  boare. 
Oh  be  advisd,  thou  know'st  not  what  it  is. 
With  iavelings  point  a  churlish  swine  to  goare. 

Whose  tushes  never  sheathd,  he  whetteth  still. 

Like  to  a  mortall  butcher  bent  to  kill. 

On  his  bow-backe,  he  hath  a  battell  set, 

Of  brisly  pikes  that  ever  threat  his  foes  ; 

His  eyes  like  glow-wormes  shine  when  he  doth  fret 

His  snout  digs  sepulchers  where  ere  he  goes. 

Being  mov^d  he  strikes,  what  ere  is  in  his  way, 

And  whom  he  strikes,  his  crooked  tushes  slay. 

His  brawnie  sides  with  hairie  bristles  armed. 

Are  better  proofe  then  thy  speares  point  can  enter. 

His  short  thick  necke  cannot  be  easily  harmed, 

Being  irefull,  on  the  lyon  he  will  venter. 
The  thornie  brambles,  and  imbracing  bushes, 
As  fearefuU  of  him  part,  through  whom  he  rushes. 

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50  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

And  more  then  so,  presenteth  to  mine  eye, 
The  picture  of  an  angrie  chafing  boare, 
Under  whose  sharpe  fangs,  on  his  backe  doth  lye, 
An  image  like  thy  selfe,  all  staynd  with  goare, 
Whose  blood  upon  the  fresh  flowers  being  shed, 
Doth  make  th5  droop  with  grief,  &  hang  the  hed. 

What  should  I  do,  seeing  thee  so  indeed  ? 

That  tremble  at  th'  imagination, 

The  thought  of  it  doth  make  my  faint  heart  bleed. 

And  feare  doth  teach  it  divination  ; 

I  prophecie  thy  death,  my  living  sorrow. 
If  thou  incounter  with  the  boare  to  morrow. 

But  if  thou  needs  wilt  hunt,  be  rul'd  by  me. 

Uncouple  at  the  timerous  flying  hare, 

Or  at  the  foxe  which  lives  by  subtiltie, 

Or  at  the  Roe  which  no  incounter  dare  : 

Pursue  these  fearfull  creatures  o're  the  downes, 
And  on  thy  wel  breathd  horse  keep  with  thy  houds. 

And  when  thou  hast  on  foote  the  purblind  hare, 
Marke  the  poore  wretch  to  over-shut  his  troubles. 
How  he  outruns  the  wind,  and  with  what  care, 
He  crankes  and  crosses  with  a  thousand  doubles, 

The  many  musits  *  through  the  which  he  goes. 

Are  like  a  laberinth  to  amaze  his  foes. 

Sometime  he  runnes  among  a  flocke  of  sheepe. 
To  make  the  cunning  hounds  mistake  their  smell, 
And  sometime  where  earth-delving  Conies  keepe, 
To  stop  the  loud  pursuers  in  their  yell : 
And  sometime  sorteth  with  a  heard  of  deare 
Danger  deviseth  shifts,  wit  waites  on  feare. 

For  there  his  smell  with  others  being  mingled. 
The  hot  sent-snuffing  hounds  are  driven  to  doubt. 
Ceasing  their  clamorous  cry,  till  they  have  singled 
With  much  ado  the  cold  fault  cleanly  out, 

Then  do  they  spend  their  mouth's,  eccho  replies, 

As  if  an  other  chase  were  in  the  skies. 

By  this  poore  wat  farre  oflf  upon  a  hill, 

Stands  on  his  hinder-legs  with  listning  eare. 

To  hearken  if  his  foes  pursue  him  still, 

Anon  their  loud  alarums  he  doth  heare, 
And  now  his  griefe  may  be  compared  well, 
To  one  sore  sicke,  that  heares  the  passing  bell. 

1  gaps  in  a  hedge. 

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SPORTING  EXTRACTS 


51 


Then  shall  thou  see  the  deaw-bedabbled  wretch, 
Tume,  and  returne,  indenting  with  the  way, 
Ech  envious  brier,  his  wearie  legs  do  scratch, 
Ech  shadow  makes  him  stop,  ech  murmour  stay. 
To  miserie  is  troden  on  by  manie, 
And  being  low,  never  releev'd  by  anie. 


Description  of  a  Hunter 

Looke  when  a  Painter  would  surpasse  the  life. 
In  limming  out  a  well  proportioned  steed, 
His  Art  with  Natures  workmanship  at  strife, 
As  if  the  dead  the  living  should  exceed  : 

So  did  this  Horse  excell  a  common  one, 
In  shape,  in  courage,  colour,  pace  and  bone. 


^ 

^^^^^^^K 

^^Hflj^pH^A    • 

Ml 

2^ 

yptJB 

m 

ShiI 

Aij 

E^^^ 

1, 00k  what  a  horse  should  have,  he  did  not  lack 


Round  hooft,  short  ioynted,  fetlocks  shag,  and  long. 
Broad  breast,  full  eye,  small  head,  and  nostrill  wide. 
High  crest,  short  eares,  straight  legs,  &  passing  strOg 
Thin  mane,  thicke  taile,  broad  buttock,  tender  hide  : 

Looke  what  a  Horse  should  have,  he  did  not  lack. 

Save  a  proud  rider  on  so  proud  a  back. 

E  2 

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52  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 


Venus  finds  Adonis  dead 

By  this  she  heares  the  hounds  are  at  a  bay, 
Whereat  she  starts  like  jone  that  spies  an  adder, 
Wreath'd  up  in  fatall  folds  iust  in  his  way, 
The  feare  whereof  doth  make  him  shake,  &  shudder. 
Even  so  the  timerous  yelping  of  the  hounds, 
Appals  her  senses,  and  her  spirit  confounds. 

For  now  she  knowes  it  is  no  gentle  chase, 
But  the  blunt  boare,  rough  beare,  or  lyon  proud. 
Because  the  crie  remaineth  in  one  place, 
Where  fearefully  the  dogs  exclaime  aloud, 
Finding  their  enemie  to  be  so  curst. 
They  all  straine  curt'sie  who  shall  cope  him  first. 

This  dismall  crie  rings  sadly  in  her  eare, 
Through  which  it  enters  to  surprise  her  hart, 
Who  overcome  by  doubt,  and  bloodlesse  feare, 
With  cold-pale  weakenesse,  nums  ech  feeling  part, 
Like  soldiers  when  their  captain  once  doth  yeeld, 
They  basely  flic,  and  dare  not  stay  the  field. 

Thus  stands  she  in  a  trembling  extasie. 
Till  cheering  up  her  senses  all  dismayd, 
She  tels  them  tis  a  causlesse  fantasie, 
And  childish  error  that  they  are  affrayd, 

Bids  the  leave  quaking,  bids  them  feare  no  more, 
And  with  that  word,  she  spide  the  hunted  boare. 

Whose  frothie  mouth  bepainted  all  with  red. 
Like  milke,  &  blood,  being  mingled  both  togither, 
A  second  feare  through  all  her  sinewes  spred, 
Which  madly  hurries  her,  she  knowes  not  whither. 
This  way  she  runs,  and  now  she  will  no  further, 
liut  backe  retires,  to  rate  the  boare  for  murther. 

A  thousand  spleenes  beare  her  a  thousand  wayes. 
She  treads  the  path,  that  she  untreads  againe  ; 
Her  more  then  hast,  is  mated  with  delayes, 
Like  the  proceedings  of  a  drunken  braine, 
Full  of  respects,  yet  naught  at  all  respecting, 
In  hand  with  all  things,  naught  at  all  effecting. 

Here  kenneld  in  a  brake,  she  finds  a  hound. 
And  askes  the  wearie  caitiffe  for  his  maister. 
And  there  another  licking  of  his  wound. 
Gainst  venimd  sores,  the  onely  soveraigne  plaister. 
And  here  she  meets  another,  sadly  skowlmg, 
To  whom  she  speaks,  &  he  replies  with  howling. 


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SPORTING  EXTRACTS  53 

When  he  hath  ceast  his  ill  resounding  noise, 

Another  flapmouthd  mounier,  blacke,  and  grim, 

Against  the  welkin,  volies  out  his  voyce, 

Another,  and  another,  answer  him. 
Clapping  their  proud  tailes  to  the  ground  below, 
Shaking  their  scratcht-eares,  bleeding  as  they  go. 

By  this  farre  off,  she  heares  some  huntsman  hallow, 
A  nourses  song  nere  pleasd  her  babe  so  well, 
The  dyre  imagination  she  did  follow, 
This  sound  of  hope  doth  labour  to  expell. 

For  now  reviving  ioy  bids  her  reioyce. 

And  flatters  her,  it  is  Adonis  voyce. 

As  Faulcons  to  the  lure,  away  she  flies. 

The  grasse  stoops  not,  she  treads  on  it  so  light. 

And  in  her  hast,  unfortunately  spies, 

The  foule  boares  conquest,  on  her  faire  delight, 
Which  seene,  her  eyes  are  murdred  with  the  view, 
Like  stars  ash.am'd  of  day,  themselves  withdrew. 

Or  as  the  snaile,  whose  tender  homes  being  hit, 
Shrinks  backward  in  his  shellie  cave  with  paine, 
And,  there  all  smoothred  up,  in  shade  doth  sit. 
Long  after  fearing  to  creepe  forth  againe  : 

So  at  his  bloodie  view  her  eyes  are  fled, 

Into  the  deep-darke  cabbins  of  her  head. 

Where  they  resigne  their  office,  and  their  light, 
To  the  disposing  of  her  troubled  braine, 
Who  bids  them  still  consort  with  ougly  night. 
And  never  wound  the  heart  with  lookes  againe, 

Who  like  a  king  perplexed  in  his  throne. 

By  their  suggestion,  gives  a  deadly  grone. 

Whereat  ech  tributarie  subiect  quakes, 
As  when  the  wind  imprisond  in  the  ground, 
Struggling  for  passage,  earths  foundation  shakes. 
Which  with  cold  terror,  doth  mens  minds  confound  : 
This  mutinie  ech  part  doth  so  surprise, 
That  fro  their  dark  beds  once  more  leap  her  eies. 

And  being  opend,  threw  unwilling  light, 
Upon  the  wide  wound,  that  the  boare  had  trencht 
In  his  soft  flanke,  whose  wonted  lillie  white 
With  purple  tears  that  his  wound  wept,  had  drgcht. 
No  floure  was  nigh,  no  grasse,  hearb,  leaf,  or  weed. 
But  stole  his  blood,  and  seemd  with  him  to  bleed. 

S  n  A  K  s  I '  !•:  K  K '  s  Ven  us  and  A  don  is,  1593. 

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54  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

From  'The  Workes  of  Beniamin 
Jonson ' 

In  autumne,  at  the  Partrich  makes  a  slight,' 

And  giv'st  thy  gladder  guests  the  sight  ; 
And,  in  the  winter,  hunt'st  the  flying  hare, 

More  for  thy  exercise,  then  fare  ; 
While  all,  that  follow,  their  glad  eares  apply 

To  the  full  greatnesse  of  the  cry  : 
Or  hauking  at  the  river,  or  the  bush, 

Or  shooting  at  the  greedie  thrush. 
Thou  dost  with  some  delight  the  day  out-weare, 

Although  the  coldest  of  the  yeere  I 

The  Forrest,  1616. 

Chorus. 
Turne — Hunters  then, 
agen. 
Hunting,  it  is  the  noblest  exercise. 

Makes  men  laborious,  active,  wise, 
Brings  health,  and  doth  the  spirits  delight, 

It  help's  the  hearing,  and  the  sight  : 
It  teacheth  arts  that  never  slip 

The  memory,  good  horsmanship, 
Search,  sharpnesse,  courage,  and  defence, 
And  chaseth  all  ill  habits  thence. 
Turne  Hunters  then, 
agen. 
But  not  of  men. 
Follow  his  ample  ; 
And  just  example. 
That  hates  all  chace  of  malice,  and  of  bloud  : 
And  studies  only  waycs  of  good, 
To  keep  soft  Peace  in  breath. 
Man  should  not  hunt  Mankind  to  death, 
But  strike  the  enemies  of  Man  ; 

Kill  vices  if  you  can  : 
They  are  your  wildest  beasts. 
And  when  they  thickest  fall,  you  make  the  Gods  true  feasts. 

Time  I'i/itficii/t'ti,  1640. 

From  '  Britannia's  Pastorals  * 

Now  as  an  Angler  melanchoh'  standing 
Upon  a  greene  banckc  yeelding  roomc  for  landing, 
A  wrigling  yealow  worme  thrust  on  his  hookc. 
Now  in  the  midst  he  throwes,  then  in  a  nookc  : 


'   feint. 


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SPORTING  EXTRACTS  55 

Here  puis  his  line,  there  throwes  it  in  againe, 
Mendeth  his  Corke  and  Baite,  but  all  in  vaine, 
He  long  stands  viewing  of  the  curled  streame  ; 
At  last  a  hungry  Pike^  or  well-growne  Breame. 
Snatch  at  the  worme,  and  hasting  fast  away 
He  knowing  it,  a  Fish  of  stubbome  sway 
Puis  up  his  rod,  but  soft :  (as  having  skill) 
Wherewith  the  hooke  fast  holds  the  Fishes  gill. 
Then  all  his  line  he  freely  yeeldeth  him, 
Whilst  furiously  all  up  and  downe  doth  swimme 
Th'  in  snared  Fish,  here  on  the  top  doth  scud. 
There  underneath  the  banckes,  then  in  the  mud  ; 
And  with  his  franticke  fits  so  scares  the  shole, 
That  each  one  takes  his  hydv^  or  starting  hole  : 
By  this  the  Pike  cleane  wearied,  underneath 
A  Willow  lyes,  and  pants  (if  Fishes  breath) 
Wherewith  the  Angler  gently  puis  him  to  him, 
And  least  his  hast  might  happen  to  undoe  him, 
Layes  downe  his  rod,  then  takes  his  line  in  hand, 
And  by  degrees  getting  the  Fish  to  land, 
Walkes  to  another  Poole  :  at  length  is  winner 
Of  such  a  dish  as  serves  him  for  his  dinner  : 

As  when  a  Greyhound  (of  the  rightest  straine) 
Let  slip  to  some  poore  Hare  upon  the  plaine  ; 
Hee  for  his  prey  strives  ;  t'other  for  her  life. 
And  one  of  these  or  none  must  end  the  strife  : 
Now  seemes  the  Dog  by  speede  and  good  at  bearing 
To  have  her  sure  ;  the  other  ever  fearing, 
Maketh  a  sodaine  turne,  and  doth  defcrre 
The  Hound  a  while  from  so  neere  reaching  her  : 
Yet  being  fetcht  againe  and  almost  tane 
Doubting  (since  touched  of  him)  she  scapes  her  bane. 

W.  Browne,  1613. 

From  '  The  Muses  Threnodie ' 

And  yee  my  Clubs^  you  must  no  more  prepare 
To  make  you  bals  flee  whistling  in  the  aire. 
But  hing  your  heads,  and  bow  your  crooked  crags,' 
And  dresse  you  all  in  sackcloth  and  in  rags. 
No  more  to  see  the  Sun,  nor  fertile  fields, 
But  closely  keep  you  mourning  in  your  biekls, ' 
And  for  your  part  the  trible  to  you  take. 


^  necks.  ^  shelters. 


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56  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

And  when  you  cry  make  all  your  crags  to  crake, 
And  shiver  when  you  sing  alace  for  Gall  I 
Ah  if  our  mourning  might  thee  now  recall  I 

From  thence  to  Methven  wood  we  took  our  way, 
Soone  be  Aurora  fair  did  kyth  the  day  ; 
And  having  rested  there  some  little  space, 
Againe  we  did  betake  us  to  our  chace. 
Raising  the  Does  and  Roes  forth  of  their  dennes, 
And  watrie  fowles  out  of  the  marrish  fennes, 
That  if  Diana  had  been  in  that  place, 
Would  thought,  in  hunting  we  had  stain'd  her  grace. 

The  Muses  Threnodie  or  mirthful  mournings  on  the  death 
of  Master  Gall.     Kl)W.  Adamson,  1638. 


Wild  Beasts  chased  by  Fire 

The  craftie  Foxe  which  Numbers  doth  deceave, 

To  get,  not  be  a  Prey,  shall  be  a  Prey, 

The  Embrions  Enemie,  Womens  that  conceave, 

As  who  might  give  him  Death,  their  Birth  to  stay, 

That  ravenous  Wolfe  which  Blood  would  alwayes  have, 

All  then  a  Thought  more  quickly  shall  decay. 

No  Strength  then  stands,  such  Weaknesse  went  before, 
Nor  yet  base  Slight,  meere  Foolishnesse  and  more. 

The  Hart  whose  Homes  (as  Greatnesse  is  to  all) 
Do  seenie  to  grace,  are  Burdens  to  his  Head, 
With  swift  (though  slender  Legges)  when  Wounds  appall, 
Which  cures  himselfe  where  Nature  doth  him  lead 
And  with  great  Eyes,  weake  Heart,  oft  Dangers  thrall. 
The  warie  Hare  whose  Feare  oft  Sport  hath  made. 
Do  seeke  by  Swiftnesse  Death  in  vaine  to  shunne, 
As  if  a  Flight  of  Flames  could  be  outrunne. 

The  painted  Panther  which  not  fear'd  doth  gore, 

Like  some  whose  beauteous  Face  foule  minds  defame, 

The  Tiger  Tigrish,  past  expressing  more. 

Since  crueltie  is  noted  by  his  Name, 

The  able  Ounce,  strong  Beare,  and  fooming  Bore, 

(Mans  Rebells  since  God  did  Man  his  proclaime) 

Though  fierce  all  faint  and  know  not  where  to  tume. 
They  see  their  old  Refuge,  the  Forrests  burne. 

Doomesday,  by  Sir  William  Alkxandkk,  (Knight)  Earl  op 
Stirling;  The  Third Honre,     1614. 


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SPORTING  EXTRACTS  S7 


Coursing 


Whilst  Rockingham  was  heard  with  these  Reports  to  ring, 
The  Muse  by  making  on  towards  Wetlands  ominous  Spring, 
With  Kelmarsh  there  is  caught,  for  coursing  of  the  Hare, 
Which  scomes  that  any  place,  should  with  her  Plaines  compare  : 
Which  in  the  proper  Tearmes  the  Muse  doth  thus  report ; 

The  man  whose  vacant  mind  prepares  him  to  the  sport, 
The  Finder  sendeth  out,  to  seeke  out  nimble  Wat^ 
Which  crosseth  in  the  field,  each  furlong,  every  Flat, 
Till  he  this  pretty  Beast  upon  the  Forme  hath  found, 
Then  viewing  for  the  Course,  which  is  the  fairest  ground,. 
The  Greyhounds  foorth  are  brought,  for  coursing  then  in  case, 
And  choycely  in  the  Slip,  one  leading  forth  a  brace  ; 
The  Finder  puts  her  up,  and  gives  her  Coursers  law. 
And  whilst  the  eager  dogs  upon  the  Start  doe  draw, 
Shee  riseth  from  her  seat,  as  though  on  earth  she  flew, 
Forced  by  some  yelping  Cute  ^  to  give  the  (ireyhounds  view. 
Which  are  at  length  let  slip,  when  gunning  out  they  goe, 
As  in  respect  of  them  the  swiftest  wind  were  slow. 
When  each  man  runnes  his  Horse,  with  fixed  eyes  and  notes 
Which  Dog  first  tumes  the  Hare,  which  first  the  other  coats,' 
They  wrench  her  once  or  twice,  ere  she  a  tume  will  take, 
Whats  oflfred  by  the  first,  the  other  good  doth  make  ; 
And  tume  for  tume  againe  with  equall  speed  they  ply, 
Bestirring  their  swift  feet  with  strange  agilitie  : 
A  hardned  ridge  or  way,  when  if  the  Hare  doe  win, 
Then  as  shot  from  a  Bow,  she  from  the  Dogs  doth  spm. 
That  strive  to  put  her  off,  but  when  hee  cannot  reach  her. 
This  giving  him  a  Coat,*  about  againe  doth  fetch  her 
To  him  that  comes  behind,  which  seemes  the  Hare  to  beare  ; 
But  with  a  nimble  tume  shee  casts  them  both  arrere  : 
Till  oft  for  want  of  breath,  to  fall  to  ground  they  make  her, 
The  Greyhounds  both  so  spent,  that  they  want  breath  to  take  her. 
Here  leave  I  whilst  the  Muse  more  serious  things  attends, 
And  with  my  Course  at  Hare,  my  Canto  likewise  ends. 

Polyolbion,  Michael  Drayton,  1622. 

Beasts  of  Chase 

Of  all  the  Beasts  which  we  for  our  veneriall  name. 
The  Hart  amongst  the  rest,  the  Hunters  noblest  game  : 
Of  which  most  Princely  Chase  sith  none  did  ere  report. 
Or  by  description  touch,  t'  expresse  that  wondrous  sport 
(Yet  might  have  well  beseem'd  th'  ancients  nobler  Songs) 
To  our  old  Arden  heere,  most  fitly  it  belongs  : 


pass. 


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58  THE   POETRY  OF  SPORT 

Yet  shall  shee  not  invoke  the  Muses  to  her  ayde  ; 

But  thee  Diana  bright,  a  Goddesse  and  a  mayd  : 

In  many  a  huge-growne  Wood,  and  many  a  shady  (irove, 

Which  oft  hast  borne  thy  Bowe  (great  Huntresse)  us'd  to  rove 

At  many  a  cruell  beast,  and  with  thy  darts  to  pierce 

The  Lyon,  Panther,  Ounce,  the  Beare,  and  Tiger  fierce  ; 

And  following  thy  fleet  Game,  chaste  mightie  Forrests  Qucene, 

With  thy  disheveld  Nymphs  attyr'd  in  youthfull  greene. 

About  the  Launds  hast  scowVd,  and  Wastes  both  farre  and  neere. 

Brave  Huntresse  :  but  no  beast  shall  prove  thy  Quarries  heere  ; 

Saue  those  the  best  of  Chase,  the  tall  and  lusty  Red, 

The  Stag  for  goodly  shape,  and  statelinesse  of  head, 


Is  fitt'st  to  hunt  at  force.     For  whom,  when  with  his  hounds 

The  laboring  Hunter  tufts  the  thicke  unbarbed  grounds 

Where  harbor'd  is  the  Hart  ;  there,  often  from  his  feed 

The  dogs  of  him  doc  find  ;  or  thorough  skilfull  heed. 

The  Huntsman  by  his  slot,  or  breaking  earth,  perceaves, 

Or  entring  of  the  thicke  by  pressing  of  the  greaves 

W^here  he  hath  gone  to  lodge.     Now  when  the  Hart  doth  heare 

The  often-bellowing  hounds  to  vent  his  secret  leyre, 

He  rouzing  rusheth  out,  and  through  the  Brakes  doth  drive. 

As  though  up  by  the  roots  the  bushes  he  would  rive. 

And  through  the  combrous  thicks,  as  fearefully  he  makes, 

Hec  with  his  branched  head,  the  tender  Saplings  shakes, 

Tliat  sprinkling  their  moyst  pearle  doe  seemc  for  him  to  wcepe  ; 


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SPORTING  EXTRACTS  59 

When  after  goes  the  Cry,  with  yellings  lowd  and  deepe, 
That  all  the  Forrest  rings,  and  every  neighbouring  place  : 
And  there  is  not  a  hound  but  falleth  to  the  Chase. 

Rechating  with  his  home,  which  then  the  Hunter  cheeres, 
Whilst  still  the  lustie  Stag  his  high-palm'd  head  up-beares, 
His  body  showing  state,  with  unbent  knees  upright. 
Expressing  (from  all  beasts)  his  courage  in  his  flight. 
But  when  th'  approaching  foes  still  following  he  perceives. 
That  hee  his  speed  must  trust,  his  usuall  walke  he  leaves  ; 
And  or'e  the  Champaine  flies  :  which  when  th'  assembly  find, 
Each  foUowes,  as  his  horse  were  footted  with  the  wind. 
But  beeing  then  imbost,  the  noble  stately  Deere 
When  he  hath  gotten  ground  (the  kennell  cast  arere) 
Doth  beat  the  Brooks  and  Ponds  for  sweet  refreshing  soyle  : 
That  serving  not,  then  proves  if  he  his  sent  can  foyle, 
And  makes  amongst  the   Heards,  and  flocks  of  shag-wooll'd 

Sheepe, 
Them  frighting  from  the  guard  of  those  who  had  their  keepe. 
But  when  as  all  his  shifts  his  safety  still  denies. 
Put  quite  out  of  his  walke,  the  wayes  and  fallowes  tryes. 
Whom  when  the  Plow-man  meets,  his  teame  he  letteth  stand 
T'  assaile  him  with  his  goad  ;  so  with  his  hooke  in  hand. 
The  Shepheard  him  pursues,  and  to  his  dog  doth  halow  : 
When,  with  tempestuous  speed,  the  hounds  and  Huntsmen  follow; 
Untill  the  noble  Deere  through  toyle  bereav'd  of  strength. 
His  long  and  sinewy  legs  then  fayling  him  at  length, 
The  Villages  attempts,  enrag'd,  not  giving  way 
To  any  thing  hee  meets  now  at  his  sad  decay. 
The  cruell  ravenous  hounds  and  bloody  Hunters  neer, 
This  noblest  beast  of  Chase,  that  vainly  doth  but  feare. 
Some  banke  or  quick-set  finds  :  to  which  his  hanch  oppos'd, 
He  tumes  upon  his  foes,  that  soone  have  him  inclos'd. 
The  churlish  throated  hounds  then  holding  him  at  bay, 
And  as  their  cruell  fangs  on  his  harsh  skin  they  lay, 
With  his  sharp-poynted  head  he  dealeth  deadly  wounds, 

The  Hunter,  comming  in  to  helpe  his  wearied  hounds, 
He  desperatly  assailes  ;  untill  opprest  by  force, 
He  who  the  Mourner  is  to  his  owne  dying  Corse, 
Upon  the  ruthlesse  earth  his  precious  teares  lets  fall. 

Polyolbion,  Miciiakl  Drayton,  1622. 

*  Muses  Elizium  ' 

Silvius.     For  my  profession  then,  and  for  the  life  I  lead 
All  others  to  excell,  thus  for  my  selfe  1  plead  ; 
I  am  the  Prince  of  sports,  the  Forest  is  my  Fee, 
He's  not  upon  the  Earth  for  pleasure  lives  like  me  ; 
The  Morne  no  sooner  puts  herRosye  Mantle  on. 


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6o  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

But  from  my  quyet  Lodge  1  instantly  am  gone, 

When  the  melodious  Birds  from  every  Bush  and  Bryer 

Of  the  wilde  spacious  Wasts,  make  a  continuall  quire  ; 

The  motlied  Meadowes  then,  new  vernisht  with  the  Sunne 

Shute  up  their  spicy  sweets  upon  the  winds  that  runne, 

In  easly  ambling  Gales,  and  softly  seeme  to  pace, 

That  it  the  longer  might  their  lushiousnesse  imbrace  ; 

I  am  clad  in  youthful!  Greene,  I  other  colours  scorne, 

My  silken  Bauldrick  beares  my  Beugle,  or  my  Home, 

Which  setting  to  my  Lips,  I  winde  so  lowd  and  shrill, 

As  makes  the  Ecchoes  showte  from  every  neighbouring  Hill. 

My  Doghooke  at  my  Belt,  to  which  my  Lyam's  *  tyde. 

My  Sheafe  of  Arrowes  by,  my  Woodknife  at  my  Syde, 

My  Crosse-bow  in  my  Hand,  my  Gaffle'^  or*  my  Rack 

To  bend  it  when  1  please,  or  it  1  list  to  slack, 

My  Hound  then  in  my  Lyam,^  I  by  the  Woodmans  art 

Forecast,  where  I  may  lodge  the  goodly  Hie-palm'd  Hart, 

To  vie  we  the  grazing  H  cards,  so  sundry  times  I  use, 

Where  by  the  loftiest  Head  I  know  my  Deare  to  chuse, 

And  to  unheard  him  then,  I  gallop  o'r  the  ground 

Upon  my  wel-breath'd  Nag,  to  cheere  my  earning  Hound. 

Sometime  1  pitch  my  Toyles  the  Deare  alive  to  take. 

Sometime  I  like  the  Cry,  the  deepe-mouth'd  Kennell  make. 

Then  underneath  my  Horse,  1  staulke  my  game  to  strike. 

And  with  a  single  Dog  to  hunt  him  hurt,  I  like. 

The  Silvians  are  to  me  true  subjects,  I  their  King, 

The  stately  Hart,  his  Hind  doth  to  my  presence  bring, 

The  Buck  his  loved  Doe,  the  Roe  his  tripping  Mate, 

Before  me  to  my  Bower,  whereas  1  sit  in  State. 

The  Dryads,  Hamadrvads,  the  Satyres  and  the  Fawnes 

Oft  play  at  Hyde  and  Seeke  before  me  on  the  Lawnes, 

The  frisking  Fayry  oft  when  horned  Cinthia  shines 

Before  me  as  I  walke  dance  wanton  Matachynes,^ 

The  numerous  feathered  flocks  that  the  wild  Forrests  haunt 

Their  Silvan  songs  to  me,  in  cheerefull  dittyes  chaunte. 

The  shades  like  ample  Shcclds,  defend  me  from  the  Sunne, 

Through  which  me  to  refresh  the  gentle  Rivelets  runne, 

No  little  bubling  Bro.ok  from  any  Spring  that  falls 

But  on  the  Pebbles  playes  me  pretty  Madrigals. 

r  th'  morne  I  clime  the  Hills,  where  wholsome  winds  do  blow 

At  Noone-tyde  to  the  V'ales,  and  shady  Groves  below, 

T\vards  Evening  I  againe  the  Chrystall  Floods  frequent. 

In  pleasure  thus  my  life  continually  is  spent. 

As  Princes  and  great  Lords  have  Pallaces,  so  1 

Have  in  the  Forrests  here,  my  Hall  and  Gallery 

*  Leash. 

*  The  steel  lever  by  which  a  crossbow  was  forced  up  the  rack. 
'»  Probably  misprint  for  '  on.' 

*  A  comic  dance,  representing  a  mock  combat,  was  called  a  Matachin. 


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SPORTING  EXTRACTS  6i 

The  tall  and  stately  Woods  ;  which  underneath  are  Plahie, 
The  Groves  my  Gardens  are,  the  Heath  and  Downes  againe 
My  wide  and  spacious  walkes,  then  say  all  what  ye  can, 
The  Forester  is  still  your  only  gallant  man. 

Halcius,     No  P'orrester,  it  so  must  not  be  borne  away, 
But  heare  what  for  himselfe  the  Fisher  first  can  say, 
The  Chr>'stall  current  Streames  continually  I  keepe, 
Where  every  Pearle-pav'd  Foard,  and  every  Blew-eyd  deepe 
With  me  familiar  are  ;  when  in  my  Boate  being  set. 
My  Oare  I  take  in  hand,  my  Angle  and  my  Net 
About  me  ;  like  a  Prince  my  selfe  in  state  I  steer. 
Now  up,  now  downe  the  Streame,  now  am  1  here,  now  ther. 
The  Pilot  and  the  Fraught  my  selfe  ;  and  at  my  eas§ 
Can  land  me  when  I  list,  or  in  what  place  I  please, 
The  Silver-scaled  Sholes,  about  me  in  the  Streames, 
As  thick  as  ye  discerne  the  Atoms  in  the  Beames, 
Neare  to  the  shady  Banck  where  slender  Sallowes  grow. 
And  Willows  their  shag^d  tops  downe  t'wards  the  water^s  bow 
I  shove  in  with  my  Boat  to  sheeld  me  from  the  heat, 
Where  chusing  from  my  Bag,  some  prov'd  espcciall  bayt. 
The  goodly  well  growne  Trout  I  with  my  Angle  strike, 
And  with  my  bearded  Wyer  I  take  the  ravenous  Pike, 
Of  whom  when  I  have  hould,  he  seldom  breakes  away 
Though  at  my  Lynes  full  length,  soe  long  I  let  him  play. 
Till  by  my  hand  I  finde  him  well-nere  wear>'ed  be, 
When  softly  by  degrees  I  drawe  him  up  to  me. 
The  lusty  samon  to,  I  oft  with  Angling  take, 
Which  me  above  the  rest  most  Lordly  sport  doth  make, 
WTio  feeling  he  is  caught,  such  Frisks  and  bounds  doth  fetch, 
And  by  his  very  strength  my  Line  so  farre  doth  stretch 
And  drawes  my  floating  Corcke  downe  to  the  very  ground. 
And  wresting  of  my  Rod,  doth  make  my  Boat  turne  round. 
I  never  idle  am,  some  tyme  I  bayt  my  Weeles, 
With  which  by  night  1  take  the  dainty  silver  Eeles, 
And  with  my  Draughtnet  then,  1  swccpe  the  streaming  Flood, 
And  to  my  Tramell  next,  and  Cast-net  from  the  Mud, 
I  beate  the  Scaly  brood,  noe  hower  I  idely  spend. 
But  wearied  with  my  worke  I  bring  the  day  to  end  : 
The  Naijdes  and  Nymphes  that  in  the  Rivers  keepe, 
Which  take  into  their  care,  the  store  of  every  deepe. 
Amongst  the  Flowery  flags,  the  Bullrushes  and  Reed, 
That  of  the  Spawne  have  charge  (abundantly  to  breed) 
Well  mounted  upon  Swans,  their  naked  bodys  lend 
To  my  discerning  eye,  and  on  my  Boate  attend, 
And  dance  upon  the  Waves,  before  me  (for  my  sake) 
To  th'  Musick  the  soft  wynd  upon  the  Reeds  doth  make. 
And  for  my  pleasure  more,  the  rougher  (iods  of  Seas 
From  Neptunes  Court  send  in  the  blew  Neriades, 


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62  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

Which  from  his  bracky  Realme  upon  the  Billowes  ride 

And  beare  the  Rivers  backe  with  every  Streaming  Tyde, 

Those  Billowes  gainst  my  Boate,  borne  with  delightfijll  Gales 

Oft  seeming  as  I  rowe  to  tell  me  pretty  tales, 

Whilst  Ropes  of  liquid  Pearle  still  load  my  laboring  Oares, 

As  streacht  upon  the  Streame  they  stryke  me  to  the  Shores  ; 

The  silent  medowes  seeme  delighted  with  my  Layes, 

As  sitting  in  my  Boate  1  sing  my  Lasses  praise, 

Then  let  them  that  like,  the  Forrester  up  cr>', 

Your  noble  Fisher  is  your  only  man  say  1. 

MiCHAKL  DKAVTON.   1630. 

From  '  Brittain's  Ida ' 

His  joy  was  not  in  musiques  sweete  delight, 
(Though  well  his  hand  had  learnt  that  cunning  arte,) 
Or  dainty  songs  to  daintier  eares  indite. 
But  through  the  plaines  to  chace  the  nimble  hart 
With  well-tun'd  hounds  ;  or  with  his  certaine  dart 
The  tusked  boare  or  savage  beare  to  wound  : 
Meane  time  his  heart  with  monsters  doth  abound  ; 
Ah,  Foole  !  to  seeke  so  farre  what  neerer  might  be  found. 

?PlIlNKAS    FLKTdlKK,   1628. 

'  Beggars  Bush  ' 

Enter  Hubert. 

Hub.  (jood  ev'n  my  honest  friends. 
Gcrrard.  Good  ev'n  good  fellow 
Hub.  May  a  poor  huntsman,  with  a  merry  heart, 
A  voice  shall  make  the  Forrest  ring  about  him, 
Get  leave  to  live  amongst  ye  ?     True  as  steel  boys,. 
That  knows  all  chases;  and  can  watch  all  hours, 
And  with  my  qua rtcr-sta fife,  though  the  Divell  bid  stand, 
Deal  such  an  almes,  shall  make  him  roar  again  1 
Prick  ye  the  fearful]  hare  through  crosse  waves,  sheep  walks  ; 
And  force  the  craftie  Re>Tiard  climb  the  quick-sets  ; 
Rouze  yc  the  loftie  Stag,  and  with  my  bell-horn 
Ring  him  a  knell,  that  all  the  woods  shall  mourn  him, 
'Till  in  his  funeral  tears  he  fall  before  me  ? 
The  Polcat^  Marternc^  and  the  rich  skin'd  Lucerne^ 
I  know  to  chase  the  Roe,  the  wind  out-stripping. 
fsgrin  himself  in  all  his  bloody  anger, 
I  can  beat  from  the  bay  ;  and  the  wild  sounder 
Single  ;  and  with  my  arm'd  staff,  turn  the  Boar 
Spight  of  his  fomy  tushes  ;  and  thus  strike  him. 
Till  he  fall  down  my  feast. 

Beaumont  and  Klktchek,  i66i. 


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"  Winde,  jollie  huntsmen,  your  neat  bugles  shrilly." 

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SPORTING  EXTRACTS  63 

From  *  Perkin  Warbeck ' 

ACT  IV. 

Kinjs^  Henry.  I  knew  it  should  not  misse. 
He  fondly  angles  who  will  hurle  his  bayte 
Into  the  water,  'cause  the  Fish  at  first 
Playes  round  about  the  line,  and  dares  not  bite. 

J.  Ford,  1634. 

From  *  The  Sun's-Darling ' 

ACT   III. 
Winde,  joUie  Hunts-men  your  neat  Bugles  shrilly, 

Hounds  make  a  lustie  crie  : 
Spring  up,  you  F'aulconers,  the  Partridges  freely, 
then  let  your  brave  Hawks  flie. 
Horses  amain 
over  ridg,  over  plain, 
the  Dogs  have  the  Stag  in  chace  ; 
His  a  sport  to  content  a  King. 
So  ho  ho,  through  the  skies 
how  the  proud  bird  flies, 

and  soucing  ^  kills  with  a  grace. 
Now  the  Deer  falls,  hark  how  they  ring. 

J,  Ford  and  T.  Decker.  1656. 

On  a  Tenis-court 

Man  is  a  Tenis-court :  His  Flesh,  the  IVa//  : 

The  Gamsters  God  and  Sathan^  Th'  heart's  the  Ball'. 

The  higher  and  the  lower  Hazzards  are 

Too  bold  Presumption^  and  too  base  Despaire  : 

The  Rackets^  which  our  restlesse  Balls  make  flye, 

Adversity^  and  sweet  Prosperity  : 

The  Angels  keepe  the  Court,  and  marke  the  place. 

Where  the  Ball  fals,  and  chaulks  out  ev'17  C/iacf  : 

The  Line's  a  Civill  life,  we  often  crosse. 

Ore  which,  the  Ball  not  flying,  makes  a  Lossr  : 

Detractors  are  like  Standers-dy,  that  bett 

With  Charitable  men  ;  Our  Lif^s  the  Sett : 

Lord,  In  this  Conflict,  in  these  fierce  Assaults, 

Laborious  Sathan  makes  a  world  of  F'aults ; 

Forgive  them  Lord,  although  he  nere  implore 

For  favour  ;  They'l  be  set  upon  our  score  : 

O,  take  the  Ball,  before  it  come  to  th'  ground. 

For  this  base  Court  has  many  a.  false  Redound : 

Strike,  and  strike  hard,  but  strike  above  the  Line  ; 

Strike  where  thou  please,  so  as  the  Sett  be  thine. 

QUARLES  (Fra).  Divine  Fancies,  1632. 
'  stooping. 


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64  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 


Emblemes 

Here's  your  right  ground  :  Wagge  gently  ore  this  Black  ; 

'Tis  a  short  Cast ;  y'are  quickly  at  the  Jack  : 
Rubbe,  rubbe  an  Inch  or  two  ;  Two  Crownes  to  one 

On  this  Boules  side  ;  Blow  winde  ;  T'is  fairely  throwne 
The  next  Boule's  worse  that  comes  ;  Come  boule  away  ; 

Mammon^  you  know  the  ground  un-tutor'd,  Play  ; 
Your  last  was  gone  ;  A  yeard  of  strength,  well  spar'd, 

Had  touch'd  the  Block  ;  your  hand  is  still  too  hard. 
Brave  pastime,  Readers,  to  consume  that  day, 

Which  ;  without  pastime,  flyes  too  swift  away  : 
See  how  they  labour  ;  as  if  day  and  night 

Were  both  too  short,  to  serve  their  loose  delight ; 
See  how  their  curved  bodies  wreathe,  and  skrue 

Such  antick  shapes  as  Proteus  never  knew  : 
One  raps  an  oath  ;  another  deales  a  curse  ; 

Hee  never  better  bould  ;  this,  never  worse  : 
One  rubbes  his  itchlesse  Elbow,  shrugges,  and  laughs  ; 

The  tother  bends  his  beetle-browes,  and  chafes, 
Sometime  they  whoope  ;  sometimes  their  Stigian  cries 

Send  their  Black-5tf///^j  to  the  blushing  Skies  ; 
Thus,  mingling  of  Humors  in  a  mad  confusion. 

They  make  bad  Premises,  and  worse  Conclusion  : 
But  Where's  the  Palme  that  Fortunes  hand  allowes 

To  bless  the  Victors  honourable  Browes  ? 
Come,  Reader,  come  ;  He  light  thine  eye  the  way 

To  view  the  Prize,  the  while  the  Gamesters  play  ; 
Close  by  the  Jack,  behold  Gill  Fortune  stands 

To  wave  the  game  ;  See,  in  her  partial  1  hands 
The  glorious  Garland's  held  in  open  show. 

To  cheare  the  Ladds,  and  crownc  the  Conq'rers  brow  ; 
The  world's  the  Jack  ;  The  Gamesters  that  contend. 

Are  Cupid^  Mammon.     That  juditious  Friend, 
That  gives  the  ground,  is  Sathan  ;  and  the  Boules 

Are  sinfuU  Thoughts  :  The  Prize,  a  Crowne  for  Fooles. 
Who  breathes  that  boules  not  ?  what  bold  tongue  can  say 

Without  a  blush,  he  hath  not  bould  to  day  ? 
It  is  the  Trade  of  man  ;  And  ev'ry  Sinner 

Has  plaid  his  Rubbers  ;  Every  Soule's  a  winner. 
The  vulgar  Proverb's  crost  :  Hce  hardly  can 

Be  a  good  Bouler  and  an  Honest  man. 
Good  God,  turne  thou  my  Brazil  thoughts  anew  ; 

New  soale  my  Boules,  and  make  their  Bias  true  : 
rie  cease  to  game,  till  fairer  Ciround  be  given. 

Nor  wish  to  winne  untill  the  Marke  be  Heaven. 


Fra.  Quari.es,  1635. 

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SPORTING  EXTRACTS  65 

From  *  Gondibert ' 

THE  FIRST  BOOK,   CANTO  THE  SECOND 

All  were  like  Hunters  clad  in  cheerfull  green, 

Young  Natures  Livery,  and  each  at  strife 
Who  most  adom'd  in  favours  should  be  seen,  1 

Wrought  kindly  by  the  Lady  of  his  life. 

These  Martiall  Favours  on  their  Wasts  they  weare, 

On  which  (for  now  they  Conquest  celebrate) 
In  an  imbroader'd  History  appeare  1 

Like  life,  the  vanquish'd  in  their  feares  and  fate.  1 

And  on  these  Belts  (wrought  with  their  Ladys  care) 

Hung  Semyters  of  Akons  trusty  Steele  ; 
Goodly  to  see,  and  he  who  durst  compare 

Those  Ladies  Eies,  might  soon  their  temper  feele. 

Cheer'd  as  the  Woods  (where  new  wak*d  Quires  they  meet) 

Are  all ;  and  now  dispose  their  choice  Relays 
Of  Horse  and  Hounds,  each  like  each  other  fleet ; 

Which  best  when  with  themselves  compared  we  prais  ; 

To  them  old  Forrest  Spys,  the  Harborers 

With  hast  approach,  wet  as  still  weeping  Night, 
Or  Deer  that  mourn  their  growth  of  head  with  tears, 

When  the  defenceless  weight  does  hinder  flight. 

And  Doggs,  such  whose  cold  secrecy  was  ment 

By  Nature  for  surprise,  on  these  attend  ; 
Wise  temperate  Lime- Hounds  *  that  proclaim  no  scent ; 

Nor  harb'ring  -  will  their  mouths  in  boasting  spend. 

Yet  vainlier  farr  then  Traytors  boast  their  prise 

(On  which  their  vehemence  vast  rates  does  lay. 
Since  in  that  worth  their  treasons  credit  lies) 

These  Harb'rers  praise  that  which  they  now  betray. 

Boast  they  have  lodg'd  a  Stagg,  that  all  the  Race 

Out-runs  of  Croton  Horse,  or  Regian  Hounds  ; 
A  Stagg  made  long  since  Royall  in  the  Chace, 

If  Kings  can  honor  give  by  giving  wounds. 

For  Aribert  had  pierc't  him  at  a  Bay, 

Yet  scap'd  he  by  the  vigour  of  his  Head  ; 
And  many  a  sommer  since  has  wonne  the  day, 

And  often  left  his  Regian  FoU'wers  dead. 

*  hounds  in  leash.  *  marking  the  lie. 

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66  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

His  spacious  Beame  *  (that  even  the  Rights  outgrew) 
From  Antlar  to  his  Troch  had  all  allow'd 

By  which  his  age  the  aged  Woodmen  knew  ; 
Who  more  than  he  were  of  that  beauty  prowd. 

Now  each  Relay  a  sev'ral  Station  findes, 

Ere  the  triumphant  Train  the  Copps  surrounds  ; 

Relayes  of  Horse,  long  breath'd  as  winter  windes, 
And  their  deep  Cannon  Mouth'd  experienc'd  Hounds. 

The  Huntsmen  (Busily  concerned  in  showe 
As  if  the  world  were  by  this  Beast  undone, 

And  they  against  him  hir'd  as  Nature's  Foe) 
In  haste  uncouple,  and  their  Hounds  outrunne. 

Now  winde  they  a  Recheat,  the  rows'd  Dear's  knell  ; 

And  through  the  Forrest  all  the  Beasts  are  aw'd  ; 
Alarm'd  by  Ecchoe,  Nature's  Sentinel, 

Which  shews  that  Murdrous  Man  is  come  abroad. 

Tirranique  Man  !     Thy  subjects  Enemy  ! 

And  more  through  wantonness  then  need  or  hate  ; 
From  whom  the  winged  to  their  Coverts  flie  ; 

And  to  their  Dennes  even  those  that  laye  in  waite. 

So  this  (the  most  successfuU  of  his  kinde, 

Whose  Foreheads  force  oft  his  Opposers  prest, 

Whose  swiftness  left  Persuers  shafts  behinde) 
Is  now  of  all  the  Forrest  most  distrest ! 

The  Heard  deny  him  shelter,  as  if  taught 
To  know  their  safety  is  to  yield  him  lost ; 

Which  shews  they  want  not  the  results  of  thought, 
But  speech,  by  which  we  ours  for  reason  boast. 

We  blush  to  see  our  politicks  in  Beasts, 
Who  Many  sav'd  by  this  one  sacrifice  ; 

And  since  through  blood  they  follow  interests, 
Like  us  when  cruel  should  be  counted  wise. 

His  Rivals  that  his  fury  us'd  to  fear 

For  his  lov'd  Female,  now  his  faintness  Shunne  ; 
But  were  his  season  hot,  and  she  but  neer, 

(O  mighty  Love  !)  his  Hunters  were  undone. 

From  thence,  well  blown,  he  comes  to  the  Relay  ; 

Where  Man's  fam'd  reason  proves  but  Cowardise, 
And  only  serves  him  meanly  to  betray  ; 

Even  for  the  flying,  Man,  in  ambush  lies. 


*  horns. 


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SPORTING  EXTRACTS  67 

But  now,  at  his  last  remedy  to  live, 

(For  ev^ry  shift  for  life  kinde  Nature  makes, 
Since  life  the  utmost  is  which  she  can  give) 

Coole  Adice  from  the  swoln  Banke  he  takes. 

But  this  fresh  Bath  the  Doggs  will  make  him  leave  ; 

Whom  he  sure  nos'd  as  fasting  Tygers  found  ; 
Their  scent  no  North-east  winde  could  eVe  deceave 

Which  dries  the  ayre,  nor  Flocks  that  foyle  the  Ground. 

Swift  here  the  Flyers  and  Persuers  seeme ; 

The  frighted  Fish  swim  from  their  Adice, 
The  Doggs  pursue  the  Deer,  he  the  fleet  streme, 

And  that  hasts  swiftly  to  the  Adrian  Sea. 

Refreshed  thus  in  this  fleeting  Element, 

He  up  the  stedfast  Shore  did  boldly  rise  ; 
And  soon  escap'd  their  view,  but  not  their  scent ; 

That  faithful  Guide  which  even  conducts  their  Eies. 

This  frail  relief  was  like  short  gales  of  breath 

Which  oft  at  Sea  a  long  dead  calme  prepare  ; 
Or  like  our  Curtains  drawn  at  point  of  death, 

When  all  our  Lungs  are  spent,  to  give  us  ayre. 

For  on  the  Shore  the  Hunters  him  attend  ; 

And  whilst  the  Chace  grew  warm  as  is  the  day 
(WTiich  now  from  the  hot  Zenith  does  descend) 

He  is  imbos'd,  and  weary'd  to  a  Bay. 

The  Jewel,  Life,  he  must  surrender  here  ; 

Which  the  world's  Mistris,  Nature,  does  not  give. 
But  like  drop'd  Favours  suffers  us  to  weare. 

Such  as  by  which  pleas'd  Lovers  think  they  live. 

Yet  life  he  so  esteems,  that  he  allows 

It  all  defence  his  force  and  rage  can  make  ; 
And  to  the  Regian  Race  such  fury  shows 

As  their  last  blood  some  unreveng'd  forsake. 

But  now  the  Monarch  Murderer  comes  in, 

Destructive  Man  !  whom  Nature  would  not  arme, 

As  when  in  madness  mischief  is  foreseen 
We  leave  it  weaponless  for  fear  of  hamie. 

For  she  defencelesse  made  him  that  he  might 

Less  readily  offend  ;  but  Art  armes  all, 
From  single  strife  makes  us  in  Numbers  fight  ; 

And  by  such  art  this  Royall  Stagg  did  fall. 

He  weeps  till  grief  does  even  his  Murderers  pierce  ; 

Grief  which  so  nobly  through  his  anger  strove, 
That  it  deserved  the  dignity  of  verse. 

And  had  it  words  as  humanly  would  move. 

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68  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

Thrice  from  the  ground  his  vanquish'd  Head  he  rear'd, 
And  with  last  looks  his  Forrest  walks  did  view  ; 

Where  Sixty  Somniers  he  had  rul'd  the  Heard, 
And  where  sharp  Dittany  now  vainly  grew  : 

Whose  hoary  Leaves  no  more  his  wounds  shall  heale  ; 

For  with  a  Sigh  (a  blast  of  all  his  breath) 
That  viewlesse  thing  call'd  Life,  did  from  him  steale  ; 

And  with  their  Bugle  Homes  they  winde  his  death. 
Gondibert:  an  heroick  Poem,  by  Sir  William  D  A  yen  ant,  1651. 

From  an  Eglogue  by  Thomas 
Randolph 

COLLEN,  THENOT 

Collen,  Last  Evening  Lad,  I  met  a  noble  Swayne^ 
That  spurr'd  his  spright-full  Palfrey  ore  the  playne  : 
His  head  with  Ribbands  crown'd,  and  deck't  as  gay, 


COtSWO  LD  gjMBS. 


As  any  Lasse,  upon  her  Bridall  day 

I  thought  (what  easie  faiths  we  Sheepheards  prove  ?) 

This,  not  the  Bull,  had  beene  Europaes  love. 


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SPORTING  EXTRACTS  69 

I  ask't  the  cause,  they  tould  mee  this  was  hee, 
Whom  this  dayes  Tryumph,  crown'd  with  victory. 
Many  brave  Steeds  there  were,  some  you  should  finde 
So  fleete,  «as  they  had  bin  sonnes  of  the  winde. 
Others  with  hoofes  so  swifte,  beate  are  *  the  race. 
As  if  some  Engine  shot*um  to  the  place. 
So  many,  and  so  well  winged  Steeds  there  were, 
As  all  the  broode  of  Pegasus  had  bin  there, 
Rider  and  horse  could  not  distinguish'd  bee. 
Both  seem'd  conjoyn'd  a  Centaures  Progeny. 
A  numerous  troupe  they  were,  yet  all  so  light, 
Earth  never  groon'd  nor  felt'um  in  their  flight. 

Such  Royall  pastimes  Cotswold  mountaines  fill, 
When  Gentle  swaines  visit  her  glorious  Hill : 
WTiere  with  such  packs  of  Hounds^  they  hunting  go. 
As  Cyrus  never  woon'd  his  Bugle  too  ; 
Whose  noise  is  musicall,  and  with  full  cries, 
Beat's  ore  the  Field's,  and  ecchoes  through  the  skies. 
Orion  hearing,  wish'd  to  leave  his  Spheare  ; 
And  call  his  Dogge  from  heaven,  to  sport  it  there. 
Watt  though  he  fled  for  life,  yet  joy'd  withall, 
So  brave  a  Dirge^  sung  forth  his  Funerall. 
Not  Syrens  sweetlier  rill,  Hares^  as  they  flie 
Looke  backe,  as  glad  to  listen,  loth  to  die. 

Annalia  Dubrensia.     Upon  tfuyeerely  celebration  of  Mr.  Robert  Dovers 
Olimpick  Games  upon  Cotswold-Hills^  1636. 


From  'An  Ode  to  Mr.  Anthony  Stafford 
to  hasten  him  into  the  Country' 

Ours  is  the  skie. 
Whereat  what  fowle  we  please  our  Hauke  shall  flye  ; 

Nor  will  we  spare 
To  hunt  the  crafty  foxe,  or  timorous  hare, 

But  let  our  hounds  runne  loose 
In  any  ground  the/1  choose. 
The  Bucke  shall  fall. 
The  stagge  and  all : 
Our  pleasures  must  from  their  owne  warrants  bee. 
For  to  my  Muse^  if  not  to  mee, 

Pme  sure  all  game  is  free  ; 
Heaven,  Earth,  are  all  but  parts  of  her  great  Royalty. 

T.  Randolph, /'(7tf»M,  6*^.,  1638, 
*   V.l.  ore -over. 


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70 


THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 


'Hide  Parke* 

Gr^aXjohn  at  all  adventure  and  ^r^vc  Jockey ^ 

Mounted  their  severall  Mares,  I  shan'ot  tell 

The  story  out  for  laughing,  ha,  ha,  ha, 

But  this  in  hn^i^  Jockey  was  left  behind, 

The  pitty  and  the  scome  of  all  the  oddes. 

Plaid  bout  my  eares  like  Cannon,  but  lesse  dangerous. 


^^^^^^ffK^^^^^^^^Ovi^^tt^* 

*ri. 

GSiS^-^lIiililB 

^ 

isy^-:'.— ^ 

SS^^ 

wm^^t^i'-'-^-m^ 

^^5wt i\^    .. }' 

^Zm^^^ 

iVB?t(  -^^ 

mSI'"i  \ 

'«,  ia;kiJl 

-v  V  •    JflWV 

V           *s  n' 

J  ^^^^^^^^^^^^^      ~j^ 

^^hP^I 

^S^'*^' 

^K«^i 

I  tooke  all  still,  the  acclamations  \vas 
For  Venture,  whose  disdainefull  Mare  threw  durt 
In  my  old  Jockeys  face,  all  hopes  forsaking  us. 
Two  hundred  peeces  desperate,  and  two  thousand 
Oathes  sent  after  them,  upon  the  suddaine. 
When  we  expected  no  such  tricke,  we  saw 
My  rider  that  was  domineering  ripe. 
Vault  ore  his  Mare  into  a  tender  slough, 


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SPORTING  EXTRACTS  71 

Where  he  was  much  beholding  to  one  shoulder, 
For  saving  of  his  necke,  his  beast  recovered, 
And  he  by  this  time  somewhat  mortified, 
Besides  mortified,  hath  left  the  triumph 
To  his  Olympick  Adversary,  who  shall 
Ride  hither  in  full  pompe  on  his  Bucephalus 
With  his  victorious  bagpipe. 

James  Shirley,  1637. 

From  '  Coopers  Hill ' 


There  Faunus  and  Sylvanus  keepe  their  Courts, 
And  thither  all  the  homed  hoast  resorts, 
To  graze  the  rancker  meade,  that  noble  heard, 
On  whose  sublime  and  shady  fronts  is  reaM 
Natures  great  Masterpeece  ;  to  shew  how  soone 
Great  things  are  made,  but  sooner  are  undone, 
Here  have  I  seene  the  Kingy  when  great  affaires 
Give  leave  to  slacken,  and  unbend  his  cares, 
Attended  to  the  Chase  by  all  the  flower 
Of  youth,  whose  hopes  a  Nobler  prey  devoure  : 
Pleasure  with  Praise,  and  danger,  they  would  buy. 
And  wish  a  foe  that  would  not  only  fly. 
The  stagg  now  conscious  of  his  fatall  Growth, 
At  once  indulgent  to  his  feare  and  sloth. 
To  some  darke  covert  his  retreat  had  made. 
Where  nor  mans  eye,  nor  heavens  should  invade 
His  soft  repose  ;  when  th*  unexpected  sound 
Of  doggs,  and  men,  his  wakefull  eare  doth  wound. 
Rouz*d  with  the  noyse,  he  scarse  believes  his  eare. 
Willing  to  think  th'  illusions  of  his  feare 
Had  given  this  false  Alar'm,  but  straight  his  view 
Confirmes,  that  more  than  all  he  feares  is  true. 
Betra/d  in  all  his  strengths,  the  wood  beset. 
All  instruments,  all  Arts  of  mine  met ; 
He  calls  to  mind  his  strength,  and  then  his  speed, 
His  winged  heeles,  and  then  his  armed  head  ; 
With  these  f  avoyd,  with  that  his  Fate  to  meet : 
But  feare  prevails,  and  bids  him  tmst  his  feet. 
So  fast  he  flyes,  that  his  reviewing  eye 
Has  lost  the  chasers,  and  his  eare  the  cry  ; 
Exulting,  till  he  finds,  their  Nobler  sense 
Their  disproportion' d  speed  does  recompense. 
Then  curses  his  conspiring  feet,  whose  scent 
Betrayes  that  safety  which  their  swiftnesse  lent. 
Then  tryes  his  friends,  among  the  baser  heard. 
Where  he  so  lately  was  obey'd,  and  fear'd, 


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72  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

His  safety  seeks  :  the  heard,  unkindly  wise, 

Or  chases  him  from  thence,  or  from  him  flyes. 

Like  a  declining  Statesman,  left  forlome 

To  his  friends  pitty,  and  pursuers  scorne, 

With  shame  remembers,  while  himselfe  was  one 

Of  the  same  heard,  himselfe  the  same  had  done. 

Thence  to  the  coverts,  and  the  conscious  Groves, 

The  scenes  of  his  past  triumphs,  and  his  loves  ; 

Sadly  surveying  where  he  ranged  alone 

Prince  of  the  soyle,  and  all  the  heard  his  owne  ; 

And  like  a  bold  Knight  Errant  did  proclaime 

Combat  to  all,  and  bore  away  the  Dame  ; 

And  taught  the  woods  to  eccho  to  the  streame 

His  dreadful!  challenge,  and  his  clashing  beame.^ 

Yet  faintly  now  declines  the  fatall  strife  ; 

So  much  his  love  was  dearer  then  his  life. 

Now  every  leafe,  and  every  moving  breath 

Presents  a  foe,  and  every  foe  a  death. 

Wearied,  forsaken,  and  pursu'd,  at  last 

All  safety  in  despaire  of  safety  plac'd. 

Courage  he  thence  resumes,  resolv'd  to  beare 

All  their  assaults,  since  'tis  in  vaine  to  feare. 

And  now  too  late  he  wishes  for  the  fight 

That  strength  he  wasted  in  Ignoble  flight : 

But  when  he  sees  the  eager  chase  renewed, 

Himselfe  by  doggs,  the  doggs  by  men  pursu'd  : 

He  straight  revokes  his  bold  resolve,  and  more 

Repents  his  courage,  then  his  feare  before  ; 

Finds  that  uncertaine  waies  unsafest  are. 

And  Doubt  a  greater  mischiefe  then  Despaire. 

Then  to  the  streame,  when  neither  friends,  nor  force, 

Nor  speed,  nor  Art  availe,  he  shapes  his  course  ; 

Thinks  not  their  rage  so  desperate  t'  assay. 

An  Element  more  mercilesse  then  they. 

But  feareless  they  pursue,  nor  can  the  flood 

Quench  their  dire  thirst ;  alas,  they  thirst  for  blood. 

So  towards  a  Ship  the  oarefin'd  Gallyes  ply. 

Which  wanting  Sea  to  ride,  or  wind  to  fly. 

Stands  but  to  fall  reveng'd  on  those  that  dare 

Tempt  the  last  fury  of  extreame  despayre. 

So  fares  the  Stagg  among  th'  inraged  hounds, 

Repells  their  force,  and  wounds  returns  for  wounds. 

And  as  a  Hero,  whom  his  baser  foes 

In  troops  surround,  now  these  assailes,  now  those, 

Though  prodigall  of  life,  disdaines  to  dy 

By  common  hands  ;  but  if  he  can  descr>' 

Some  nobler  foes  approach,  to  him  he  calls, 


head  of  horns. 


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SPORTING  EXTRACTS  73 

And  beggs  his  Fate,  and  then  contented  falls. 
So  when  the  King  a  mortall  shaft  lets  fly 
From  his  unerring  hand,  then  glad  to  dy, 
Proud  of  the  wound,  to  it  resigns  his  blood, 
And  Staines  the  Chrystall  with  a  Purple  flood. 

Coopers  Hill.     Written  in  the  yeare  1640.     Now  Printed  from  a  perfect  Copy  ; 
And  Corrected  Impression.     By  John  Denham,  Esq.,  1655. 

From   '  The   Falcon ' 

Fair  Princesse  of  the  spacious  Air, 

That  hast  vouchsaf  d  acquaintance  here, 

With  us  are  quartered  below  stairs. 

That  can  reach  Heav'n  with  nought  but  Prayers  ; 

Who  when  our  activist  wings  we  try. 

Advance  a  foot  into  the  Sky. 

Bright  Heir  t'  th'  Bird  Imperial, 
From  whose  avenging  penons  fall 
Thunder  and  Lightning  twisted  Spun  ; 
Brave  Cousin-german  to  the  Sun, 
That  didst  forsake  thy  Throne  and  Sphere, 
To  be  an  humble  Pris*ner  here  ; 
And  for  a  pirch  of  her  soft  hand. 
Resign  the  Royal  Woods  command. 

How  often  would'st  thou  shoot  Heav'ns  Ark, 
Then  mount  thy  self  into  a  Lark  ; 
And  after  our  short  faint  eyes  call. 
When  now  a  Fly,  now  nought  at  all ; 
Then  stoop  so  swift  unto  our  Sence, 
As  thouwert  sent  Intelligence. 

Free  beauteous  Slave,  thy  happy  feet 
In  silver  Fetters  vervails  ^  meet. 
And  trample  on  that  noble  Wrist 
The  Gods  have  kneePd  in  vain  t'  have  kist : 
But  gaze  not,  bold  deceived  Spye, 
Too  much  oth'  lustre  of  her  Eye  ; 
The  Sun,  thou  dost  out-stare,  alas  ! 
Winks  at  the  glor>'  of  her  Face. 

Be  safe  then  in  thy  Velvet  helm. 
Her  looks  are  calms  that  do  ore  whelm, 
Then  the  Arabian  bird  more  blest, 
Chafe  in  the  spicery  of  her  breast, 
And  loose  you  in  her  Breath,  a  wind 
Sow'rs  the  delicious  gales  of  Inde, 

^  rings  on  a  hawk's  feet. 

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74  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

But  now  a  quill  from  thine  own  Wing 
I  pluck,  thy  lofty  fate  to  sing  ; 
Whilst  we  behold  the  various  fight, 
With  mingled  pleasure  and  affright, 
The  humbler  Hinds  do  fall  to  pray*r, 
As  when  an  Army's  seen  i'  th'  Air 
And  the  prophetick  Spannels  run, 
And  howle  thy  Epicedium. 

The  Heron  mounted  doth  appear 
On  his  own  Peg*sus  a  Lanceer, 
And  seems  on  earth,  when  he  doth  hut, 
A  proper  Halberdier  on  foot ; 
Secure  i*  th'  Moore,  about  to  sup. 
The  Dogs  have  beat  his  Quarters  up 

And  now  he  takes  the  open  air, 
Drawes  up  his  Wings  with  Tactick  care  ; 
Whilst  th'  expert  Falcon  swift  doth  climbe, 
In  subtle  Mazes  serpentine  ; 
And  to  advantage  closely  twin'd 
She  gets  the  upper  Sky  and  Wind, 
Where  she  dissembles  to  invade, 
And  lies  a  pol'tick  Ambuscade. 

The  hedg'd-in  Heron^  whom  the  Foe 
Awaits  above,  and  Dogs  below, 
In  his  fortification  lies, 
And  makes  him  ready  for  surprize  ; 
When  roused  with  a  shrill  alarm, 
Was  shouted  from  beneath,  they  arm. 

The  Falcon  charges  at  first  view 
With  her  brigade  of  Talons  ;  through 
W^hose  Shoots,  the  wary  Heron  beat. 
With  a  well  counterwheel'd  retreat. 
But  the  bold  Gen'ral  never  lost. 
Hath  won  again  her  airy  Post ; 
Who  wild  in  this  affront,  now  fryes, 
Then  gives  a  Volley  of  her  Eyes. 

The  desp'rate  Heron  now  contracts. 
In  one  design  all  former  facts  ; 
Noble  he  is  resolv'd  to  fall 
His,  and  his  En'mies  funerall, 
And  (to  be  rid  of  her)  to  dy 
A  publick  Martyr  of  the  Sky. 

When  now  he  turns  his  last  to  wreak 
The  palizadoes  of  his  Beak  ; 
The  raging  foe  impatient 
Wrack'd  .with  revenge,  and  fury  rent, 


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SPORTING  EXTRACTS 

Swift  as  the  Thunderbolt  he  strikes, 
Too  sure  upon  the  stand  of  Pikes, 
There  she  his  naked  breast  doth  hit 
And  on  the  case  of  Rapiers*  split. 

But  ev'n  in  her  expiring  pangs 
The  Herofis  pounc'd  within  her  Phangs, 
And  so  above  she  stoops  to  rise 
A  Trophee  and  a  Sacnfice  ; 
Whilst  her  own  Bells  in  the  sad  fall 
Ring  out  the  double  Funerall. 


75 


Ah  Victory  !  unhap'ly  wonne, 
Weeping  and  Red  is  set  the  Sun, 
Whilst  the  whole  Field  floats  in  one  tear, 
And  all  the  Air  doth  mourning  wear  : 
Close  hooded  all  thy  kindred  come 
To  pay  their  Vows  upon  thy  Tombe  ; 
The  Hobby  and  the  Musket  too. 
Do  march  to  take  their  last  adieu. 

The  Lanner  and  the  Lanneret^ 
Thy  Colours  bear  as  Banneret ; 
The  Goshawk  and  her  Tercel  rows'd, 
With  Tears  attend  thee  as  new  bows'd, 
All  these  are  in  their  dark  array 
Led  by  the  various  Herald-Jay, 


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76  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

But  thy  eternal  name  shall  live 
Whilst  Quills  from  Ashes  fame  reprieve, 
Whilst  open  stands  Renown's  wide  dore, 
And  Wings  are  left  on  which  to  soar  ; 
Doctor  Robbifiy  the  Prelate  Pye^ 
And  the  poetick  Swan  shall  dye, 
Only  to  sing  thy  Elegie. 

Richard  Ix)Velace,  Lucasia,  1659. 

A  Horrible,  Terrible,  Troublesome, 
Historical  Narration  of  a  Duel  ; 

OR,  THE  RELATION  OF  A  COCK-FIGHT  FOUGHT  AT  WISBICH 

Into  the  Pit  they're  brought,  and  being  there 
Upon  the  Stage,  the  Norfolk  Chantidere 
Looks  stoutly  at  his  ne're-before-seen  Foe,  . 
And,  like  a  Challenger^  began  to  crow 
And  clap  his  wings,  as  if  he  would  display 
His  war-like  Colours^  which  were  black  and  gray. 

Mean  time  the  wary  Wisbich  walks  and  breaths 
His  active  body,  and  in  fury  wreaths 
His  comely  CREST,  and,  often  looking  down, 
He  beats  his  angry  Beak  upon  the  ground. 
This  done  they  meet :  not  Hke  that  Coward  breed 
Of  ^sofs  ;  these  can  better  fight  than  feed. 
They  scorn  the  Dunghill ;  'tis  their  onely  prize 
To  dig  for  Pearls  within  each  others  eyes. 
They  fought  so  nimbly  that  'twas  hard  to  know, 
To  th'  skilfull,  whether  they  did  fight  or  no  ; 
If  that  the  bloud  which  died  the  fatal  floor. 
Had  not  bom  witness  oft.     Yet  fought  they  more  ; 
As  if  each  wound  were  but  a  Spur  to  prick 
Their  fur>^  forward.     Lightning's  not  more  quick 
Or  red,  than  were  their  eyes.     'Twas  hard  to  know 
Whether  'twas  bloud  or  anger  made  them  so  : 


But  now  the  Tragick part !    After  this  fit 
When  Norfolk  Cock  had  got  the  best  of  it. 
And  Wisbich  lay  a  dying,  so  that  none, 
Though  sober,  but  might  venture  seven  to  one. 
Contracting,  like  a  dying  Taper^  all 
His  strength,  intendmg  with  the  blow  to  fall. 
He  struggles  up,  and  having  taken  wind. 
Ventures  a  blow,  and  strikes  the  other  blind. 
And  xio^  poor  Norfolk,  having  lost  his  eyes 


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SPORTING  EXTRACTS 

Fights  guided  onely  by  Antipathies 

With  him,  alas  !  the  Proverb  is  not  true, 

The  blowes  his  eyes  n^re  saw^  his  heart  must  rue. 

At  last  by  chance  he  stumbling  on  his  Foe, 

Not  having  any  strength  to  give  a  blow, 

He  falls  upon  him  with  his  wounded  head. 

And  makes  his  Conqueror's  wings  his  feather-bed. 


From  '  The  Genteel  Recreation ' 


Then  sometime  in  a  dusky  evening  late  ; 
A  grey  Snail  from  the  ground  I  take, 
And  gently  o'r  the  stream  I  troul. 
Tis  safe,  'tis  sure  to  try  with  all, 

If  but  some  Rain  the  day  before  did  fall. 
For  Muddy  streams  a  little  vext, 
With  falling  showers  decoy  him  best  : 


n 


i66o. 


Or,  to  take  a  Beetle  always  brown. 
That  Boys  from  off  the  Apple-Trees  knock  down, 
WTiich  in  an  Evening  late  when  all  the  Stars, 

To  Heavens  black  Cannopy  withdraws. 

You  may  be  sure  good  sport  to  find, 
If  but  the  following  precepts  well  you  mind. 


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78  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

Four  Wings  he  has,  two  scaly,  two  of  softest  down 

But  with  his  tail  your  largest  hook  encrown  ; 

Ne'r  hurt  him,  all  his  Wings  he  will  expand. 

And  Sing  a  Murmuring  Tune  the  Trouts  can  understand, 

Who  greedy  of  so  sweet  a  prey, 
Leap  straight  and  bear  the  Songster  quite  away. 
When  with  a  sudden  touch  I  feel  him  rove, 
I  soon  injoy  my  wishes  and  my  Love, 
Try  this  but  once,  you'll  quickly  find  it  true. 
And  neatly  after  this  same  slight  *  persue. 
But  let  no  noise  the  wary  Trout  offend, 
By  stiring  ground  or  reeds,  lest  vain  your  wishes  end. 

No  sooner  was  compleat  my  Fishing  Geer, 
But  that  I  chanc'd  to  spie  unto  me  steer. 

Two  Carps  that  were  of  mighty  size. 
My  heart  e'n  leapt  to  make  of  one  a  prize  ; 
As  they  came  Sailing  careless  on  their  way, 
A  well  scour'd  worm  I  in  their  course  convay. 

The  water  there  not  two  foot  deep. 
Besides  so  clear, 
That  all  their  motions  plainly  did  appear, 
Behind  a  shady  Oak  conceal' d  I  stood, 
And  with  a  wary  eye  observ'd  the  flood. 

And  all  their  motions  as  they  mov'd. 
Thus  while  they  nearer  drew. 
My  hopes  I  still  renew, 
They'd  nible  at  my  bait, 
Tho  after  curse  me  for  my  sly  deceit ; 
And  quickly  plainly  cou'd  descry. 
That  one  had  something  pleasing  to  his  eye. 
He  seem'd  to  smile  and  with  expanded  Jaws, 
Hug'd  his  good  luck  and  silent  gave  Applause. 
Till  with  a  gentle  touch  I  hooked  him  streight. 
While  he  stood  wondring  whence  should  come  deceit, 
Under  the  Luster  of  so  fair  a  bait ; 

He  never  seem'd,  or  scom'd  to  run. 
But  with  a  sudden  yerk  his  tail  did  turn. 
And  then  as  suddenly  my  Joys  were  gone, 

For  my  new  strand  gave  way  and  broke, 

But  what's  become  of  worm  and  hook, 

For  both  I'm  sure  he  fairly  took. 
Vext,  no,  we  Anglers  often  loose  our  prize, 
Compleat  let  all  our  Tackling  be,  and  most  precise. 
For  Fishes  prove  sometimes  more  wise  than  we, 
As  by  this  late  ensample  all  may  see. 


1  feint. 

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SPORTING  EXTRACTS  79 

*Tis  pity  for  to  part  the  Carp  and  he, 
Since  muddy  Ponds  with  both  do  well  agree  ; 
One  bait  doth  both  delight, 
A  worm  thaf  s  red  and  bright, 

Excells  a  Thousand  trifling  things, 
That  bungling  Anglers  to  small  purpose  brings. 
To  scare  the  Fish  away  : 

Both  yield  sweet  pleasure,  both  delight, 

Tho  both  contrary  ways  do  bite. 
And  also  play, 
Carps  eager  gape  and  draw  the  flote  downright, 
Then  when  he's  hung  he  runs  with  all  his  might 

Nor  water  beats  he  with  his  tail. 

Till  life  and  strength  together  fail ; 
The  Tench  he  only  gently  sucks  the  worm, 
And  several  ways  the  floting  flote  will  turn, 
Until  the  hook  within  his  Jaws  doth  lie. 
Angler  forbear,  for  that  once  done  to  th'  reeds  he'll  ply, 
Thinking  his  prey  for  to  secure  and  speedy  dye. 
One  gentle  touch  he'll  beat  the  water  with  his  tail, 
Imploring  help,  no  help  can  then  prevail. 


Soon  from  the  River  then  withdraw, 
Unto  some  Farm,  and  turn  the  rotten  straw.  • 
For  IVonns,  a  Ruby  head  and  body  white. 
Are  certain  signs  the  Roach  at  them  will  bite. 
Get  but  a  few,  you  need  no  more  to  fear. 
But  you'll  have  sport  if  any  Roach  are  there, 
1  seldom  find  them  at  this  bait  precise  ; 
And  some  I've  ta'en  with  other  Fishes  eyes. 

One  time  my  baits  were  spent, 

I  thoughtfull  was  for  more. 
When  Fortune  favoured  my  Intent, 

And  soon  suppl/d  my  store  ; 
A  sudden  fancy  in  my  Nodle  came, 

Which  I  resolved  then  to  try, 
Do  you  but  make  experience  of  the  same. 

You  may  succeed  as  well  as  I, 
The  Glaring  Oculus,  great  Loves  misterious  bait, 
That  leads  the  World  in  errour,  Topsy  turns  a  state, 
Which  Monarch's  more  adore,  and  brighter  shines. 
Then  all  the  Glittering  stones  adorn  their  Diadems  : 
This  was  my  fancy,  and  I  well  may  say. 
Eyes  were  my  Guide  the  Fishes  to  betray, 
For  some  I  Xodk^Jove  pardon  my  Intent, 
To  make  the  blind  decoy  the  Innocent  ; 
Wonder  no  more,  'tis  certain  true  and  just, 
Necessity  begot  Invention  first. 


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If  but  one  Inch,  or  rather  on  the  ground, 
Your  Bradling  tail,  as  you  the  water  sound  ; 
For  he'll  ne'er  rise,  try  all  the  Art  you  can, 
To  take  a  bait  that's  from  the  ground  a  span. 

A  BrcuUingy  that  his  chiefest  Love, 

A  Genthy  sometimes  will  him  move. 
So  will  the  Straw-worm^  from  his  house  drawn  clear, 
Shew  you  the  pleasure  that  in  Rivers  are. 
A  pliant  Rod, 
No  sturdy  Goad, 


That  Rustick  People  use. 

Gives  more  delight, 

When  Gudgeons  bite. 
Then  all  their  vain  Ostentious  shews. 

A  Hook  that's  fine. 

And  Taper  Line, 
Two  or  three  hairs  below. 

May  well  suffice, 

Unto  the  wise, 
When  they  to  Angling  go. 

The  Genteel  Recreation,  or.  The  Pleasure  of  Angling.    A  Poem  with  a  Dialogue 
Between  Piscator  and  Corydon.     By  John  Whitney  a  lover  of  the  Angle. 

1700. 


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SPORTING  EXTRACTS  8i 

From  '  Epistle  the  Thirteenth  ' 

TO   MY  HONOURED   KINSMAN^  JOHN   DRYDEN,   .   .   . 

.  .  .  With  crowds  attended  of  your  ancient  race, 
You  seek  the  champion  ^  sports,  or  sylvan  chace  : 
With  well-breath'd  beagles  you  surround  the  wood, 
Ev'n  then,  industrious  of  the  common  good  : 
And  often  have  you  brought  the  wily  fox 
To  suffer  for  the  firstlings  of  the  flocks  ; 
Chas'd  even  amid  the  folds  ;  and  made  to  bleed. 
Like  felons,  where  they  did  the  murd'rous  deed. 
This  fiery  game  your  active  youth  maintained  ; 
Not  yet  by  years  extinguish'd,  tho  restrain'd  : 
You  season  still  with  sports  your  serious  hours  : 
For  age  but  tastes  of  pleasures,  youth  devours. 
The  hare  in  pastures  or  in  plains  is  founds 
Emblem  of  human  life,  who  runs  the  round  ; 
And,  after  all  his  wand'ring  ways  are  done. 
His  circle  fills,  and  ends  where  he  begun, 
Just  as  the  setting  meets  the  rising  sun. 

Thus  princes  ease  their  cares  ;  but  happier  he, 
Who  seeks  not  pleasure  thro  necessity, 
Than  such  as  once  on  slipp'ry  thrones  were  plac'd  ; 
And  chasing,  sigh  to  think  themselves  are  chas'd. 

So  liv'd  our  sires,  ere  doctors  leam'd  to  kill, 
And  multiply'd  with  theirs  the  weekly  bill. 
The  first  physicians  by  debauch  were  made  : 
Excess  began,  and  sloth  sustains  the  trade. 
Pity  the  genVous  kind  their  cares  bestow 
To  search  forbidden  truths  ;  (a  sin  to  know  :) 
To  which  if  human  science  could  attain. 
The  doom  of  death,  pronounc'd  by  God,  were  vain. 
In  vain  the  leech  would  interpose  delay  ; 
Fate  fastens  first,  and  vindicates  the  prey. 
What  help  from  art's  endeavors  can  we  have  1 
Gibbons  but  guesses,  nor  is  sure  to  save  : 
But  Maurus  sweeps  whole  parishes,  and  peoples  ev'r>'  grave 
And  no  more  mercy  to  mankind  will  use. 
Than  when  he  robb'd  and  murdered  Maro's  muse. 
Would'st  thou  be  soon  dispatch'd,  and  perish  whole, 
Trust  Maurus  with  thy  life,  and  Milbourn  with  thy  soul. 

By  chace  our  long-liv'd  fathers  eam'd  their  food  ; 
Toil  strung  the  nerves,  and  purify'd  the  blood  : 
But  we  their  sons,  a  pamper'd  race  of  men. 
Are  dwindled  down  to  threescore  years  and  ten. 

*  open  country. 

G 

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Better  to  hunt  in  fields,  for  health  unbought. 
Than  fee  the  doctor  for  a  nauseous  draught. 
The  wise,  for  cure,  on  exercise  depend  ; 
God  never  made  his  work,  for  man  to  mend. 

The  Miscellaneous  Works  of  John  Dryden,  1760. 


From  '  Health  ;   an  Eclogue  ' 

.  .  .  Come,  country  Goddess,  come  ;  nor  thou  suffice, 
iJut  bring  thy  mountain-sister,  Exercise. 
Call'd  by  thy  lively  voice,  she  turns  her  pace, 
Her  winding  horn  proclaims  the  finish'd  chace  ; 
She  mounts  the  rocks,  she  skims  the  level  plain, 
Dogs,  hawks,  and  horses,  crowd  her  early  train  : 


Her  hardy  face  repels  the  tanning  wind. 
And  lines  and  meshes  loosely  float  behind. 
All  these  as  means  of  toil  the  feeble  see. 
But  these  are  helps  to  pleasure  joined  with  thee. 
Let  Sloth  lye  soft'ning  till  high  noon  in  down. 
Or  lolling  fan  her  in  the  sult'ry  town, 


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SPORTJNG  EXTRACTS  83 

Unnerv'd  with  rest ;  and  turn  her  own  disease, 

Or  foster  others  in  luxurious  ease  : 

I  mount  the  courser,  call  the  deep-mouth'd  hounds. 

The  fox  unkeneird  flies  to  covert  grounds  ; 

I  lead  where  stags  thro'  tangled  thickets  tread, 

And  shake  the  saplings  with  their  branching  head  ; 

I  make  the  faulcons  wing  their  airy  way, 

And  soar  to  seize,  or  stooping  strike  their  prey  ; 

To  snare  the  fish  I  fix  the  luring  bait ; 

To  wound  the  fowl  I  load  the  gun  with  fate. 

'Tis  thus  thro'  change  of  exercise  I  range, 

And  strength  and  pleasure  rise  from  ev'ry  change.  .  .  . 

The  Works,  in  Verse  and  Prose,  of  Dr.  Thomas  P Amelia  1767. 


From  *  Henry  and  Emma ' 

A  Poem  upon  the  Model  of  the  '' Nut- Brown  Maid^ 

TO   CLOE 

.  .  .  When  Emma  hunts,  in  huntsman's  habit  drest, 
Henry  on  foot  pursues  the  bounding  beast. 
In  his  right  hand  his  beechen  pole  he  bears  : 
And  graceful  at  his  side  his  horn  he  wears. 
Still  to  the  glade,  where  she  has  bent  her  way, 
With  knowing  skill  he  drives  the  future  prey  ; 
Bids  her  decline  the  hill,  and  shun  the  brake  ; 
And  shews  the  path  her  steed  may  safest  take ; 
Directs  her  spear  to  fix  the  glorious  wound  ; 
Pleas'd  in  his  toils  to  have  her  triumph  crown'd  ; 
And  blows  her  praises  in  no  common  sound. 
A  falconer  Henry  is,  when  Emma  hawks  : 
With  her  of  tarsels  and  of  lures  he  talks. 
Upon  his  wrist  the  towering  merlin  stands, 
Practis'd  to  rise,  and  stoop  at  her  commands. 
And  when  superior  now  the  bird  has  flown. 
And  headlong  brought  the  tumbling  quarry  down  ; 
With  humble  reverence  he  accosts  the  fair. 
And  with  the  honour'd  feather  decks  her  hair. 
Yet  still,  as  from  the  sportive  field  she  goes. 
His  down-cast  eye  reveals  his  inward  woes  ; 
And  by  his  look  and  sorrow  is  exprest, 
A  nobler  game  pursued  thart  bird  or  beast.  .  .  . 

Poetical  Works  of  Matt  hero  Prior,  1779. 


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Selections  from  'The  Chace' 

*  My  hoarse-sounding  Horn 
Invites  thee  to  the  Chace,  the  Sport  of  Kings  ; 
Image  of  War,  without  its  Guilt.* 


HARE    HUNTING 

BOOK   II 

The  Horn  sonorous  calls  ;  the  Pack  awak'd 
Their  Mattins  chant,  nor  brook  my  long  Delay  : 
My  Courser  hears  their  Voice  ;  see  there  with  Ears 
And  Tail  erect,  neighing  he  paws  the  Ground  ! 
Fierce  Rapture  kindles  in  his  red'ning  Eyes, 
And  boils  in  ev'ry  Vein.     As  captive  Boys 
Cow'd  by  the  ruling  Rod,  and  haughty  Frowns 
Of  Pedagogues  severe,  from  their  hard  Tasks 
If  once  dismissed,  no  Limits  can  contain 
The  Tumult  rais'd,  within  their  little  Breasts 
But  give  a  Loose  to  all  their  frolick  Play. 
So  from  their  Kennel  rush  the  joyous  Pack  ; 
A  thousand  wanton  Gayeties  express 
Their  inward  Extasy,  their  pleasing  Sport 
Once  more  indulg'd,  and  Liberty  restoi-'d. 
The  rising  Sun  that  o'er  th'  Horizon  peeps. 
As  many  Colours  from  their  glossy  Skins 
Beaming  reflects,  as  paint  the  various  Bow 
When  April  Show'rs  descend.     Delightful  Scene  ! 
Where  all  around  is  gay,  Men,  Horses,  Dogs, 
And  in  each  smiling  Countenance  appears 
Fresh-blooming  Health,  and  universal  Joy. 

Huntsman,  lead  on  !  behind  the  clust'ring  Pack 
Submiss  attend,  hear  with  respect  thy  Whip 
Loud-clanging,  and  thy  harsher  Voice  obey  : 
Spare  not  the  stragling  Cur,  that  wildly  roves, 
But  let  thy  brisk  Assistant  on  his  Back 
Imprint  thy  just  Resentments,  let  each  Lash 
Bite  to  the  Quick,  'till  howling  he  return 
And  whining  creep  amid  the  trembling  Crowd. 

Here  on  this  verdant  Spot,  where  Nature  kind. 
With  double  Blessings  crowns  the  Farmer's  Hopes  ; 
Wher  Flow'rs  autumnal  Spring,  and  the  rank  Mead 
Affords  the  wand' ring  Hares  a  rich  Repast ; 
Throw  off  thy  ready  Pack.     See,  where  they  spread 
And  range  around,  and  dash  the  glitt'ring  Dew. 


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If  some  stanch  Hound,  with  his  authentick  Voice, 

Avow  the  recent  Trail,  the  justling  Tribe 

Attend  his  Call,  then  with  one  mutual  Cry, 

The  welcome  News  confirm,  and  echoing  Hills 

Repeat  the  pleasing  Tale.     See  how  they  thread 

The  Brakes,  and  up  yon  Furrow  drive  along  I 

But  quick  they  back  recoil,  and  wisely  check 

Their  eager  Haste  ;  then  o*er  the  fallowed  Ground 

How  leisurely  they  work,  and  many  a  Pause 

Th'  harmonious  Consort  breaks  ;  'till  more  assured 

With  Joy  redoubled  the  low  Vallies  ring. 

What  artful  Labyrinths  perplex  their  Way  ! 

Ah  !  there  she  lies  ;  how  close  !  she  pants,  she  doubts 

If  now  she  lives  ;  she  trembles  as  she  sits. 

With  Horror  seifd.     The  withered  Grass  that  clings 

Around  her  Head,  of  the  same  russet  Hue 

Almost  deceived  my  Sight,  had  not  her  Eyes 

With  Life  full-beaming  her  vain  Wiles  betra/d. 

At  Distance  draw  thy  Pack,  let  all  be  hush'd. 

No  Clamour  loud,  no  frantick  J[oy  be  heard. 

Lest  the  wild  Hound  run  gadding  o'er  the  Plain 

Untractable,  nor  hear  thy  chiding  Voice. 

Now  gently  put  her  off ;  see  how  direct 

To  her  known  Muse  *  she  flies  !     Here  Huntsman  bring 

(But  without  hurry)  all  thy  jolly  Hounds, 

And  calmly  lay  them  in.     How  low  they  stoop. 

And  seem  to  plough  the  Ground  !  then  all  at  once 

With  greedy  Nostrils  snuff  the  fuming  Steam 

That  glads  their  flutt'ring  Hearts.     As  Winds  let  loose 

From  the  dark  Caverns  of  the  blust'ring  God, 

They  burst  away,  and  sweep  the  dewy  Lawn. 

Hope  gives  them  Wings,  while  she's  spur'd  on  by  Fear. 

The  Welkin  rings,  Men,  Dogs,  Hills,  Rocks,  and  Woods 

In  the  full  Consort  join.     Now  my  brave  Youths, 

Stripp'd  for  the  Chace,  give  all  your  Souls  to  Joy  ! 

See  how  their  Coursers,  than  the  Mountain  Roe 

More  fleet,  the  verdant  Carpet  skim,  thick  Clouds 

Snorting  they  breath,  their  shining  Hoofs  scarce  print 

The  Grass  unbruis'd  ;  with  Emulation  fir'd 

They  strain  to  lead  the  Field,  top  the  barr'd  Gate, 

O'er  the  deep  Ditch  exulting  Bound,  and  brush 

The  thorny- twining  Hedge  :  The  Riders  bend 

O'er  their  arch'd  Necks  ;  with  steady  Hands,  by  turns 

Indulge  their  Speed,  or  moderate  their  Rage. 

Where  are  their  Sorrows,  Disappointments,  Wrongs, 

Vexations,  Sickness,  Cares  ?    AH,  all  are  gone. 

And  with  the  panting  Winds  lag  far  behind. 

'  gap  in  the  hedge. 

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Huntsman  !  her  Gate  observe,  if  in  wide  Rings 
She  wheel  her  mazy  Way,  in  the  same  Round 
Persisting  still,  she'll  foil  the  beaten  Track. 
But  if  she  fly,  and  with  the  fav'ring  Wind 
Urge  her  bold  Course  ;  less  intricate  thy  Task  : 
Push  on  thy  Pack.     Like  some  poor  exil'd  Wretch 
The  frighted  Chace  leaves  her  late  dear  Abodes, 
0*er  Plains  remote  she  stretches  far  away, 
Ah  !  never  to  return  !     For  greedy  Death 
Hov'ring  exults,  secure  to  seize  his  Prey. 

Hark  !  from  yon  Covert,  where  those  tow'ring  Oaks 
Above  the  humble  Copse  aspiring  rise, 
What  glorious  Triumphs  burst  in  ev'ry  Gale 
Upon  our  ravish'd  Ears  !     The  Hunters  shout, 
The  clanging  Horns  swell  their  sweet- winding  Notes, 
The  Pack  wide-op'ning  load  the  trembling  Air 
With  various  Melody  ;  from  Tree  to  Tree 
The  propagated  Cr>%  redoubling  Bounds, 
And  winged  Zephirs  waft  the  floating  Joy 
Thro'  all  the  regions  near  :  Afldictive  Birch 
No  more  the  School-boy  dreads,  his  Prison  broke, 
Scamp'ring  he  flies,  nor  heeds  his  Master's  Call. 
The  weary  Traveller  forgets  his  Road, 
And  climbs  th'  adjacent  Hill  ;  the  Ploughman  leaves 
Th'  unfinish'd  Furrow  ;  nor  his  bleating  Flocks 
Are  now  the  Shepherd's  Joy  ;  Men,  Boys,  and  Girls 
Desert  th'  unpeopled  Village  ;  and  wild  Crowds 
Spread  o'er  the  Plain,  by  the  sweet  Frenzy  seiz'd. 
Look,  how  she  pants  I  and  o'er  yon  op'ning  Glade 
Slips  glancing  by  ;  while  at  the  further  PInd, 
The  puzling  Pack  unravel  Wile  by  Wile 
Maze  within  Maze.     The  Covert's  utmost  Bound 
Slyly  she  skirts  ;  behind  them  cautious  creeps, 
And  in  that  very  Track,  so  lately  stain'd 
By  all  the  steaming  Crowd,  seems  to  pursue 
The  Foes  she  flies.     Let  Cavillers  deny 
That  Brutes  have  Reason  ;  sure  'tis  something  more, 
'Tis  Heav'n  directs,  and  Stratagems  inspires, 
Beyond  the  short  Extent  of  humane  Thought. 

But  hold I  see  her  from  the  Covert  break  ; 

Sad  on  yon  little  Eminence  she  sits  ; 

Intent  she  listens  with  one  Ear  erect, 

Pond'ring,  and  doubtful  what  new  Course  to  take. 

And  how  t'  escape  the  fierce  blood-thirsty  Crew, 

That  still  urge  on,  and  still  in  Vollies  loud. 

Insult  her  Woes,  and  mock  her  sore  Distress. 

As  now  in  louder  Peals,  the  loaded  Winds 

Bring  on  the  gath'ring  Storm,  her  Fears  prevail  ; 

And  o'er  the  Plain,  and  o'er  the  Mountain's  Ridgcp^^^T^ 

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Away  she  flies  ;  nor  Ships  with  Wind  and  Tide, 
And  all  their  Canvass  Wings  skud  half  so  fast. 
Once  more,  ye  jovial  Train,  your  Courage  try. 
And  each  clean  Courser's  Speed.     We  scour  along, 
In  pleasing  Hurry  and  Confusion  tost ; 
Oblivion  to  be  wish'd.     The  patient  Pack 
Hang  on  the  Scent  unwear/d,  up  they  climb, 
And  ardent  we  pursue  ;  our  lab'ring  Steeds 
We  press,  we  gore  ;  till  once  the  Summit  gain'd. 
Painfully  panting,  there  we  breath  awhile  ; 
Then  like  a  foaming  Torrent,  pouring  down 
Precipitant,  we  smoke  along  the  Vale. 


Happy  the  Man,  who  with  unrival'd  Speed 
Can  pass  his  Fellows,  and  with  Pleasure  view 
The  struggling  Pack  ;  how  in  the  rapid  Course 
Alternate  they  preside,  and  justling  push 
To  guide  the  dubious  Scent ;  how  giddy  Youth 
Olt  babbling  errs,  by  wiser  Age  reprov'd  ; 
How  nigard  of  his  Strength,  the  wise  old  Hound 
Hangs  in  the  Rear,  'till  some  important  Point 
Rouse  all  his  Diligence,  or  'till  the  Chace 
Sinking  he  finds  ;  then  to  the  Head  he  springs 
With  Thirst  of  Glory  fir'd,  and  wins  the  Prize. 
Huntsman,  take  heed  ;  they  stop  in  full  career. 
Yon  crowding  F'locks,  that  at  a  Distance  gaze, 

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88  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

Have  haply  foird  the  Turf.     See  !  that  old  Hound, 
How  busily  he  works,  but  dares  not  trust 
His  doubtful  Sense  ;  draw  yet  a  wider  Ring. 
Hark  !  now  again  the  Chorus  fills.     As  Bells 
Sall/d  a  while  at  once  their  Peal  renew. 
And  high  in  Air  the  tuneful  Thunder  rolls. 
See,  how  they  toss,  with  animated  Rage 

Recov'ring  all  they  lost  ! That  eager  Haste 

Some  doubling  Wile  foreshews. Ah  I  yet  once  more 

They're  checked, — hold  back  with  Speed — on  either  Hand 

They  flourish  round— ev'n  yet  persist — ^'Tis  Right, 

Away  they  Spring  ;  the  rustling  Stubbles  bend 

Beneath  the  driving  Storm.     Now  the  poor  Chace 

Begins  to  flag,  to  her  last  Shifts  reduc'd. 

From  Brake  to  Brake  she  flies,  and  visits  all 

Her  well-known  Haunts,  where  once  she  rang'd  secure. 

With  Love  and  Plenty  blest.     See  !  there  she  goes, 

She  reels  along,  and  by  her  (iate  betrays 

Her  inward  Weakness.     See,  how  black  she  looks  ! 

The  Sweat  that  clogs  th'  obstructed  Pores,  scarce  leaves 

A  languid  Scent.     And  now  in  open  View 

See,  see,  she  flies  !  each  eager  Hound  exerts 

His  utmost  Speed,  and  stretches  ev'ry  Nerve 

How  quick  she  turns  !     Their  gaping  Jaws  eludes. 

And  yet  a  Moment  lives  ;  'till  round  inclos'd 

By  all  the  greedy  Pack,  with  infant  Screams 

She  yields  her  Breath,  and  there  reluctant  dies. 

FOX    HUNTING 

BOOK   III 

For  these  nocturnal  Thieves,  Huntsman,  prepare 
Thy  sharpest  Vengeance.     Oh  I  how  glorious  'tis 
To  right  th'  oppress'd,  and  bring  the  Felon  vile 
To  just  Disgrace  !     f2'er  yet  the  Morning  peep. 
Or  Stars  retire  from  the  first  Blush  of  Day, 
With  thy  far-ecchoing  Voice  alarm  thy  Pack, 
And  rouse  thy  bold  Compeers.     Then  to  the  Copse, 
Thick  with  entangling  (irass,  or  prickly  Furze 
With  Silence  lead  thy  many-colour'd  Hounds 
In  all  their  Beauty's  Pride.     See  !  how  they  range 
Dispersed,  how  busily  this  W^ay  and  that, 
They  cross,  examining  with  curious  Noise 
Each  likely  Haunt.     Hark  I  on  the  Drag  I  hear 
Their  doubtful  Notes,  preluding  to  a  Cr>' 
More  nobly  full,  and  swell'd  with  ev'ry  Mouth. 
As  stragling  Armies,  at  the  Trumpet's  Voice, 
Press  to  their  Standard  ;  hither  all  repair. 


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SPORTING  EXTRACTS  89 

And  huiT>'  thro'  the  Woods  ;  with  hasty  Step 
Rustling,  and  full  of  Hope  ;  now  driv'n  on  Heaps 
They  push,  they  strive  ;  While  from  his  Kennel  sneaks 
The  conscious  Villain.     See  !  he  skulks  along, 
Slick  at  the  Shepherd's  Cost,  and  plump  with  Meals 
Purloin'd.     So  thrive  the  Wicked  here  below. 
Tho'  high  his  Brush  he  bear,  tho'  tipt  with  white 
It  gayly  shine  ;  yet  e're  the  Sun  declin'd 
Recall  the  Shades  of  Night,  the  pamper'd  Rogue 
Shall  rue  his  Fate  revers'd  ;  and  at  his  Heels 
Behold  the  just  Avenger,  swift  to  seize 
His  forfeit  Head,  and  thirsting  for  his  Blood. 

Heavens  !  what  melodious  Strains  !  how  beat  our  Hearts 
Big  with  tumultuous  Joy  !  the  loaded  Gales 
Breath  Harmony  ;  and  as  the  Tempest  drives 
From  Wood  to  Wood,  thro'  ev'ry  dark  Recess 
The  Forest  thunders,  and  the  Mountains  shake. 
The  Chorus  swells  ;  less  various,  and  less  sweet 
The  trilling  Notes,  when  in  those  very  Groves, 
The  feather'd  Choristers  salute  the  Spring, 
And  ev'ry  Bush  in  Consort  joins  ;  or  when 
The  Master's  Hand,  in  modulated  Air, 
Bids  the  loud  Organ  breath,  and  all  the  Pow'rs 
Of  Musick  in  one  Instrument  combine. 
An  universal  Minstrelsy.     And  now 
In  vain  each  Earth  he  tries,  the  Doors  are  barr'd 
Impregnable,  nor  is  the  Covert  safe  ; 
He  pants  the  purer  Air.     Hark  !  what  loud  Shouts 
Re-eccho  thro'  the  Groves  !  he  breaks  away, 
Shrill  Horns  proclaim  his  Flight.     Each  stragling  Hound 
Strains  o'er  the  Lawn  to  reach  the  distant  Pack. 
Tis  Triumph  all  and  Joy.     Now,  my  brave  Youths, 
Now  give  a  Loose  to  the  clean  gen'rous  Steed  , 
Flourish  the  Whip,  nor  spare  the  galling  Spur  ; 
But  in  the  Madness  of  Delight,  forget 
Your  Fears.     Far  o'er  the  rocky  Hills  we  range, 
And  dangerous  our  Course  ;  but  in  the  Brave 
True  Courage  never  fails.     In  vain  the  Stream 
In  foaming  Eddies  whirls  ;  in  vain  the  Ditch 
Wide-gaping  threatens  Death.     The  craggy  Steep, 
Where  the  poor  dizzy  Shepherd  crawls  with  Care, 
And  clings  to  ev'ry  Twig,  gives  us  no  Pain  ; 
But  down  we  sweep,  as  stoops  the  Falcon  bold 
To  pounce  his  Prey.     Then  up  th'  opponent  Hill, 
By  the  swift  Motion  slung,  we  mount  aloft. 
So  Ships  in  Winter-Seas  now  sliding  sink 
Adown  the  steepy  Wave  ;  then  toss'd  on  high 
Ride  on  the  Billows,  and  defy  the  Storm. 


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90 


THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 


What  Lengths  we  pass  !  where  will  the  wand'ring  Chace 
Lead  us  bewildered  I  smooth  as  Swallows  skim 
The  new-shorn  Mead,  and  far  more  swift  we  fly. 
See  my  brave  Pack !  how  to  the  Head  they  press, 
JustHng  in  close  Array,  then  more  diffuse 
Obliquelv  wheel,  while  from  their  opening  Mouths 
The  vollied  Thunder  breaks.     So  when  the  Cranes 
Their  annual  Voyage  steer,  with  wanton  Wing 
Their  Figure  oft  they  change,  and  their  loud  clang 
From  Cloud  to  Cloud  rebounds.     How  far  behind 
The  Hunter-Crew,  wide-stragling  o'er  the  Plain  ! 


Till    ti hin    ^ty    EATth  >  i«k*i i.    3u btd "    iHe^    fil* 


The  panting  Courser  now  with  trembling  Nerves 
Begins  to  reel ;  urg'd  by  the  goreing  Spur, 
Makes  many  a  faint  Effort  :  He  snorts,  he  foams  ; 
The  big  round  Drops  run  trickling  down  his  Sides,     ' 
With  Sweat  and  Blood  distain'd.     Look  back  and  view 
The  strange  Confusion  of  the  Vale  below. 
Where  sow'r  Vexation  reigns  ;  see,  yon  poor  Jade, 
In  vain  th'  impatient  Rider  frets  and  swears 
With  galling  Spurs  harrows  his  mangled  Sides  ; 
He  can  no  more :  His  stiff  unpliant  Limbs 
Rooted  in  Earth,  unmoved,  and  fix'd  he  stands, 
For  ev'ry  cruel  Curse  returns  a  Groan, 


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SPORTING  EXTRACTS  91 

And  sobs,  and  faints,  and  dies.     Who  without  Grief 

Can  view  that  pamper'd  Steed,  his  Master's  Joy, 

His  Minion,  and  his  daily  Care,  well  cloath'd, 

Well-fed  with  ev'ry  nicer  Cate  ;  no  Cost, 

No  Labour  spared  ;  who,  when  the  flying  Chace 

Broke  from  the  Copse,  without  a  Rival  led 

The  numerous  Train  :  Now  a  sad  Spectacle 

Of  Pride  brought  low,  and  humbled  Insolence, 

Drove  like  a  pannier'd  Ass,  and  scourg'd  along. 

While  these  with  loosen'd  Reins,  and  dangling  Heels, 

Hang  on  their  reeling  Palfreys,  that  scarce  bear 

Their  Weights  ;  another  in  the  treacherous  Bog 

Lies  flound  ring  half  ingulph  d.     What  biteing  Thoughts 

Torment  th'  abandoned  Crew  !  old  Age  lanients 

His  Vigour  spent :  The  tall,  plump,  brawny  Youth 

Curses  his  cumb'rous  Bulk  ;  and  envies  now 

The  short  Pygmean  Race,  he  whilom  kenn'd 

With  proud  insulting  Leer.     A  chosen  few 

Alone  the  Sport  enjoy,  nor  droop  beneath 

Their  pleasing  Toils.     Here,  Huntsman,  from  this  Height 

Observe  yon  Birds  of  Prey  ;  if  I  can  judge, 

'Tis  there  the  Villain  lurks  ;  they  hover  round 

And  claim  him  as  their  own.     Was  I  not  right } 

See  !  there  he  creeps  along  ;  his  Brush  he  drags, 

And  sweeps  the  Mire  impure ;  from  his  wide  Jaws 

His  Tongue  unmoisten'd  hangs  ;  Symptoms  too  sure 

Of  sudden  Death.     Hah  !  yet  he  flies,  nor  yields 

To  black  Despair.     But  one  Loose  more,  and  all 

His  Wiles  are  vain.     Hark  I  thro'  yon  Village  now 

The  rattling  Clamour  rings.     The  Barns,  the  Cots 

And  leafless  Elms  return  the  joyous  Sounds 

Thro'  ev^ry  Honiestall,  and  thro'  ev'ry  Yard, 

His  midnight  Walks,  panting,  forlorn,  he  flies  ; 

Thro'  ev'ry  Hole  he  sneaks,  thro'  ev'ry  Jakes 

Plunging  he  wades  besmear'd,  and  fondly  hopes 

In  a  superior  Stench  to  lose  his  own  : 

But  faithful  to  the  Track,  th'  unerring  Hounds 

With  Peals  of  ecchoing  Vengeance  close  pursue. 

And  now  distress'd,  no  shelt'ring  Covert  near 

Into  the  Hen-roost  creeps,  whose  Walls  with  Gore 

Distain'd  attest  his  Guilt.     There,  Villain,  there 

Expect  thy  Fate  dcserv'd.     And  soon  from  thence 

The  Pack  inquisitive,  with  Clamour  loud, 

Drag  out  their  trembling  Prize  ;  and  on  his  Blood 

With  greedy  Transport  feast.     In  bolder  Notes 

Each  sounding  Horn  proclaims  the  Felon  dead  : 

And  th'  assembled  Village  shouts  for  Joy. 

The  Farmer  who  beholds  his  mortal  Foe  c 

Stretch'd  at  his  Feet,  applauds  the  glorious  Deed, 


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92  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

And  grateful  calls  us  to  a  short  Repast : 
In  the  full  Glass  the  liquid  Amber  smiles, 
Our  native  Product.     And  his  good  old  Mate 
With  choicest  Viands,  heaps  the  HbVal  Board, 
To  crown  our  Triumphs,  and  reward  our  Toils. 


OTTER   HUNTING 

BOOK.  IV 

One  Labour  yet  remains,  celestial  Maid  ! 

Another  Element  demands  thy  Song. 

No  more  o'er  craggy  Steeps,  thro'  Coverts  thick 

With  pointed  Thorn,  and  Briers  intricate. 

Urge  on  with  Horn  and  Voice  the  painful  Pack  : 

But  skim  with  wanton  Wing  th'  irriguous  Vale, 

Where  winding  Streams  amid  the  flow'ry  Meads 

Perpetual  glide  along  ;  and  undermine 

The  cavern'd  Banks,  by  the  tenacious  Roots 

Of  hoary  Willows  arch'd  ;  gloomy  Retreat 

Of  the  bright  scaly  kind  ;  where  they  at  Will, 

On  the  green  wat'ry  Reed  their  Pasture  graze. 

Suck  the  moist  Soil,  or  slumber  at  their  Ease, 

Rock'd  by  the  restless  Brook,  that  draws  aslope 

Its  humid  Train,  and  laves  their  dark  Abodes. 

Where  rages  not  Oppression  ?     Where,  alas  ! 

Is  Innocence  secure  ?     Rapine  and  Spoil 

Haunt  ev'n  the  lowest  Deeps  ;  Seas  have  their  Shark 

Rivers  and  Ponds  inclos'd,  the  rav'nous  Pike  ; 

He  in  his  Turn  becomes  a  Prey  ;  on  him 

Th'  amphibious  Otter  feasts.     Just  is  his  Fate 

Deserv'd  :  But  Tyrants  know  no  Bounds  ;  nor  Spears 

That  bristle  on  his  Back,  defend  the  Perch 

From  his  wide  greedy  Jaws  ;  nor  burnish'd  Mail 

The  yellow  Carp  \  nor  all  his  .Arts  can  save 

Th'  insinuating  Eel,  that  hides  his  Head 

Beneath  the  slimy  Mud  ;  nor  yet  escapes 

The  crimson-spotted  Trout,  the  River's  Pride, 

And  Beauty  of  the  Stream.     Without  Remorse, 

This  midnight  Pillager  ranging  around. 

Insatiate  swallows  all.     The  Owner  mourns 

Th'  unpeopled  Rivulet,  and  gladly  hears 

The  Huntsman's  early  Call,  and  sees  with  Joy 

The  jovial  Crew,  that  march  upon  its  Banks 

In  gay  Parade,  with  bearded  Lances  arm'd. 

This  subtle  Spoiler  of  the  Beaver  kind, 
Far  off  perhaps,  where  ancient  Alders  shade 
The  deep  still  Pool  ;  within  some  hollow  Trunk 


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SPORTING  EXTRACTS  93 

Contrives  his  wicker  Couch  ;  Whence  he  surveys 
His  long  Purlieu,  Lord  of  the  Stream,  and  all 
The  finny  Shoals  his  own.     But  you,  brave  Youths, 
Dispute  the  Felon*s  Claim  ;  try  ev'ry  Root, 
And  ev'ry  reedy  Bank  ;  encourage  all 
The  busy-spreading  Pack,  that  fearless  plunge 
Into  the  Flood,  and  cross  the  rapid  Stream. 
Bid  Rocks,  and  Caves,  and  each  resounding  Shore, 
Proclaim  your  bold  Defiance  ;  loudly  raise 
Each  chearing  Voice,  'till  distant  Hills  repeat 
The  Triumphs  of  the  Vale.     On  the  soft  Sand 
See  there  his  Seal  impress'd  !  and  on  that  Bank 
Behold  the  glittVing  Spoils,  half-eaten  Fish, 
Scales,  Fins,  and  Bones,  the  Leavings  of  his  Feast 
Ah  !  on  that  yielding  Sag-bed,  see,  once  more, 
His  Seal  I  view.     O'er  yon  dank  rushy  Marsh 
The  sly  Goose-footed  Proler  bends  his  Course, 
And  seeks  the  distant  Shallows.     Huntsman,  bring 
Thy  eager  Pack  ;  and  trail  him  to  his  Couch. 
Hark  !  the  loud  Peal  begins,  the  clam'rous  Joy, 
The  gallant  Chiding,  loads  the  trembling  Air. 

Ye  Naiads  fair,  who  o'er  these  Floods  preside. 
Raise  up  your  dripping  Heads  above  the  Wave, 
And  hear  our  Melody.     Th'  harmonious  Notes 
Float  with  the  Stream  ;  and  ev'ry  winding  Creek 
And  hollow  Rock,  that  o'er  the  dimpling  Flood 
Nods  pendant  ;  still  improve  from  Shore  to  Shore 
Our  sweet  reiterated  Joys.     What  Shouts  ! 
What  Clamour  loud  !     What  gay  heart-chearing  Sounds 
Urge  thro'  the  breathing  Brass  their  mazy  Way  ! 
Not  Quires  of  Tritons  glad  with  sprightlier  Strains 
The  dancing  Billows  ;  when  proud  Neptune  rides 
In  Triumph  o'er  the  Deep.     How  greedily 
They  snuff  the  fishy  Steam,  that  to  each  Blide  ' 
Rank-scenting  Clings  !     See  !  how  the  Morning  Dews 
They  sweep,  that  from  their  Feet  besprinkling  drop 
Dispers'd,  and  leave  a  Track  oblique  behind. 
Now  on  firm  Land  they  range  ;  then  in  the  Flood 
They  plunge  tumultuous  ;  or  thro'  reedy  Pools 
Rustling  they  work  their  Way  ;  no  Holt  escapes 
Their  curious  Search.     With  quick  Sensation  now 
The  fuming  Vapour  stings  ;  flutter  their  Hearts, 
And  Joy  redoubled  bursts  from  ev'ry  Mouth, 
In  louder  Symphonies.     Yon  hollow  Trunk, 
That  with  its  hoary  Head  incurv'd,  salutes 
The  passing  Wave  ;  must  be  the  Tyrant's  Fort 
And  dread  abode.     How  these  impatient  climb, 

'  2nd  edit,  blade. 


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94  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

While  others  at  the  Root  incessant  Bay  : 
They  put  him  down.     See,  there  he  dives  along  I 
Th'  ascending  Bubbles  mark  his  gloomy  Way. 
Quick  fix  the  Nets,  and  cut  off  his  Retreat 
Into  the  shelt'ring  Deeps.     Ah,  there  he  Vents  ! 
The  Pack  plunge  headlong,  and  protended  Spears 
Menace  Destruction.     While  the  troubled  Surge 
Indignant  foams,  and  all  the  scaly  Kind 
Affrighted,  hide  their  Heads.     Wild  Tumult  reigns, 
And  loud  uproar.     Ah,  there  once  more  he  Vents  ! 
See,  that  bold  Hound  has  seiz'd  him  ;  down  they  sink, 


OTTER    JblVlTTrBi^C 


Together  lost  :  But  soon  shall  he  repent 

His  rash  Assault.     See,  there  escap'd,  he  flies 

Half  drown'd,  and  clambers  up  the  slipp'ry  Bank 

With  Ouze  and  Blood  distain'd.     Of  all  the  Brutes, 

Whether  by  Nature  fonn'd,  or  by  long  Use, 

This  artful  Diver  best  can  bear  the  Want 

Of  vital  Air.     Unequal  is  the  Fight, 

Beneath  the  whelming  Element.     Yet  there 

He  lives  not  long  ;  but  Respiration  needs 

At  proper  Intervals.     Again  he  vents  ; 

Again  the  Crowd  attack.     That  Spear  has  pierc'd 

His  Neck  ;  the  crimson  Waves  confess  the  Wound. 

Fix'd  is  the  bearded  Lance,  unwelcome  Guest, 


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SPORTING  EXTRACTS  95 

Whcrc-e'er  he  flies  ;  with  him  it  sinks  beneath. 

With  him  it  mounts  ;  sure  Guide  to  ev'ry  Foe. 

Inly  he  groans,  nor  can  his  tender  Wound 

Bear  the  cold  Stream.     Lo  !  to  yon  sedgy  Bank 

He  creeps  disconsolate  ;  his  numerous  Foes 

Surround  him,  Hounds,  and  Men.     Pierc'd  thro'  and  thro,' 

On  pointed  Spears  they  lift  him  high  in  Air  ; 

Wriggling  he  hangs,  and  grins,  and  bites  in  vain  : 

Bid  the  loud  Horns,  in  gayly- warbling  Strains, 

Proclaim  the  Felon's  Fate  ;  he  dies,  he  dies. 

William  Somkrvile,  1735. 

From    '  Windsor   Forest ' 

Ye  vigorous  Swains  !  while  youth  ferments  your  blood, 
And  purer  spirits  swell  the  sprightly  flood, 
Now  range  the  hills,  the  thickest  woods  beset. 
Wind  the  shrill  horn,  or  spread  the  waving  net. 
When  milder  autumn  summer's  heat  succeeds. 
And  in  the  new-shorn  field  the  Partridge  feeds, 
Before  his  Lord  the  ready  Spaniel  bounds. 
Panting  with  hope,  he  tries  the  furrow'd  grounds, 
But  when  the  tamted  gales  the  game  betray, 
Couch'd  close  he  lies,  and  meditates  the  prey  ; 
Secure  they  trust  th'  unfaithful  field,  beset, 
Till  hov'ring  o'er  'em  sweeps  the  swelling  net. 
Thus  (if  small  things  we  may  with  great  compare) 
When  Albion  sends  her  eager  sons  .to  war, 
Pleas'd,  in  the  Gen'ral's  sight,  the  host  lie  down 
Sudden,  before  some  unsuspecting  town. 
The  young,  the  old,  one  instant  makes  our  prize, 
And  high  in  air  Britannids  standard  flies. 

See  !  from  the  brake  the  whirring  Pheasant  springs. 
And  mounts  exulting  on  triumphant  wings. 
Short  is  his  joy  ;  he  feels  the  fiery  wound. 
Flutters  in  blood,  and  panting  beats  the  ground. 
Ah  !  what  avail  his  glossy,  varying  dyes. 
His  purple  crest,  and  scarlet-circled  eyes. 
The  vivjd  green  his  shining  plumes  unfold, 
His  painted  wings,  and  breast  that  flames  with  gold.^ 
Nor  yet,  when  moist  Arcturus  clouds  the  sky 
The  woods  and  fields  their  pleasing  toils  deny. 
To  plains  with  well-breath'd  beagles  we  repair. 
And  trace  the  mazes  of  the  circling  hare. 
(Beasts,  taught  by  us,  their  fellow  beasts  pursue. 
And  learn  of  man  each  other  to  undo.) 
With  slaught'ring  guns  th'  unwear/d  fowler  roves, 
When  frosts  have  whiten'd  all  the  naked  groves  ; 


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96  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

Where  doves  in  flocks  the  leafless  trees  o'ershade, 
And  lonely  woodcocks  haunt  the  watry  glade. 
He  lifts  the  tube,  and  levels  with  his  eye  ; 
Strait  a  short  thunder  breaks  the  frozen  sky. 
Oft,  as  in  airy  rings  they  skim  the  heath, 
The  clam'rous  Plovers  feel  the  leaden  death  ; 
Oft,  as  the  mounting  Larks  their  notes  prepare, 
They  fall,  and  leave  their  little  lives  in  air. 

In  genial  Spring,  beneath  the  quiv'ring  shade, 
Where  cooling  vapours  breathe  along  the  mead, 
The  patient  fisher  takes  his  silent  stand. 
Intent,  his  angle  trembling  in  his  hand  ; 
With  looks  unmov'd,  he  hopes  the  scaly  breed. 
And  eyes  the  dancing  cork,  and  bending  reed. 
Our  plenteous  streams  a  various  race  supply  ; 
The  bright-e/d  perch  with  fins  of  Tyrian  die, 
The  silver  eel,  in  shining  volumes  roll'd. 
The  yellow  carp,  in  scales  bedrop'd  with  gold, 
.Swift  trouts,  diversif/d  with  crimson  stains. 
And  pykes,  the  tyrants  of  the  watry  plains. 

Now  Cancer  glows  with  Phoebu^  fiery  car  ;. 
The  youth  rush  eager  to  the  sylvan  war  ; 
Swarm  o'er  the  lawns,  the  forest  walks  surround,  1 

Rowze  the  fleet  hart,  and  chear  the  opening  hound.  | 

Th'  impatient  courser  pants  in  ev'ry  vein,  I 

And  pawing,  seems  to  beat  the  distant  plain,  j 

Hills,  vales,  and  floods  appear  already  cross'd, 

And  'ere  he  starts,  a  thousand  steps  are  lost.  | 

See  I  the  bold  youth  strain  up  the  threat'ning  steep. 
Rush  thro*  the  thickets,  down  the  vallies  sweep, 

Hang  o*er  their  coursers  heads  with  eager  speed,  \ 

And  earth  rolls  back  beneath  the  flying  steed  .  .  . 

Alf:xander  Popk,  1713. 

From  '  Health ' :  A  Poem 

But  active  Hilaris  much  rather  loves. 

With  eager  Stride  to  trace  the  Wilds  and  Groves  ; 

To  start  the  Covy,  or  the  bounding  Roe, 

Or  work  destructive  Reynard's  Overthrow  : 

The  Race  delights  him.  Horses  are  his  Care, 

And  a  stout  ambling  Pad  his  easiest  Chair. 

Sometimes  to  firm  his  Nerves  he'll  plunge  the  Deep, 

And  with  expanded  Arms  the  Billows  sweep : 

Then  on  the  Links,  or  in  the  Estler  Walls, 

He  drives  the  Gowff,  or  strikes  the  Tennis  Balls, 

From  Ice  with  Pleasure  he  can  brush  the  Snow, 

And  run  rejoycing  with  his  Curling  Throw  ; 


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SPORTING  EXTRACTS  97 

Or  send  the  whizzing  Arrow  from  the  String, 

A  manly  Game  which  by  itself  I  sing. 

Thus  chearfiilly  he'll  walk,  ride,  dance  or  game, 

Nor  mind  the  Northern  Blast,  or  Southern  Flame. 

East  Winds  may  blow,  and  sullen  Fogs  may  fall. 

But  his  hale  Constitution's  Proof  to  alL 

He  knows  no  Change  of  Weather  by  a  Com, 

Nor  minds  the  black,  the  blew  or  ruddy  Mom. 

Ai.i.AN  Ramsay,  Poems,  1728. 


From  '  Rural  Sports ' 

You,  who  the  Sweets  of  Rural  Life  have  known, 
Despise  th'  ungrateful  Hurry  of  the  Town  ; 
'Midst  Windsor  Groves  your  easie  Hours  employ. 
And,  undisturb'd,  your  self  and  Muse  enjoy. 
Soft  flowing  Thames  his  mazy  Course  retains, 
And  in  suspence  admires  thy  charming  Strains  ; 
The  River-Gods  and  Nymphs  about  thee  throng, 
To  hear  the  Syrens  warble  in  thy  Song. 
But  I,  who  ne'er  was  bless'd  from  Fortune's  Hand, 
Nor  brighten'd  Plough-shares  in  Patemal  Land, 
Have  long  been  in  the  noisie  Town  immur'd, 
Respir'd  it's  Smoak,  and  all  it's  Toils  endur'd. 
Have  courted  Bus'ness  with  successless  Pain, 
And  in  Attendance  wasted  Years  in  vain  ; 


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98  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

Where  News  and  Politicks  amuse  Mankind, 

And  Schemes  of  State  involve  th'  uneasie  Mind 

Faction  embroils  the  World  ;  and  ev'ry  Tongue 

Is  fraught  with  Malice,  and  with  Scandal  hung: 

Friendship,  for  Sylvan  Shades,  does  Courts  despise. 

Where  all  must  yield  to  Interest's  dearer  Ties ; 

Each  Rival  Machiavel  with  Envy  bums, 

And  Honesty  forsakes  them  All  by  turns ; 

Whilst  Calumny  upon  each  Party's  thrown, 

Which  Both  abhor,  and  Both  alike  disown. 

Thus  have  I,  'midst  the  brawls  of  factious  Strife, 

Long  undergone  the  Drudgery  of  Life  ; 

On  Courtiers  Promises  I  founded  Schemes, 

Which  still  deluded  me,  like  golden  Dreams  ; 

Expectance  wore  the  tedious  Hours  away, 

And  glimm'ring  Hope  roll'd  on  each  lazy  Day. 

Resolved  at  last  no  more  Fatigues  to  bear. 

At  once  I  both  forsook  the  Town  and  Care  ; 

At  a  kind  Friend's  a  calm  Asylum  chose, 

And  bless'd  my  harrass'd  Mind  with  sweet  Repose, 

Where  Fields  and  Shades,  and  the  refreshing  Clime, 

Inspire  the  Sylvan  Song,  and  prompt  my  Rhime. 

My  Muse  shall  rove  through  flow'ry  Meads  and  Plains, 

And  Rural  Sports  adorn  these  homely  Strains, 

And  the  same  Road  ambitiously  pursue. 

Frequented  by  the  Mantuan  Swam,  and  You. 

Now  did  the  Spring  her  Native  Sweets  diffuse. 
And  feed  the  chearful  Plains  with  wholesome  Dews  ; 
A  Kindly  Warmth  th'  approaching  Sun  bestows, 
And  o'er  the  Year  a  verdant  Mantle  throws  ; 
The  jocund  Fields  their  gaudiest  Liv'ry  wear. 
And  breath  fresh  Odours  through  the  wanton  Air ; 
The  gladsome  Birds  begin  their  various  Lays, 
And  fill  with  warbling  Songs  the  blooming  Sprays  ; 
No  swelling  Inundation  hides  the  Grounds, 
But  crystal  Currents  glide  within  their  Bounds  ; 
The  sporting  Fish  their  wonted  Haunts  forsake. 
And  in  the  Rivers  wide  Excursions  take  ; 
They  range  with  frequent  Leaps  the  shallow  Streams, 
And  their  bright  Scales  reflect  the  daz'ling  Beams. 
The  Fisherman  does  now  his  Toils  prepare, 
And  Arms  himself  with  ev'ry  watry  Snare, 
He  meditates  new  Methods  to  betray, 
Threat'ning  Destruction  to  the  finny  Prey. 

When  floating  Clouds  their  spongy  Fleeces  drain. 
Troubling  the  Streams  with  swift-descending  Rain, 
And  Waters,  tumbling  down  the  Mountain's  Side, 
Bear  the  loose  Soil  into  the  swelling  Tide  ; 


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SPORTING  EXTRACTS  99 

Then,  soon  as  Vernal  Gales  begin  to  rise 
And  drive  the  liquid  Burthen  through  the  Skies, 
The  Fisher  strait  his  Taper  Rod  prepares. 
And  to  the  Neighboring  Stream  in  haste  repairs  ; 
Upon  a  rising  Border  of  the  Brook 
He  sits  him  down,  and  ties  the  treacherous  Hook  ; 
A  twining  Earth-worm  he  draws  on  with  Care, 
With  which  he  neatly  hides  the  pointed  Snare. 
Now  Expectation  chears  his  Eager  thought, 
His  Bosom  glows  with  Treasures  yet  uncaught, 
Before  his  Eyes  a  Banquet  seems  to  stand. 
The  kind  Effects  of  his  industrious  Hand. 

Into  the  Stream  the  twisted  Hair  he  throws, 
Which  gently  down  the  murmuring  Current  flows  ; 
When  if  or  Chance  or  Hunger's  powerful  Sway 
Directs  a  ranging  Trout  this  fatal  way. 
He  greedily  sucks  in  the  tortur'd  Bait, 
And  shoots  away  with  the  fallacious  Meat. 
The  trembling  Rod  the  joyful  Angler  eyes, 
And  the  strait  Line  assures  him  of  the  Prize  ; 
With  a  (juick  Hand  the  nibbled  Hook  he  draws, 
And  strikes  the  barbed  Steel  within  his  Jaws  : 
The  Fish  now  flounces  with  the  startling  Pain, 
And,  plunging,  strives  to  free  himself,  in  vain  : 
Into  the  thinner  Element  he*s  cast. 
And  on  the  verdant  Margin  gasps  his  Last. 

He  must  not  cv^ry  Worm  promiscuous  use, 
Judgment  will  tell  him  proper  Bait  to  chuse ; 
The  Worm  that  draws  a  long  immoderate  Size 
The  Trout  abhors,  and  the  rank  Morsel  flies  ; 
But  if  too  small,  the  naked  Fraud's  in  sight, 
And  Fear  forbids,  while  Hunger  does  invite. 
Their  shining  Tails  when  a  deep  Yellow  stains, 
That  Bait  will  well  reward  the  Fisher's  Pains  : 
Cleanse  them  from  Filth,  to  give  a  tempting  Gloss, 
Cherish  the  sull/d  Animals  with  Moss ; 
Where  they  rejoice,  wreathing  around  in  Play, 
And  from  their  Bodies  wipe  their  native  Clay. 

But  when  the  Sun  displays  his  glorious  Beams, 
And  falling  Rivers  flow  with  Silver  Streams, 
When  no  moist  Clouds  the  radiant  Air  invest. 
And  Flora  in  her  richest  State  is  drest. 
Then  the  disporting  Fish  the  Cheat  survey, 
Bask  in  the  Sun,  and  look  into  the  Day. 
You  now  a  more  delusive  Art  must  try, 
And  tempt  their  Hunger  with  the  Curious  Fly  ; 
Your  wary  Steps  must  not  advance  too  near. 
Whilst  all  your  Hope  hangs  on  a  single  Hair ; 

H  2 


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loo  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

Upon  the  curling  Surface  let  it  glide, 

With  Natural  Motion  from  thy  Hand  suppl/d, 

Against  the  Stream  now  let  it  gently  play, 

Now  in  the  rapid  Eddy  roll  away  ; 

The  sporting  Fish  leaps  at  the  floating  Bait, 

And  in  the  dainty  Morsel  seeks  his  Fate. 

Thus  the  nice  Epicure^  whom  Lux'ry  sways, 

Who  ev'ry  Cravmg  of  his  Taste  obeys, 

Makes  his  false  Appetite  his  only  Care, 

In  poignant  Sauce  disguises  all  his  Fare  ; 

And  whilst  he  would  his  vicious  Palate  please, 

In  ev'ry  Bit  sucks  in  a  new  Disease  ; 

The  Cook  destroys  with  his  compounding  Art, 

And  dextrously  performs  the  Doctor's  Part. 

To  frame  the  little  Animal,  provide 
All  the  gay  Hues  that  wait  on  Female  Pride, 
Let  Nature  guide  thee  ;  sometimes  Golden  Wire 
The  glitt'ring  Bellies  of  the  Fly  require  ; 
The  Peacocks  Plumes  thy  Tackle  must  not  fail, 
Nor  the  dear  Purchase  of  the  Sable's  Tail. 
Each  gaudy  Bird  some  slender  Tribute  brings, 
And  lends  the  growing  Insect  proper  Wings, 
Silks  of  all  Colours  must  their  Aid  impart. 
And  ev'ry  Fur  promote  the  Fisher's  Art. 
So  the  gay  Lady,  with  Expensive  Care, 
Borrows  the  Pride  of  Land,  of  Sea,  and  Air  ; 
Furs,  Pearls,  and  Plumes,  the  Painted  Thing  displays, 
Dazles  our  Eyes,  and  easie  Hearts  betrays. 

Mark  well  the  various  Seasons  of  the  Year, 
How  the  succeeding  Insect  Race  appear  ; 
In  this  revolving  Moon  one  Colour  reigns, 
Which  in  the  next  the  fickle  Trout  disdains. 
Oft'  have  I  seen  a  skillful  Angler  try 
The  various  Colours  of  the  treach'rous  Fly  ; 
When  he  with  fruitless  Pain  hath  skim'd  the  Brook, 
And  the  coy  Fish  rejects  the  skipping  Hook, 
He  shakes  the  Boughs  that  on  the  Margin  grow. 
Which  o'er  the  Streams  a  waving  Forrest  throw  ; 
When  if  an  Insect  falls,  (his  certain  Guide) 
He  gently  takes  him  from  the  whirling  Tide  ; 
Examines  well  his  Form  with  curious  Eyes, 
His  gaudy  Colours,  Wings,  his  Horns  and  Size, 
Then  round  his  Hook  a  proper  Fur  he  winds. 
And  on  the  Back  a  speckled  Feather  binds, 
So  just  the  Properties  in  ev'ry  part. 
That  even  Nature's  Hand  revives  in  Art. 
His  new-form'd  Creature  on  the  Water  moves, 
The  roving  Trout  th'  inviting  Snare  approves. 


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SPORTING  EXTRACTS  loi 

Upon  his  Skill  successful  Sport  attends, 
The  Rod,  with  the  succeeding  Burthen,  bends  ; 
The  Fishes  sail  along,  and  in  Surprize 
Behold  their  Fellows  drawn  into  the  Skies  ; 
When  soon  they  rashly  seize  the  deadly  Bait, 
And  Lux'ry  draws  them  to  their  Fellow's  Fate. 

When  a  brisk  Gale  against  the  Current  blows, 
And  all  the  watry  Plain  in  Wrinkles  flows, 
Then  let  the  Fisherman  his  Art  repeat, 
Where  bubbling  Eddys  favour  the  Deceit. 
If  an  huge  scaly  Salmon  chance  to  spy 
The  wanton  Errors  of  the  swimming  Fly, 
He  lifts  his  Silver  Gills  above  the  Flood, 
And  greedily  sucks  in  th'  unfaithful  Food  ; 
Then  plunges  down  with  the  deceitful  Prey, 
And  bears  with  Joy  the  little  Spoils  away. 
Soon  in  smart  Pains  he  feels  the  dire  Mistake, 
Lashes  the  Waves,  and  beats  the  foamy  Lake, 
With  sudden  Rage  he  now  aloft  appears. 
And  in  his  Look  convulsive  Anguish  bears  ; 
And  now  again,  impatient  of  the  Wound, 
He  rolls  and  wreathes  his  shining  Body  round  ; 
Then  headlong  shoots  himself  into  the  Tide, 
And  trembling  Fins  the  boiling  Waves  divide  ; 
Now  Hope  and  Fear  the  Fisher's  Heart  employ, 
His  smiling  Looks  glow  with  depending  Joy, 
He  views  the  trembling  Fish  with  eager  Eyes, 
While  his  Line  stretches  with  th'  unwieldly  Prize  ; 
Each  Motion  humours  with  his  steady  Hands, 
And  a  slight  Hair  the  mighty  Bulk  commands  ; 
Till  tir'd  at  last,  despoiPd  of  all  his  Strength, 
The  Fish  athwart  the  Streams  unfolds  his  Length. 
He  now,  with  Pleasure,  views  the  gasping  Prize 
Gnash  his  sharp  Teeth,  and  roll  his  Blood-shot  Eyes, 
Then  draws  him  t'wards  the  Shore,  with  gentle  Care, 
And  holds  his  Nostrils  in  the  sick'ning  Air  : 
Upon  the  burthen'd  Stream  he  floating  lies, 
Stretches  his  quivering  Fins,  and  panting  dies 
So  the  Coquet  th'  unhappy  Youth  ensnares. 
With  artful  Glances  and  affected  Airs, 
Baits  him  with  Frowns,  now  lures  him  on  with  Smiles, 
And  in  Disport  employs  her  practised  Wiles  ; 
The  Boy  at  last,  betray'd  by  borrowed  Charms, 
A  Victim  falls  in  her  enslaving  Arms. 

If  you'd  preserve  a  numerous  finny  Race, 
Let  your  fierce  Dogs  the  Ravenous  Otter  chase  ; 
Th'  amphibious  Creature  ranges  all  the  Shores, 
Shoots  through  the  Waves,  and  ev'ry  Haunt  explores  : 


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I02  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

Or  let  the  Gin  his  roving  Steps  betray, 
And  save  from  hostile  Jaws  the  scaly  Prey. 

As  in  successive  Toil  the  Seasons  roll, 
So  various  Pleasures  recreate  the  Soul ; 
The  setting  Dog,  instructed  to  betray. 
Rewards  the  Fowler  with  the  Feather'd  Prey. 
Soon  as  the  laboring  Horse  with  swelling  Veins, 
Hath  safely  housM  the  Farmer's  doubtful  Gains, 
To  sweet  Repast  th*  unwary  Partridge  flies. 
At  Ease  amidst  the  scattered  Harvest  lies, 
Wandring  in  Plenty,  Danger  he  forgets. 
Nor  dreads  the  Slav'ry  of  entangling  Nets. 
The  subtle  Dog  now  with  sagacious  Nose 
Scowres  through  the  Field,  and  snuffs  each  Breeze  that  blows, 
Against  the  Wind  he  takes  his  prudent  way, 
While  the  strong  Gale  directs  him  to,  the  Prey ; 
Now  the  warm  Scent  assures  the  Covey  near, 
He  treads  with  Caution,  and  he  points  with  Fear  ; 
Then  least  some  Sentry  Fowl  his  Fraud  descry, 
And  bid  his  Fellows  from  the  Danger  fly, 
Close  to  the  Ground  in  Expectation  lies. 
Till  in  the  Snare  the  fluttVing  Covey  rise. 
Thus  the  sly  Sharper  sets  the  thoughtless  'Squire, 
Who  to  the  Town  does  aukwardly  aspire  : 
Trick'd  of  his  Gold,  he  Mortgages  his  Land, 
And  falls  a  Captive  to  the  Bailiffs  Hand. 
Soon  as  the  blushing  Light  begins  to  spread. 
And  rising  Phcsbus  gilds  the  Mountain's  Head, 
His  early  Flight  th'  ill-fated  Partridge  takes, 
And  quits  the  friendly  Shelter  of  the  Brakes  : 
Or  when  the  Sun  casts  a  declining  Ray, 
And  drives  his  Chariot  down  the  Western  way. 
Let  your  obsequious  Ranger  search  around. 
Where  the  dry  Stubble  withers  on  the  Ground  : 
Nor  will  the  roving  Spy  direct  in  vain. 
But  num'rous  Coveys  gratifie  thy  Pain. 
When  the  Meridian  Sun  contracts  the  Shade, 
And  frisking  Heifers  seek  the  cooling  Glade  ; 
Or  when  the  Country  floats  with  sudden  Rains, 
Or  driving  Mists  deface  the  moist'ned  Plains  ; 
In  vain  his  Toils  th'  unskillful  Fowler  tries. 
Whilst  in  thick  W^oods  the  feeding  Partridge  lies. 

Nor  must  the  sporting  Verse  the  Gun  forbear. 
But  what's  the  Fowler's  be  the  Muse's  Care  ; 
The  Birds  that  in  the  Thicket  seek  their  Food, 
Who  love  the  Covert,  and  frequent  the  Wood, 


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SPORTING  EXTRACTS 

Despise  the  Net :  But  still  can  never  shun 
The  momentary  Lightning  of  the  Gun. 
The  SpanieU  ranges  all  the  Forrest  round, 
And  with  discerning  Nostril  snuffs  the  Ground  ; 
Now  rushing  on,  with  barking  Noise  alarms, 


103 


And  bids  his  watchful  Lord  prepare  to  Arms  ; 
The  dreadful  Sound  the  springing  Pheasant  hears, 
Leaves  his  close  Haunt,  and  to  some  Tree  repairs  : 
The  Dog,  aloft  the  painted  Fowl,  surveys, 
Observes  his  Motions,  and  at  distance  Bays. 


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I04  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

His  noisie  Foe  the  stooping  Pheasant  eyes, 
Fear  binds  his  Feet,  and  useless  Pinions  ties, 
Till  the  sure  Fowler,  with  a  sudden  Aim, 
From  the  tall  Bough  precipitates  the  Game. 
So  the  pale  Coward  from  the  Battel  flies, 
Soon  as  a  Rout  the  Victor  Army  cries  ; 
With  clashing  Weapons  Fancy  fills  his  Ear, 
And  Bullets  whistle  round  his  bristled  Hair  ; 


Now  from  all  Sides  th'  imagin'd  Foe  draws  nigh, 
He  trembling  stands,  nor  knows  which  Way  to  fly  ; 
'Till  Fate  behind  aims  a  disgraceful  Wound, 
And  throws  his  gasping  Carcass  to  the  Ground 
But  if  the  Bird,  to  shun  the  dreadful  Snare, 
With  quivering  Pinions  cuts  the  liquid  Air  ; 
The  scattering  Lead  pursues  th'  unerring  Sight, 
And  Death  in  Thunder  overtakes  his  Flight. 


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SPORTING  EXTRACTS  105 

The  tow'ring  Hawk  let  future  Poets  sing, 
Who  Terror  bears  upon  his  soaring  Wing  : 
Let  him  on  high  the  frighted  Hern  survey, 
And  lofty  Numbers  paint  their  Airy  Fray. 
Nor  shall  the  mountmg  Lark  the  Muse  detain, 
That  greets  the  Morning  with  his  early  Strain  ; 
How,  'midst  his  Song,  by  the  false  Glass  betray' d, 
(That  fatal  Snare  to  the  fantastick  Maid,) 
Pride  lures  the  little  Warbler  from  the  Skies, 
Where  folding  Nets  the  Captive  Bird  surprize. 

The  Greyhound  now  pursues  the  tim'rous  Hare, 
And  shoots  along  the  Plain  with  swift  Career ; 
While  the  sly  Game  escapes  beneath  his  Paws, 
He  snaps  deceitful  Air  with  empty  Jaws  ; 
Enrag'd,  upon  his  Foe  he  quickly  gains. 
And  with  wide  Stretches  measures  o'er  the  Plains  ; 
Again  the  cunning  Creature  winds  around, 
While  the  fleet  Dog  o'ershoots,  and  loses  Ground ; 
Now  Speed  he  doubles  to  regain  the  Way, 
And  crushes  in  his  Jaws  the  screaming  Prey. 
Thus  does  the  Country  various  Sports  afford. 
And  unbought  Dainties  heap  the  wholesome  Board. 

But  still  the  Chase,  a  pleasing  Task,  remains  ; 
The  Hound  must  open  in  these  rural  Strains. 
Soon  as  Aurora  drives  away  the  Night, 
And  edges  Eastern  Clouds  with  rosie  Light, 
The  wakeful  Huntsman,  with  the  chearful  Horn, 
Summons  the  Dogs,  and  greets  the  rising  Mom  : 
Th'  enliven'd  Hounds  the  welcome  Accent  hear. 
Start  from  their  Sleep,  and  for  the  Chase  prepare. 
Now  o'er  the  Field  a  diffrent  Route  they  take. 
Search  ev'ry  Bush,  and  force  the  thorny  Brake  ; 
No  bounding  Hedge  obstructs  their  eager  Way, 
While  their  sure  Nostril  leads  them  to  the  Prey  ; 
Now  they  with  Joy  th'  encreasing  Scent  pursue, 
And  trace  the  Game  along  the  tainted  Dew  ; 
A  sudden  Clamour  rings  throughout  the  Plain, 
And  calls  the  Straglers  from  their  fruitless  Pain, 
All  swiftly  to  the  welcome  Sound  repair. 
And  join  their  Force  against  the  skulking  Hare. 
Thus  when  the  Drum  an  idle  Camp  alarms, 
And  summons  all  the  scatt'ring  Troops  to  Arms  ; 
The  Soldiers  the  commanding  Thunder  know, 
And  in  one  Body  meet  th'  approaching  Foe. 
The  tuneful  Noise  the  sprightly  Courser  hears, 
He  paws  the  Turf,  and  pricks  his  rising  Ears  : 
The  listening  Hare,  unsafe  in  longer  Stay, 


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With  wary  Caution  steals  unseen  away  ; 

But  soon  his  treacherous  Feet  his  Flight  betray. 

The  distant  Mountains  eccho  from  afar, 

And  neighboring  Woods  resound  the  flying  War  ; 

The  slackned  Rein  admits  the  Horse's  Speed, 

And  the  swift  Ground  flies  back  beneath  the  Steed. 

Now  at  a  Fault  the  Dogs  confusedly  stray, 

And  strive  t*  unravel  his  perplexing  Way  ; 

They  trace  his  artful  Doubles  o'er  and  o'er, 

Smell  ev^ry  Shrub,  and  all  the  Plain  explore, 

'Till  some  stanch  Hound  summons  the  baffled  Crew, 

And  strikes  away  his  wily  Steps  anew. 

Along  the  Fields  they  scow'r  with  jocund  Voice, 

The  frighted  Hare  starts  at  the  distant  Noise  ; 

New  Stratagems  and  various  Shifts  he  tries. 

Oft'  he  looks  back,  and  dreads  a  close  Surprise  ; 

Th'  advancing  Dogs  still  haunt  his  list'ning  Ear, 

And  every  Breeze  augments  his  growing  Fear  : 

'Till  tired  at  last,  he  pants,  and  heaves  for  Breath  ; 

Then  lays  him  down,  and  waits  approaching  Death. 

Nor  should  the  Fox  shun  the  pursuing  Hound, 

Nor  the  tall  Stag  with  branchmg  Antlers  crown'd  ; 

But  each  revolving  Sport  the  Year  employ, 

And  fortifie  the  Mind  with  healthful  Joy. 

Rural  Sports.     A  poem  subscribed  to  Mr.  Pope  by  Mr.  Gay,  1713. 

The  Hound  and  the  Huntsman 

Impertinence  at  first  is  bom 
With  heedless  slight,  or  smiles  of  scorn  ; 
Teaz'd  into  wrath,  what  patience  bears 
The  noisy  fool  who  perseveres  ! 

The  morning  wakes,  the  huntsman  sounds, 
At  once  rush  forth  the  joyful  hounds. 
They  seek  the  wood  with  eager  pace, 
Through  bush,  through  brier  explore  the  chase. 
Now  scatter'd  wide,  they  try  the  plain. 
And  snuff  the  dewy  turf  in  vain. 
What  care,  what  industry,  what  pains  ! 
What  universal  silence  reigns  ! 

Ringwood,  a  dog  of  little  fame, 
Young,  pert,  and  ignorant  of  game. 
At  once  displays  his  babbling  throat ; 
The  pack,  regardless  of  the  note. 
Pursue  the  scent ;  with  louder  strain 
He  still  persists  to  vex  the  train.  . 

The  Huntsman  to  the  clamour  flies  ; 
The  smacking  lash  he  smartly  plies. 


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SPORTING  EXTRACTS  107 

His  ribs  are  welk'd,  with  howling  tone 
The  Puppy  thus  expressed  his  moan. 

I  know  the  musick  of  my  tongue 
Long  since  the  Pack  with  envy  stung  ; 
What  will  not  spite  ?    These  bitter  smarts 
I  owe  to  my  superior  parts. 

When  puppies  prate,  the  Huntsman  cr/d, 
They  show  both  ignorance  and  pride  : 
Fools  may  our  scorn,  not  envy  raise, 
For  envy  is  a  kind  of  praise. 
Had  not  thy  forward  noisy  tongue, 
Proclaimed  thee  always  in  the  wrong, 
Thou  might'st  have  mingled  with  the  rest, 
And  ne'er  thy  foolish  nose  confest. 
But  fools,  to  talking  ever  prone, 
Are  sure  to  make  their  follies  known. 

The  Works  of  Mr.  John  Gay,  1727. 


From  '  The  Spleen  * 


Hunting  I  reckon  very  good 
To  brace  the  nerves,  and  stir  the  blood  ; 
But  after  no  field-honours  itch 
Atchiev'd  by  leaping  hedge  and  ditch. 
While  spleen  lies  soft  relaxed  in  bed. 
Or  o*er  coal-fires  inclines  the  head, 
Hygea's  sons  with  hound  and  horn, 
And  jovial  cry  awake  the  morn  : 
These  see  her  from  her  dusky  plight. 
Smeared  by  th'  embraces  of  the  night. 
With  roral  ^  wash  redeem  her  face. 
And  prove  herself  of  Titan's  race, 
And  mounting  in  loose  robes  the  skies. 
Shed  light  and  fragrance,  as  she  flies 
Then  horse  and  hound  fierce  joy  display, 
Exulting  at  the  Hark-away, 
And  in  pursuit  o'er  tainted  ground 
From  lungs  robust  field-notes  resound. 
Then  as  St.  George  the  dragon  slew. 
Spleen  pierc'd,  trod  down,  and  dying  view. 
While  all  the  spirits  are  on  wing, 
And  woods,  and  hills,  and  valleys  ring. 

To  cure  the  mind's  wrong  bias,  spleen. 
Some  recommend  the  bowling-green  ; 
Some,  hilly  walks  ;  all,  exercise  ; 
Fling  but  a  stone,  the  giant  dies  : 

The  Spleen,    Matthew  Green,  1737. 


*  dewy. 

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From  'The  Seasons' 


Spring 

Now  when  the  first  foul  Torrent  of  the  Brooks, 
Swell'd  by  the  vernal  Rains,  is  ebb'd  away ; 
And,  whitening,  down  their  mossy-tinctur'd  Stream 
Descends  the  billowy  Foam  :  now  is  the  Time, 
While  yet  the  dark-brown  Water  aids  the  Guile, 
To  tempt  the  Trout.     The  well-dissembled  Fly, 
The  Rod  fine-tapering  with  elastic  Spring, 
Snatch'd  from  the  hoary  Steed  the  floating  Line, 
And  all  thy  slender  watry  Stores  prepare. 
But  let  not  on  thy  Hook  the  tortured  Worm, 
Convulsive,  twist  in  agonising  Folds  ; 
Which  by  rapacious  Hunger  swallow'd  deep. 
Gives,  as  you  tear  it  from  the  bleeding  Breast 
Of  the  weak  helpless  uncomplaining  Wretch, 
Harsh  Pain  and  Horror  to  the  tender  Hand. 

When,  with  his  lively  Ray,  the  potent  Sun 
Has  pierc'd  the  Streams,  and  rous'd  the  finny  Race, 
Then,  issuing  chearful,  to  the  Sport  repair  ; 
Chief  should  the  Western  Breezes  curling  play. 
And  light  o'er  Ether  bear  the  shadowy  Clouds. 
High  to  their  Fount,  this  Day,  amid  the  Hills, 
And  Woodlands  warbling  round,  trace  up  the  Brooks 
The  Next,  pursue  their  rocky-channel'd  Maze, 
Down  to  the  River,  in  whose  ample  Wave 
Their  little  Naiads  love  to  sport  at  large. 
Just  in  the  dubious  Point,  where  with  the  Pool 
Is  mix'd  the  trembling  Stream,  or  where  it  boils 
Around  the  Stone,  or  from  the  hollowed  Bank, 
Reverted,  plays  in  undulating  Flow, 
There  throw,  nice-judging,  the  delusive  Fly  ; 
And,  as  you  lead  it  round  the  artful  Curve, 
With  Eye  attentive  mark  the  springing  Game. 
Strait  as  above  the  Surface  of  the  Flood 
They  wanton  rise,  or  urg'd  by  Hunger  leap, 
Then  fix,  with  gentle  Twitch,  the  barbed  Hook  ; 
Some  lightly  tossing  to  the  grassy  Bank, 
And  to  the  shelving  Shore  slow-dragging  some, 
With  various  hand  proportion'd  to  their  Force. 
If  yet  too  young,  and  easily  deceived, 
A  worthless  Prey  scarce  bends  your  pliant  Rod, 
Him,  piteous  of  his  Youth,  and  the  short  Space 
He  has  enjoy'd  the  vital  Light  of  Heaven, 
Soft  disengage,  and  back  into  the  Stream 


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The  speckled  Infant  throw.     But  should  you  lure 
From  his  dark  Haunt,  beneath  the  tangled  Roots 
Of  pendant  Trees,  the  Monarch  of  the  Brook, 
Behoves  you  then  to  ply  your  finest  Art. 
Long  time  he,  following  cautious,  scans  the  Fly ; 
And  oft  attempts  to  seize  it,  but  as  oft 
The  dimpled  Water  speaks  his  jealous  Fear. 
At  last,  while  haply  o'er  the  shaded  Sun 
Passes  a  Cloud,  he  desperate  takes  the  Death, 
With  sudden  Plunge.     At  once  he  darts  along, 
Deep-struck,  and  runs  out  all  the  lengthen'd  Line  ; 
Then  seeks  the  farthest  Ooze,  the  sheltering  Weed, 
The  cavem'd  Bank,  his  old  secure  Abode  ; 
And  flies  aloft,  and  flounces  round  the  Pool, 
Indignant  of  the  Guile.     With  yielding  Hand, 
That  feels  him  still,  yet  to  his  furious  Course 
Gives  way,  you,  now  retiring,  following  now 
Across  the  Stream,  exhaust  his  idle  Kage  ; 
Till  floating  broad  upon  his  breathless  Side, 
And  to  his  Fate  abandoned,  to  the  Shore 
You  gayly  drag  your  unresisting  Prize. 

Autumn 

Here  the  rude  clamour  of  the  sportsman's  joy. 
The  gun  thick-thundering,  and  the  winded  horn, 
Would  tempt  the  muse  to  sing  the  rural  game. 
How,  in  his  mid-career,  the  spaniel  struck. 
Stiff,  by  the  tainted  gale,  with  open  nose, 
Out-stretch'd,  and  finely  sensible,  draws  full. 
Fearful,  and  cautious,  on  the  latent  prey  ; 
As  in  the  sun  the  circling  covey  bask 
Their  varied  plumes,  watchful,  and  every  way 
Thro'  the  rough  stubble  tum'd  the  secret  eye. 
Caught  in  the  ineshy  snare,  in  vain  they  beat 
Their  useless  wings,  intangled  more  and  more  : 
Nor  on  the  surges  of  the  boundless  air, 
Tho'  bom  triumphant,  are  they  safe  ;  the  gun, 
Glanc'd  just,  and  sudden,  from  the  fowler's  eye, 
O'ertakes  their  sounding  pinions  ;  and  again. 
Immediate,  brings  them  from  the  towering  wing, 
Dead  to  the  ground  ;  or  drives  them  else  disperst, 
Wounded,  and  wheeling  various,  down  the  wind. 

Poor  is  the  triumph  o'er  the  timid  Hare  ! 
Shook  from  the  com,  and  now  to  some  lone  seat 
Retir'd  :  the  rushy  fen  ;  the  ragged  furz, 
Stretch'd  o'er  the  stony  heath  ;  the  stubble  chapt ; 
The  thistly  lawn  ;  the  thick,  intangled  broom  ; 


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Of  the  same  friendly  hue,  the  withered  fern  ; 
The  fallow  ground  laid  open  to  the  sun, 
Concoctive  ;  and  the  nodding  sandy  bank, 
Hung  o'er  the  mazes  of  the  mountam-brook. 
Vain  is  her  best  precaution  ;  tho'  she  sits 
ConceaFd,  with  folded  ears,  unsleeping  eyes, 
By  Nature  rais'd  to  take  th'  horizon  in  ; 
And  head  couch'd  close  betwixt  her  hairy  feet, 


In  act  to  spring  away.     The  scented  dew 
Betrays  her  early  labyrinth  ;  and  deep, 
In  scattered,  sullen  openings,  far  behind. 
With  every  breeze  she  hears  the  coming  storm. 
But  nearer,  and  more  frequent,  as  it  loads 
The  sighing  gale,  she  spnngs  amaz'd,  and  all 
The  savage  soul  of  game  is  up  at  once  : 
The  pack  full-opening,  various  ;  the  shrill  horn, 


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III 


Resounded  from  the  hills  ;  the  neighing  steed, 
Wild  for  the  chace  ;  and  the  loud  hunter's  shout ; 
0*er  a  weak,  harmless,  flying  creature,  all 
Mix'd  in  mad  tumult,  and  discordant  joy. 

The  Stag,  too,  singled  from  the  herd,  where  long 
He  reign'd  the  branching  monarch  of  the  shades, 
Before  the  tempest  drives.    At  first,  in  speed 
He,  sprightly,  puts  his  faith  ;  and,  fear-arrous*d, 
Gives  all  his  swift,  aereal  soul  to  flight 
Against  the  breeze  he  darts,  that  way  the  more 
To  leave  the  lessening,  murderous  cry  behind. 
Deception  short !  tho'  fleeter  than  the  winds 
Blown  o'er  the  keen-air'd  mountain  by  the  north. 


He  bursts  the  thickets,  glances  thro'  the  glades, 
And  plunges  deep  into  the  wildest  wood. 
If  slow,  yet  sure,  adhesive  to  the  tract 
Hot-steaming,  up  behind  him  comes  again 
Th'  inhuman  rout,  and  from  the  shady  depth 
Expel  him,  circling  thro'  his  every  shift 
He  sweeps  the  forest  oft ;  and  sobbing  sees 
The  glades,  mild-openings  to  the  golden  day  ; 
Where,  in  kind  contest,  with  his  butting  friends 
He  went  to  struggle,  or  his  loves  enjoy. 
Oft  in  the  full-descending  flood  he  tries 
To  lose  the  scent,  and  lave  his  burning  sides  : 
Oft  seeks  the  herd  ;  the  watchful  herd,  alarm'd 


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THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 


With  quick  consent,  avoid  th'  infectious  maze. 

What  shall  he  do  ?     His  once  so  vivid  nerves, 

So  full  of  buoyant  soul,  inspire  no  more 

The  fainting  course  ;  but  wrenching,  breathless  toil 

Sick,  seizes  on  his  heart :  he  stands  at  bay  ; 

And  puts  his  last,  weak  refuge  in  despair. 

The  big  round  tears  run  down  his  dappled  face  ; 

He  groans  in  anguish  ;  while  the  growling  pack, 

Blood-happy,  hang  at  his  fair,  jutting  chest, 

And  mark  his  beauteous  checquer'd  sides  with  gore. 

These  Britain  knows  not ;  give  ye  Britons,  then 
Your  sportive  fury,  pityless,  to  pour 


Loose  on  the  sly  destroyer  of  the  flock. 

Him,  froni  his  craggy  winding  haunts  unearth'd. 

Let  all  the  thunder  of  the  chase  pursue. 

Throw  the  broad  ditch  behind  you  ;  o'er  the  hedge 

High-bound,  resistless  ;  nor  the  deep  morass 

Refuse,  but  thro'  the  shaking  wilderness 

Pick  your  nice  way  ;  into  the  perilous  flood 

Bear  fearless,  of  the  raging  instinct  full ; 

And  as  you  ride  the  torrent  to  the  banks 

Your  triumph  sound  sonorous,  running  round, 

From  rock  to  rock,  in  circling  echo  tost  ; 

Then  snatch  the  mountains  by  their  woody  tops  ; 

Rush  down  the  dangerous  steep  ;  and  o'er  the  lawn, 


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In  fancy  swallowing  up  the  space  between, 
Pour  all  your  speed  into  the  rapid  game. 
For  happy  he  I  who  tops  the  wheeling  chace  ; 
Has  every  maze  evolv'd,  and  every  guile 
Disclos'd  ;  who  knows  the  merits  of  the  pack  ; 
Who  saw  the  villain  seizM,  and  dying  hard, 
Without  complaint,  tho'  by  an  hundred  mouths 
At  once  tore,  mercyless.     Thrice  happy  he  ! 
At  hour  of  dusk,  while  the  retreating  horn 
Calls  them  to  ghostly  halls  of  grey  renown, 
With  woodland  honours  grac'd  :  the  fox's  fur, 
Depending  decent  from  the  roof ;  and  spread 
Round  the  drear  walls,  with  antick  figures  fierce. 
The  stag's  large  front  :  he  then  is  loudest  heard, 
When  the  night  staggers  with  severer  toils. 
And  their  repeated  wonders  shake  the  dome. 

The  Seasons.    James  TnoMsos.  1730. 

The  Goff 

CANTO  I 

Goff,  and  the  Man^  I  sing,  who,  em'lous,  plies 

The  jointed  club  ;  whose  balls  invade  the  skies  ; 
Who  from  Edinds  tow'rs,  his  peaceful  home. 
In  quest  of  fame  o'er  Lethal s  plains  did  roam. 
Long  toil'd  the  hero,  on  the  verdant  field, 
Stj;p.in'd  his  stout  arm  the  weighty  club  to  wield. 

CANTO   II 

Now  at  that  hole  the  Chiefs  begin  the  game, 
Which  from  the  neighb'ring  thorn-tree  takes  its  name  ; 
Ardent  they  grasp  the  ball-compelling  clubs, 
And  stretch  their  arms  t'  attack  the  little  globes. 

Then  great  Castalio  his  whole  force  collects 
And  on  the  orb  a  noble  blow  directs. 
Swift  as  a  thought  the  ball  obedient  flies, 
Sings  high  in  air,  and  seems  to  cleave  the  skies  ; 
Then  on  the  level  plain  its  fury  spends  ; 
And  Irus  to  the  Chief  the  welcome  tidings  sends. 
Next  in  his  turn  Pygmalion  strikes  the  globe  : 
On  th'  up[>er  half  descends  the  erring  club  ; 
Along  the  green  the  ball  confounded  scours  ; 
No  lofty  flight  the  ill-sped  stroke  impow'rs. 

Thus,  when  the  trembling  hare  descries  the  hounds, 
She  from  her  whinny  mansion  swiftly  bounds  ; 
O'er  hills  and  fields  she  scours,  outstrips  the  wind  ; 
The  hound  and  huntsmen  follow  f.ir  behind. 


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114  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

CANTO   III 

Mean  while  the  Chiefs  for  the  last  hole  contend, 
The  last  great  hole,  which  should  their  labours  end. 
For  this  the  Chiefs  exert  their  skill  and  might, 
To  drive  the  balls,  and  to  direct  their  flight. 
Thus  two  fleet  coursers  for  the  Royal  plate, 
TThe  others  distanc'd,)  run  the  final  heat ; 
With  all  his  might  each  gen'rous  racer  flies, 
And  all  his  art  each  panting  rider  tries. 
While  showers  of  gold  and  praises  warm  his  breast, 
And  gen'rous  emulation  fires  the  beast. 

A  mighty  blow  Pygmalion  then  lets  fall ; 
Straight  from  th'  impulsive  engine  starts  the  ball 
Answering  its  master's  just  design,  it  hastes. 
And  from  the  hole  scarce  twice  two  clubs  length  rests. 

Ah  !  what  avails  thy  skill,  since  Fate  decrees 
Thy  conqu'ring  foe  to  bear  away  the  prize  .'* 

Full  fifteen  clubs  length  from  the  hole  he  lay, 
A  wide  cart-road  before  him  cross'd  his  way  ; 
The  deep-cut  tracks  th'  intrepid  Chief  defies, 
High  o'er  the  road  the  ball  triumphing  flies, 
Lights  on  the  green,  and  scours  into  the  hole  : 
Down  with  it  sinks  depress'd  Pygmalion's  soul. 
Seiz'd  with  surprize  th'  affrighted  hero  stands, 
And  feebly  tips  the  ball  with  trembling  hands  ; 
The  creeping  ball  its  want  of  force  complains, 
A  grassy  tuft  the  loit'ring  orb  detains  : 
Surrounding  crowds  the  victor's  praise  proclaim, 
The  ecchoing  shore  resounds  Castalids  name. 

The  Goff.     An  Heroi-Comical  Poem  in  3  Cantos,  1743. 

From  *  The  Fox-Chase  ' 

Young  Marcus  with  the  lark  salutes  the  morn 

*  Saddle  your  horses  ;  huntsman,  wind  your  horn.' 
We  start,  we  rise  at  the  enlivening  sound — 

The  woods  all  ring — and  wind  the  horn  around  : 
We  snatch  a  short  repast  within  the  hall  ; 

*  To  horse  I  To  horse  ! ' — We  issue  at  the  call. 


Trueman,  whom  for  sagacious  nose  we  hail 
The  Chief,  first  touch'd  the  scarce-distinguish'd  gale  ; 
His  tongue  was  doubtful,  and  no  hound  replies  : 
*  Haux  I — Wind  him  I — Haux  I ' — the  tuneful  huntsman  cries. 
At  once  the  list'ning  pack  asunder  spread, 
With  tail  erect,  and  with  inquiring  head  : 


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With  busy  nostrils  they  foretaste  their  prey, 
And  snuff  the  lawn-impearling  dews  away. 

The  huntsman  calls,  and  chears  his  circling  hounds. 
Now  up,  now^  down,  now  'cross  the  stream  he  beats — 
*  Haux  I — wind  him  I — haux  I— Fox,  find  him  I '   he  repeats, 
Now  round  and  round  a  fruitless  search  he  plies, 
And  now  a  tour  of  wider  circuit  tries. 
But  no  intelligence  rewiards  his  care  ; 
No  note  confess'd  the  fox  was  ever  there — 
As  though  some  opening  gulph  has  gorged  our  prey, 
Or  sudden  power  had  snatched  him  quite  away. 
But  Reynard,  hotly  push'd,  and  close  pursu'd. 


Yet  fruitful  in  expedients  to  elude. 

When  to  the  bourn's  refreshing  bank  he  came. 

Had  plung'd,  all  reeking,  in  the  friendly  stream. 

The  folding  waves  his  failing  pow'rs  restore. 

And  close  the  gates  of  ever>'  fuming  pore. 

Then  down  the  channel,  over  flats  and  steeps. 

He  steals,  and  trots — or  wades,  or  swims,  or  creeps  : 

Till,  where  the  pebbled  shores  the  surges  break, 

He  quits  his  feet,  and  launches  on  the  lake. 

With  half  a  pack,  and  scarcely  half  a  train, 
We  dare  all  dangers,  and  all  toil  disdain  ; 
The  dogs  near  faint,  yet  still  on  slaughter  bent, 
With  tongues  abrupt  avow  the  burning  scent ; 


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ii6  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

The  pendant  cliffs  audaciously  essay, 
And  trot,  or  crawl,  or  climb  their  desperate  way. 
While,  slanting,  we  avoid  the  headlong  deep. 
Yet  bend,  press  on,  and  labour  up  the  steep. 

Where  the  brow  beetling  from  the  mountain  sprung 
With  stunted  thorn  and  shaggy  rocks  o'erhung, 
Beneath  whose  base  a  sanded  bench,  with  shade 
Of  furze  and  tangling  thicket  was  o'erlaid, 
Reynard  his  palace  kept,  his  regal  seat, 
His  fort  of  sure  resource  and  last  retreat ; 
The  rest  were  but  the  mansions  of  a  night, 
For  casual  respite,  or  for  fresh  delight. 


To  this  dread  fort,  with  many  a  hard  essay. 
We  win  with  peril  our  o'er-labour*d  way ; 
At  length  our  journey,  not  our  work  is  done, 
The  way  indeed,  but  not  the  fort  is  won. 
Here  had  the  felon  earth'd  ; — with  many  a  hound 
And  many  a  horse  we  gird  his  hold  around  : 
The  hounds  'fore  heaven  their  accusation  spread, 
And  cry  for  justice  on  his  caitiff  head. 

Meanwhile,  with  cutlasses,  we  clear  each  bush 
Of  platted  black-thorn,  and  of  stubborn  brush. 
Remove  the  covert  of  befriending  right, 
And  on  the  cavern's  entrance  pour  the  light. — 
Aghast,  and  trembling  in  the  burst  of  day, 
With  haggard  eyes  the  shrinking  savage  lay  ; 
In  vain  he  glares  his  desperate  glance  around, 
No  scape— no  stratagem — no  hope  is  found  I 
He  dies  I — he  dies  I  the  echoing  hills  reply. 
And  the  loud  triumph  rends  the  vaulted  sky. 

The  Poetical  Works  of  Henry  Brooke,  1792. 

From  '  The  Art  of  Preserving  Health  ' 

.  .  .  The  chearful  mom 
Beams  o'er  the  hills  ;  go,  mount  th'  exulting  steed, 
Already,  see,  the  deep-mouth'd  beagles  catch 
The  tainted  mazes  ;  and,  on  eager  sport 
Intent,  with  emulous  impatience  try 
Each  doubtful  track.     Or,  if  a  nobler  prey 
Delight  you  more,  go  chase  the  desperate  deer  ; 
And  thro'  its  deepest  solitudes  awake 
The  vocal  forest  with  the  jovial  horn. 

But  if  the  breathless  chase  o'er  hill  and  dale 
Exceed  your  strength  ;  a  sport  of  less  fatigue. 
Not  less  delightful,  the  prolific  stream 
Affords.     The  chrystal  rivulet,  that  o'er 


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'Or  viewed  afoot  at  midnight  Ball." 

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SPORTING  EXTRACTS  117 

A  stony  channel  rolls  its  rapid  maze, 

Swarms  with  the  silver  fry.     Such,  thro'  the  bounds 

Of  pastoral  Stafford,  runs  the  brawling  Trent ; 

Such  Eden,  sprung  from  Cumbrian  mountains  ;  such 

The  Esk,  o'erhung  with  woods ;  and  such  the  stream 

On  whose  Arcadian  banks  I  first  drew  air, 

Liddal ;  till  now,  except  in  Doric  lays 

Tun'd  to  her  murmurs  by  her  love-sick  swains. 

Unknown  in  song  :  Tho'  not  a  purer  stream, 

Thro'  meads  more  flow'ry,  or  more  romantic  groves. 

Rolls  toward  the  western  main.     Hail  sacred  flood  I 

May  still  thy  hospitable  swains  be  blest 

In  rural  innocence ;  thy  mountains  still 

Teem  with  the  fleecy  race  ;  thy  tuneful  woods 

For  ever  flourish  ;  and  thy  vales  look  gay 

With  painted  meadows,  and  the  golden  grain  ! 

Oft,  with  thy  blooming  sons,  when  life  was  new, 

Sportive  and  petulant,  and  charm'd  with  toys. 

In  thy  transparent  eddies  have  I  lav'd  : 

Oft  trac'd  with  patient  steps  thy  fairy  banks, 

With  the  well-imitated  fly  to  hook 

The  eager  trout,  and  with  the  slender  line 

And  yielding  rod  sollicite  to  the  shore 

The  strugglmg  panting  prey  ;  while  vernal  clouds 

And  tepid  gales  obscur'd  the  ruffled  pool, 

And  from  the  deeps  call'd  forth  the  wanton  swarms. 

.  .  .  Some  love  the  manly  foils  ; 
The  tennis  some  ;  and  some  the  graceful  dance. 
Others,  more  hardy,  range  the  purple  heath, 
Or  naked  stubble  ;  where  from  field  to  field 
The  sounding  coveys  urge  their  labouring  flight ; 
Eager  amid  the  rising  cloud  to  pour 
The  gun's  unerring  thunder  :  And  there  are 
Whom  still  the  meed  of  the  green  archer  charms. 
He  chuses  best,  whose  labour  entertains 
His  vacant  fancy  most :  The  toil  you  hate 
Fatigues  you  soon,  and  scarce  improves  your  limbs. 

Art  of  Preserving  Health.    John  Armstrong,  1744. 

Translation 

LINES  WRITTEN    UNDER   A   FRENCH   PRINT  REPRESENTING 
PERSONS  SKATING 

O'er  crackling  ice,  o'er  gulphs  profound, 
With  nimble  glide  the  skaiters  play ; 

O'er  treacherous  pleasure's  flow'ry  ground 
Thus  lightly  skim,  and  haste  away. 

Poems.    S.  Johnson,  1789. 


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I  1(8  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 


A    fragment  of  a  Poem   on    Hunting 
by  Thomas  Tickell 

'  Dona  cano  divdm,  Intrtas  venantibus  artes, 
Auspicio,  Diana,  tuo '  Gratius. 

Horses  and  hounds,  their  care,  their  various  race, 

The  numerous  beasts,  that  range  the  rural  chace, 

The  huntsman's  chosen  scenes,  his  friendly  stars, 

The  laws  and  glory  of  the  sylvan  wars, 

I  first  in  British  verse  presume  to  raise  ; 

A  venturous  rival  of  the  Roman  praise. 

Let  me,  chaste  Queen  of  Woods,  thy  aid  obtain. 

Bring  here  thy  light-foot  nymphs,  and  sprightly  train  : 

If  oft,  o'er  lawns,  thy  care  prevents  the  day 

To  rouse  the  foe,  and  press  the  bounding  prey, 

Woo  thine  own  Phctbus  in  the  task  to  join. 

And  grant  me  genius  for  the  bold  design. 

In  this  soft  shade,  O  sooth  the  warrior's  fire, 

And  fit  his  bow-string  to  the  trembling  lyre  ; 

And  teach,  while  thus  their  arts  and  arms  we  sing, 

The  groves  to  echo,  and  the  vales  to  ring. 

Thy  care  be  first  the  various  gifts  to  trace, 
The  minds  and  genius  of  the  latrant '  race. 
In  powers  distinct  the  different  clans  excel, 
In  sight,  or  swiftness,  or  sagacious  smell  ; 
By  wiles  ungenerous  some  surprize  the  prey. 
And  some  by  courage  win  the  doubtful  day. 
Secst  thou  the  gaze-hound  !  how  with  glance  severe 
From  the  close  herd  he  marks  the  destin'd  deer  I 
How  every  nerve  the  greyhound's  stretch  displays, 
The  hare  preventing  in  her  airy  maze  ; 
The  luckless  prey  how  treacherous  tumblers  gain. 
And  dauntless  wolf-dogs  shake  the  lion's  mane  ; 
O'er  all,  the  blood- hound  boasts  superior  skill, 
To  scent,  to  view,  to  turn,  and  boldly  kill  ! 
His  fellows'  vain  alarms  rejects  with  scorn. 
True  to  the  masters  voice,  and  learned  horn. 
His  nostrils  oft,  if  ancient  fame  sing  true, 
Trace  the  sly  felon  through  the  tainted  dew  ; 
Once  snuff'd,  he  follows  with  unaltcr'd  aim. 
Nor  odours  lure  him  from  the  chosen  game  ; 
Deep-mouth'd  he  thunders,  and  inflam'd  he  views. 
Springs  on  relentless,  and  to  death  pursues. 

'  barking. 

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SPORTING  EXTRACTS 

Some  hounds  of  manners  vile  (nor  less  we  find 
Of  fops  in  hounds,  than  in  the  reasoning  kind) 
Puff  d  with  conceit  run  gladding  o'er  the  plain 
And  from  the  scent  divert  the  wiser  train  ; 
For  the  foe's  footsteps  fondly  snuff  their  own, 
And  mar  the  music  with  their  senseless  tone  ; 
Start  at  the  starting  prey,  or  rustling  wind, 
And,  hot  at  first,  inglorious  lag  behind. 
A  sauntering  tribe  !  may  such  my  foes  disgrace  ! 
Give  me,  ye  gods,  to  breed  the  nobler  race. 
Nor  grieve  thou  to  attend,  while  truths  unknown 
I  sing,  and  make  Athenian  arts  our  own. 


119 


Dost  thou  in  hounds  aspire  to  deathless  fame  .-* 
Learn  well  their  lineage  and  their  ancient  stem. 
Each  tribe  with  joy  old  rustic  heralds  trace, 
And  sing  the  chosen  worthies  of  their  race  ; 
How  his  sire's  features  in  the  son  were  sp/d. 
When  Die  was  made  the  vigorous  Ringwood's  bride. 
Less  sure  thick  lips  the  fate  of  Austria  doom. 
Or  eagle  noses  rul'd  almighty  Rome. 

Good  shape  to  various  kinds  old  bards  confine, 
Some  praise  the  Greek,  and  some  the  Roman  line  ; 
And  dogs  to  beauty  make  as  differing  claims, 
As  Albion's  nymphs,  and  India's  jetty  dames. 


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I20  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

Immense  to  name  their  lands,  to  mark  their  bounds, 
And  paint  the  thousand  families  of  hounds  : 
First  count  the  sands,  the  drops  where  oceans  flow, 
Or  Gauls  by  Marlborough  sent  to  shades  below. 
The  task  be  mine,  to  teach  Britannia's  swains, 
My  much-lov'd  country,  and  my  native  plains. 

Such  be  the  dog,  I  charge,  thou  mean'st  to  train, 
His  back  is  crooked,  and  his  belly  plain. 
Of  fillet  stretch'd,  and  huge  of  haunch  behind, 
A  tapering  tail,  that  nimbly  cuts  the  wind  ; 
Truss-thigh'd,  straight-ham'd,  and  fox-like  form'd  his  paw, 
Large-leg'd,  dry-sol'd,  and  of  protended  claw. 
His  flat,  wide  nostrils  snuff  the  savory  steam. 
And  from  his  eyes  he  shoots  pernicious  gleam  ; 
Middling  his  head,  and  prone  to  earth  his  view, 
With  ears  and  chest  that  dash  the  morning  dew  : 
He  best  to  stem  the  flood,  to  leap  the  bound. 
And  charm  the  Uryads  with  his  voice  profound  ; 
To  pay  large  tribute  to  his  weary  lord. 
And  crown  the  sylvan  hero's  plenteous  board.  .  .  . 

Works  of  English  Poets  .  .  .  by  Samuel  yohn sou,  1779. 


From  'The  History  of  Manchester' 

But  can  you  waft  across  the  British  tide, 
And  land  undangered  on  the  farther  side, 
O  what  great  gains  will  certainly  redound 
From  a  free  traffick  in  the  British  hound  ! 
Mind  not  the  badness  of  their  forms  or  face  : 
That  the  sole  blemish  of  the  generous  race. 
When  the  bold  game  turns  back  upon  the  spear, 
And  all  the  ^^uries  wait  upon  the  war. 
First  in  the  fight  the  whelps  of  Britain  shine. 
And  snatch,  Epirus,  all  the  palm  from  thine. 

(Gkatu's  Faliscus). 
Would  you  chace  the  deer. 
Or  urge  the  motions  of  the  smaller  hare. 
Let  the  brisk  greyhound  of  the  Celtic  name 
Bound  o'er  the  glebe  and  shew  his  painted  frame. 
Swift  as  the  wing  that  sails  adown  the  wind, 
Swift  as  the  wish  that  darts  along  the  mind. 
The  Celtic  greyhound  sweeps  the  level  lea. 
Eyes  as  he  strains,  and  stops  the  flying  prey. 
But  should  the  game  elude  his  watchful  eyes. 
No  nose  sagacious  tells  him  where  it  lies. 

(GRATirs  Kaliscus). 


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SPORTING  EXTRACTS  121 

A  small  bold  breed  and  steady  to  the  game 
Next  claims  the  tribute  of  peculiar  fame  ! 
Train'd  by  the  tribes  on  Britain's  wildest  shore, 
Thence  they  their  title  of  Agasses  bore. 
Small  as  the  race  that  useless  to  their  lord 
Bask  on  the  hearth  and  beg  about  the  board, 
Crook-limbed  and  black-eyed,  all  their  frame  appears 
Flanked  with  no  flesh  and  bristled  rough  with  hairs  ; 
But  shod  each  foot  with  hardest  claws  is  seen, 
The  sole's  kind  armour  on  the  beaten  green  ; 
But  fenced  each  jaw  with  closest  teeth  is  found. 
And  death  sits  instant  on  th'  inflicted  wound. 
Far  o'er  the  rest  he  quests  the  secret  prey, 
And  sees  each  track  wind  opening  to  his  ray  : 
Far  o'er  the  rest  he  feels  each  scent  that  blows 
Court  the  live  nerve  and  thrill  along  the  nose. 

(Oppian). 
The  History  of  Xfanchester.    John  Whitakkr,  1771. 


From  '  Farringdon  Hill ' 


First  to  the  north  direct  your  roving  eyes, 
Where  fair  Oxonicis  verdant  hills  arise. 
There  BurfortPs  downs  invite  the  healthful  chace, 
Or  urge  the  emulous  courser  to  the  race, 
While  as  with  agile  limbs  the  ascent  they  scale, 
Rush  down  the  steep,  or  sweep  across  the  vale. 
Exulting  hope,  by  turns,  and  chilling  fear. 
In  the  pale  cheek,  and  eager  eye  appear, 
Each  generous  fire  in  every  heart  is  lost, 
By  fortune  favoured,  or  by  fortune  cross'd  ; 
Flies  every  virtue,  withers  every  grace, 
And  all  the  selfish  passions  take  their  place  ; 
Blest  plains  I  which  all  the  good  to  Oxford  yield. 
That  Granta  reaps  from  fam'd  Newmarkefs  field. 

Soon  shall  the  yellow  wealth  whose  swelling  grains 
The  stalk  low  bending  hardly  now  sustains, 
Stored  in  the  bam  with  jocund  labor,  yield 
To  every  rural  sport  the  uncumber'd  field. 
The  pointer  then  shall  o'er  the  stubbled  vale 
Range  unconfined,  and  catch  the  tainted  gale  : 
The  hound's  quick  scent,  or  greyhound's  eager  view 
O'er  the  smooth  plain  the  timid  hare  pursue  ; 
Then  swelling  on  the  burthen'd  breeze  afar, 


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THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 


Shall  burst  the  tumult  of  the  woodland  war  ; 
While  rush  the  daring  youth  with  breathless  speed 
To  see  the  wily  fox  unpityed  bleed. 
Let  not  the  Muse  the  jocund  labor  chide, 
Or  from  the  chace  her  eyes  indignant  hide  : 
Though  gentle  Shenstone  thought  the  hunter's  throat 
Drown'd  with  its  clamorous  strain,  the  lyric  note  : 
Though  pensive  Thomson  indolently  laid 
Beneath  the  silver  willows  trembling  shade, 
Baiting  with  cruel  art  the  treacherous  hook, 
To  lure  the  guileless  inmates  of  the  brook  : 
Blame,  as  his  hands  the  barbed  weapon  draw 
From  the  mute  wretches  agonizing  jaw, 
Those  who  in  manly  sport  with  frantic  joy, 


The  rapid  tenants  of  the  wood  destroy  : 
Yet  has  the  warbling  lyre  in  many  a  strain 
Described  the  active  pleasures  of  the  plain  ; 
The  moral  bard  of  Windsor's  royal  groves, 
Sings  of  the  hunter  and  his  toil  approves  ; 
Even  he  whose  verse  to  mortal  eyes  has  given 
The  wrath  of  angels,  and  the  wars  of  heaven  ; 
Joyful  has  listen'd  to  the  hounds,  and  horn. 
Rousing  with  chearful  peal  the  slumbering'  morn  : 
Nor  shall  with  brow  averse  the  rural  Muse 
To  Somerville  the  Poet's  meed  refuse. 
Whose  skilful  notes  each  sylvan  pastime  trace. 
And  teach  the  various  mazes  of  the  chace  ; 


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SPORTING  EXTRACTS  123 

Whence  livelier  thoughts,  and  lighter  spirits  rise, 
Strength  knits  the  limbs  and  health  adorns  the  eyes, 
Glows  in  the  ruddy  cheek  a  purer  blood, 
And  rolls  the  tide  of  life  a  sprightlier  flood. 

Farringdon  Hill.     A  Poem.     H.  J.  PvE,  1774. 


The  Lady  of  the   Lake 

canto  first 
The  Chase 

I 

The  Stag  at  eve  had  drunk  his  fill. 

Where  danced  the  moon  on  Monan's  rill. 

And  deep  his  midnight  lair  had  made 

In  lone  (jlenartney's  hazel  shade  ; 

But,  when  the  sun  his  beacon  red 

Had  kindled  on  Benvoirlich's  head. 

The  deep-mouthed  blood-hound's  heavy  bay 

Resounded  up  the  rocky  way, 

And  faint,  from  farther  distance  borne, 

Were  heard  the  clanging  hoof  and  horn. 


As  chief  who  hears  his  warder  call, 

'  To  arms  I  the  foemen  storm  the  wall,' — 

The  antler'd  monarch  of  the  waste 

Sprung  from  his  heathery  couch  in  haste. 

Rut,  e'er  his  fleet  career  he  took, 

The  dew-drops  from  his  flanks  he  shook  ; 

Like  crested  leader  proud  and  high. 

Tossed  his  beamed  frontlet  to  the  sky  ; 

A  moment  gazed  adown  the  dale, 

A  moment  snuffed  the  tainted  gale, 

A  moment  listened  to  the  cry, 

That  thickened  as  the  chase  drew  nigh  ; 

Then,  as  the  headmost  foes  appeared. 

With  one  brave  bound  the  copse  he  cleared, 

And,  stretching  forward  free  and  far. 

Sought  the  wild  heaths  of  UamA'ar. 

Ill 

Yelled  on  the  view  the  opening  pack. 
Rock  glen  and  cavern  paid  them  back  ; 
To  many  a  mingled  sound  at  once 
The  awakened  mountain  gave  response. 


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124  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

An  hundred  dogs  bayed  deep  and  strong, 
Clattered  an  hundred  steeds  along, 
Their  peal  the  merry  horns  rung  out, 
An  hundred  voices  joined  the  shout ; 
With  hark  and  whoop  and  wild  halloo 
No  rest  Benvoirlich's  echoes  knew. 
Far  from  the  tumult  fled  the  roe, 
Close  in  her  covert  cowered  the  doe, 


The  falcon,  from  her  cairn  on  high, 
Cast  on  the  rout  a  wondering  eye. 
Till  far  beyond  her  piercing  ken 
The  hurricane  had  swept  the  glen. 
Faint,  and  more  faint,  its  failing  din 
Returned  from  cavern,  cliff,  and  linn. 
And  silence  settled,  wide  and  still. 
On  the  lone  wood  and  mighty  hill. 

IV 

Less  loud  the  sounds  of  sylvan  war 
Disturbed  the  heights  of  Uam-Var, 
And  roused  the  cavern,  where  'tis  told 
A  g^ant  made  his  den  of  old  ; 


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SPORTING  EXTRACTS  125 

For  ere  that  steep  ascent  was  won, 
High  in  his  path-way  hung  the  sun, 
And  many  a  gallant,  stayed  per-force, 
Was  fain  to  breathe  his  faultering  horse  ; 
And  of  the  trackers  of  the  deer 
Scarce  half  the  lessening  pack  was  near  ; 
So  shrewdly,  on  the  mountain  side, 
Had  the  bold  burst  their  mettle  tried. 


The  noble  Stag  was  pausing  now, 
Upon  the  mountain's  southern  brow, 
Where  broad  extended,  far  beneath, 
The  varied  realms  of  fair  Menteith. 
With  anxious  eye  he  wandered  o'er 
Mountain  and  meadow,  moss  and  moor. 
And  pondered  refuge  from  his  toil, 
By  far  Lochard  or  Aberfoyle. 
But  nearer  was  the  copse-wood  gray, 
That  waved  and  wept  on  Loch-Achray, 
And  mingled  with  the  pine-trees  blue 
On  the  bold  cliffs  of  Ben- venue. 
Fresh  vigour  with  the  hope  returned. 
With  flying  foot  the  heath  he  spurned, 
Held  westward  with  unwearied  race. 
And  left  behind  the  panting  chase. 

VI 

'Twere  long  to  tell  what  steeds  gave  o'er, 
As  swept  the  hunt  through  Cambus-more  ; 
What  reins  were  tightened  in  despair, 
When  rose  Benledi's  ridge  in  air ; 
Who  flagged  upon  Bochastle's  heath, 
Who  shunned  to  stem  the  flooded  Teith, — 
For  twice,  that  day,  from  shore  to  shore. 
The  gallant  stag  swam  stoutly  o'er. 
Few  were  the  stragglers,  following  far. 
That  reached  the  lake  of  Vennachar ; 
And  when  the  Brigg  of  Turk  was  won. 
The  headmost  Horseman  rode  alone. 

VII 

Alone,  but  with  unbated  zeal. 
That  horseman  plied  the  scourge  and  steel ; 
For  jaded  now,  and  spent  with  toil. 
Embossed  with  foam,  and  dark  with  soil, 
While  every  gasp  with  sobs  he  drew. 
The  labouring  stag  strained  full  in  view. 


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126  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

Two  dogs  of  black  Saint  Hubert's  breed, 

Unmatched  for  courage,  breath,  and  speed, 

Fast  on  his  flying  traces  came. 

And  all  but  won  that  desperate  game  ; 

For,  scarce  a  spear's  length  from  his  haunch, 

Vindictive  toiled  the  blood-hounds  staunch  ; 

Nor  nearer  might  the  dogs  attain, 

Nor  farther  might  the  quarry  strain. 

Thus  up  the  margin  of  the  lake. 

Between  the  precipice  and  brake. 

O'er  stock  and  rock  their  race  they  take. 

VIII 

The  hunter  marked  that  mountain  high. 
The  lone  lake's  western  boundary. 
And  deemed  the  stag  must  turn  to  bay, 
Where  that  huge  rampart  barred  the  way  ; 
Already  glorying  in  the  prize. 
Measured  his  antlers  with  his  eyes ; 
For  the  death- wound,  and  death-halloo. 
Mustered  his  breath,  his  whinyard  drew ; 
But,  thundering  as  he  came  prepared, 
With  ready  arm  and  weapon  bared. 
The  wily  quarry  shunned  the  shock, 
And  turned  him  from  the  opposing  rock  ; 
Then,  dashing  down  a  darksome  glen, 
Soon  lost  to  hound  and  hunter's  ken, 
In  the  deep  Trosach's  wildest  nook 
His  solitary  refuge  took. 
There  while,  close  couched,  the  thicket  shed 
Cold  dews  and  wild  flowers  on  his  head, 
He  heard  the  baffled  dogs  in  vain 
Rave  through  the  hollow  pass  amain. 
Chiding  the  rocks  that  yelled  again. 

IX 

Close  on  the  hounds  the  hunter  came, 
To  cheer  them  on  the  vanished  game  ; 
But,  stumbling  in  the  rugged  dell, 
The  gallant  horse  exhausted  fell. 
The  impatient  rider  strove  in  vain 
To  rouse  him  with  the  spur  and  rein, 
For  the  good  steed,  his  labours  o'er, 
Stretched  his  stiflf  limbs,  to  rise  no  more  ; 
Then,  touched  with  pity  and  remorse. 
He  sorrowed  o'er  the  expiring  horse. 
*  I  little  thought,  when  first  thy  rein 
I  slacked  upon  the  banks  of  Seine  ; 


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SPORTING  EXTRACTS  127 

That  highland  eagle  e'er  should  feed 
On  thy  fleet  limbs,  my  matchless  steed  ! 
Woe  worth  the  chase,  woe  worth  the  day, 
That  costs  thy  life,  my  gallant  grey  ! ' 


Then  through  the  dell  his  horn  resounds, 
From  vain  pursuit  to  call  the  hounds. 
Back  limped,  with  slow  and  crippled  pace, 
The  sulky  leaders  of  the  chase  ; 
Close  to  their  master's  side  they  pressed, 
With  drooping  tail  and  humbled  crest ; 
But  still  the  dingle's  hollow  throat 
Prolonged  the  swelling  bugle-note. 
The  owlets  started  from  their  dream, 
The  eagles  answered  with  their  scream. 
Round  and  around  the  sounds  were  cast. 
Till  echo  seemed  an  answering  blast ; 
And  on  the  hunter  hied  his  pace. 
To  join  some  comrades  of  the  chase  ; 
Yet  often  paused,  so  strange  the  road, 
So  wondrous  were  the  scenes  it  show'd. 


CANTO   FOURTH 
•    XXV 

The  Prophecy 

The  toils  are  pitched,  and  the  stakes  are  set, 

Ever  sing  merrily,  merrily  ; 
The  bows  they  bend,  and  the  knives  they  whet, 

Hunters  live  so  cheerily. 

It  was  a  stag,  a  stag  of  ten,^ 

Bearing  his  branches  sturdily  ; 
He  came  stately  down  the  glen, 

Ever  sing  hardily,  hardily. 

It  was  there  he  met  with  a  wounded  doe. 

She  was  bleeding  deathfuUy  ; 
She  warned  him  of  the  toils  below, 

O  so  faithfully,  faithfully  ! 

He  had  an  eye,  and  he  could  heed. 

Ever  sing  warily,  warily  ; 
He  had  a  foot,  and  he  could  speed  .  .  . 

Hunters  watch  so  narrowly. 

'  Having  ten  branches  on  his  antlers. 

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128  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

CANTO   SIXTH 
XXIV 

Lay  of  thk  imprisoned  Huntsman 

My  hawk  is  tired  of  perch  and  hood, 
My  idle  grey-hound  loathes  his  food, 
My  horse  is  weary  of  his  stall. 
And  I  am  sick  of  captive  thrall. 
I  wish  I  were  as  I  have  been, 
Hunting  the  hart  in  forests  green, 
With  bended  bow  and  blood-hound  free, 
For  that's  the  life  is  meet  for  me. 

I  hate  to  learn  the  ebb  of  time, 
From  yon  dull  steeple's  drowsy  chime, 
Or  mark  it  as  the  sun-beams  crawl. 
Inch  after  inch,  along  the  wall. 
The  lark  was  wont  my  matins  ring, 
The  sable  rook  my  vespers  sing  ; 
These  towers,  although  a  king's  they  be. 
Have  not  a  hall  of  joy  for  me. 

No  more  at  dawning  morn  1  rise, 
And  sun  myself  in  Ellen's  eyes, 
Drive  the  fleet  deer  the"  forest  through, 
And  homeward  wend  with  evening  dew  ; 
A  blithesome  welcome  blithely  meet, 
And  lay  my  trophies  at  her  feet. 
While  fled  the  eve  on  wing  of  glee,  .  .  . 
That  life  is  lost  to  love  and  me  ! 

The  Lady  of  the  Lake:  a  Poem.    Walter  Scott,  i8io. 


From  '  Marmion ' 

introduction  to  canto  second 

.  .  .  '  Here,  in  my  shade,'  methinks  he'd  say, 

'  The  mighty  stag  at  noontide  lay  : 

The  wolf  I've  seen,  a  fiercer  game, 

(The  neighbouring  dingle  bears  his  name,) 

With  lurching  step  around  me  prowl, 

And  stop  against  the  moon  to  howl ; 

The  mountain  boar,  on  battle  set. 

His  tusks  upon  my  stem  would  whet ; 


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SPORTING  EXTRACTS  129 

While  doe  and  roe,  and  red-deer  good, 

Have  bounded  by  through  gay  green -wood. 

Then  oft,  from  Newark's  riven  tower, 

Sallied  a  Scottish  monarch's  power  : 

A  thousand  vassals  mustered  round, 

With  horse,  and  hawk,  and  horn,  and  hound  ; 

And  I  might  see  the  youth  intent. 

Guard  every  pass  with  cross-bow  bent ; 

And  through  the  brake  the  rangers  stalk. 

And  falc'ners  hold  the  ready  hawk  ; 

And  foresters,  in  green- wood  trim, 

Lead  in  the  leash  the  gaze-hounds  grim, 

Attentive,  as  the  bratchet's  ^  bay 

From  the  dark  covert  drove  the  prey. 

To  slip  them  as  he  broke  away. 

The  startled  quarry  bounds  amain, 

As  fast  the  gallant  grey-hounds  strain  ; 

Whistles  the  arrow  from  the  bow, 

Answers  the  harquebuss  below  ; 

While  all  the  rocking  hills  reply, 

To  hoof-clang,  hound,  and  hunters'  cry, 

And  bugles  ringing  lightsomely.' 

INTRODUCTION  TO  CANTO   FIFTH 

When  dark  December  glooms  the  day, 
And  takes  our  autumn  joys  away  ; 
When  short  and  scant  the  sun-beam  throws, 
Upon  the  weary  waste  of  snows, 
A  cold  and  profitless  regard, 
Like  patron  on  a  needy  bard  ; 
When  sylvan  occupation's  done. 
And  o'er  the  chimney  rests  the  gun, 
And  hang,  in  idle  trophy,  near. 
The  game-pouch,  fishing-rod,  and  spear  ; 
When  wiry  terrier,  rough  and  grim, 
And  greyhound  with  his  length  of  limb, 
And  pointer,  now  employed  no  more, 
Cumber  our  parlour's  narrow  floor  ; 
When  in  his  stall  the  impatient  steed 
Is  long  condemned  to  rest  and  feed  ; 
When  from  our  snow-encfrcled  home, 
Scarce  cares  the  hardiest  step  to  roam, 
Since  path  is  none,  save  that  to  bring 
The  needful  water  from  the  spring  ; 
When  wrinkled  news-page,  thrice  con'd  o'er 
Beguiles  the  dreary  hour  no  more, 
And  darkling  politician,  crossed, 

1  Slow-hound. 


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I30  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

Inveighs  against  the  lingering  post, 

And  answering  house-wife  sore  complains 

Of  carriers'  snow-impeded  w^ains  : 

When  such  the  country  cheer,  I  come. 

Well  pleased,  to  seek  our  city  home  ; 

For  converse,  and  for  books,  to  change 

Th«  Forest's  melancholy  range, 

And  welcome,  with  renewed  delight 

The  busy  day,  and  social  night. 

Marmion:  a  Tale  of  Flodden  Field.     Waltkr  Scott.  1808. 


From  '  The  Excursion ' 


...  *  A  blessed  lot  is  yours  I ' 
He  said,  and  with  that  exclamation  breathed 
A  tender  sigh  ; — but,  suddenly  the  door 
Opening,  with  eager  haste  two  lusty  Boys 
Appeared — confusion  checking  their  delight. 
— Not  Brothers  they  in  feature  or  attire, 
But  fond  Companions,  so  I  guessed,  in  field, 
And  by  the  river-side — from  which  they  come, 
A  pair  of  Anglers,  laden  with  their  spoil. 
One  bears  a  willow-pannier  on  his  back. 
The  Boy  of  plainer  garb,  and  more  abashed 
In  "countenance, — more  distant  and  retired. 
Twin  might  the  Other  be  to  that  fair  Girl 
W^ho  bounded  tow'rds  us  from  the  garden  mount. 
Triumphant  entry  this  to  him  ! — for  see. 
Between  his  hands  he  holds  a  smooth  blue  stone, 
On  whose  capacious  surface  is  outspread 
Large  store  of  gleaming  crimson-spotted  trouts  ; 
Ranged  side  by  side,  in  regular  ascent, 
One  after  one,  still  lessening  by  degree 
Up  to  the  dwarf  that  tops  the  pinnacle. 
Upon  the  Board  he  lays  the  sky-blue  stone 
With  its  rich  spoil ; — their  number  he  proclaims  ; 
Tells  from  what  pool  the  noblest  had  been  dragged  ; 
And  where  the  very  monarch  of  the  brook, 
After  long  struggle,  had  escaped  at  last  -  - 
Stealing  alternately  at  them  and  us 
(As  doth  his  Comrade  too)  a  look  of  pride. 
And,  verily,  the  silent  Creatures  made 
A  splendid  sight  together  thus  exposed  ; 
Dead — but  not  sullied  or  deformed  by  Death, 
That  seemed  to  pity  what  he  could  not  spare. 


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SPORTING  EXTRACTS  131 

But  oh  I  the  animation  in  the  mien 
Of  those  two  Boys  !    Yea  in  the  very  words 
With  which  the  young  Narrator  was  inspired, 
When,  as  our  questions  led,  he  told  at  large 
Of  that  day's  prowess  !     Him  might  I  compare, 
His  look,  tones,  gestures,  eager  eloquence, 
To  a  bold  Brook  which  splits  for  better  speed, 
And,  at  the  self-same  moment,  works  its  way 
Through  many  channels,  ever  and  anon 
Parted  and  reunited  :  his  Compeer 
To  the  still  Lake,  whose  stillness  is  to  the  eye 
As  beautiful,  as  grateful  to  the  mind. 

W.  Wordsworth,  18 14. 


Skating 


And  in  the  frosty  season,  when  the  sun 
Was  set,  and  visible  for  many  a  mile 
The  cottage  windows  blazed  through  twilight  gloom, 
I  heeded  not  their  summons  :  happy  time 
It  was  indeed  for  all  of  us — for  me 
It  was  a  time  of  rapture  !   Clear  and  loud 
The  village  clock  tolled  six, — I  wheeled  about, 
Proud  and  exulting  like  an  untired  horse 
That  cares  not  for  his  home.     All  shod  with  steel, 
We  hissed  along  the  polished  ice  in  games 
Confederate,  imitative  of  the  chase 
And  woodland  pleasures,— the  resounding  horn, 
The  pack  loud  chiming,  and  the  hunted  hare. 
So  through  the  darkness  and  the  cold  we  flew, 
And  not  a  voice  was  idle  ;  with  the  din 
Smitten,  the  precipices  rang  aloud  ; 
The  leafless  trees  and  every  icy  crag 
Tinkled  like  iron  ;  while  far  distant  hills 
Into  the  tumult  sent  an  alien  sound 
Of  melancholy  not  unnoticed,  while  the  stars 
Eastward  were  sparkling  clear,  and  in  the  west 
The  orange  sky  of  evening  died  away. 
Not  seldom  from  the  uproar  I  retired 
Into  a  silent  bay,  or  sportively 
Glanced  sideway,  leaving  the  tumultuous  throng. 
To  cut  across  the  reflex  of  a  star 
That  fled,  and,  flying  still  before  me,  gleamed 
Upon  the  glassy  plain  ;  and  oftentimes. 
When  we  had  given  our  bodies  to  the  vvin<^ 
And  all  the  shadowy  banks  on  either  side 
Came  sweeping  through  the  darkness,  spinning  still 
The  rapid  line  of  motion,  then  at  once 

K  2 


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132  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

Have  I,  reclining  back  upon  my  heels, 
Stopped  short ;  yet  still  the  solitary  cliffs 
Wheeled  by  me— even  as  if  the  earth  had  rolled 
With  visible  motion  her  diurnal  round  ! 

The  Prelude.     W.  Wordsworth,  1850. 

From  '  The  Two  Foscari ' 

ACT  I.   SCENE  I. 

How  many  a  time  have  I 
Cloven  with  arm  still  lustier,  breast  more  daring, 
The  wave  all  roughen'd  ;  with  a  swimmer's  stroke 
Flinging  the  billows  back  from  my  drench'd  hair, 
And  laughing  from  my  lip  the  audacious  brine, 
Which  kiss'd  it  like  a  wine-cup,  rising  o'er 
The  waves  as  they  arose,  and  prouder  still 
The  loftier  they  uplifted  me  ;  and  oft, 
In  wantonness  of  spirit,  plunging  down 
Into  their  green  and  glassy  gulfs,  and  making 
My  way  to  shells  and  sea-weed,  all  unseen 
By  those  above,  till  they  wax'd  fearful ;  then 
Returning  with  my  grasp  full  of  such  tokens 
As  show'd  that  I  had  searched  the  deep  :  exulting. 
With  a  far-dashing  stroke,  and  drawing  deep 
The  long-suspended  breath,  again  I  spum'd 
The  foam  which  broke  around  me,  and  pursued 
My  track  like  a  sea-bird. — I  was  a  boy  then. 

The  Two  Foscari :  a  Tragedy.     Lord  Byron,  1821. 

From  '  Don  Juan ' 

CANTO   XIII 

The  mellow  Autumn  came,  and  with  it  came 
The  promised  party,  to  enjoy  its  sweets. 

The  com  is  cut,  the  manor  full  of  game  ; 
The  pointer  ranges,  and  the  sportsman  beats 

In  russet  jacket  :— lynx-like  is  his  aim. 

Full  grows  his  bag,  and  wondei/«/  his  feats. 

Ah  nutbrown  Partridges  I   Ah  brilliant  Pheasants  ! 

And  ah,  ye  Poachers  1 *Tis  no  sport  for  peasants. 

The  gentlemen  got  up  betimes  to  shoot, 

Or  hunt :  the  young,  because  they  liked  the  sport — 

The  first  thing  boys  like,  after  play  and  fruit  : 
The  middle-aged,  to  make  the  day  more  short ; 

For  ennui  is  a  growth  of  English  root, 
Though  nameless  in  our  language  :-  -we  retort 


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SPORTING  EXTRACTS  133 

The  fact  for  words,  and  let  the  French  translate 
That  awful  yawn  which  sleep  can  not  abate. 

Then  there  were  billiards  ;  cards  too,  but  no  dice  ; — 
Save  in  the  Clubs  no  man  of  honour  plays  ; — 

Boats  when  'twas  water,  skaiting  when  'twas  ice, 
And  the  hard  frost  destroyed  the  scenting  days  : 

And  angling  too,  that  solitary  vice, 
Whatever  Isaac  Walton  sings  or  says  : 

The  quaint,  old,  cruel  coxcomb,  in  his  gullet 

Should  have  a  hook,  and  a  small  trout  to  pull  it. 

Don  Juan,     Lord  By  RON,  1823. 

From  '  The  Deformed  Transformed  ' 

PART   III.   SCENE  I. 

Chorus 

But  the  hound  bayeth  loudly, 

The  Boar's  in  the  wood. 
And  the  Falcon  longs  proudly 

To  spring  from  her  hood  : 
On  the  wrist  of  the  Noble 

She  sits  like  a  crest, 
And  the  air  is  in  trouble 

With  birds  from  their  nest. 

C.«SAR 

Oh  I  Shadow  of  glory  ! 

Dim  image  of  war  ! 
But  the  chace  hath  no  story. 

Her  hero  no  star, 
Since  Nimrod,  the  Founder 

Of  empire  and  chace, 
Who  made  the  woods  wonder 

And  quake  for  their  race. 
When  the  Lion  was  young. 

In  the  pride  of  his  might, 
Then  'twas  sport  for  the  strong 

To  embrace  him  in  fight ; 
To  go  forth,  with  a  pine 

For  a  spear,  'gainst  the  Mammoth, 
Or  strike  through  the  ravine 

At  the  foaming  Behemoth  ; 
While  man  was  in  stature 

As  towers  in  our  time. 
The  first  bom  of  nature, 

And,  like  her,  sublime  ! 

The  Deformed  Transformed,     Lord  By  RON,  1824. 


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134  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

From  '  QEdipus  Tyrannus ' 

act  11.  scene  ii. 

Minotaur 

My  name's  John  Bull  ;  I  am  a  famous  hunter, 
And  can  leap  any  gate  in  all  Boeotia, 
Even  the  palings  of  the  royal  park, 
Or  double  ditch  about  the  new  enclosures  ; 
And  if  your  Majesty  will  deign  to  mount  nie. 
At  least  till  you  have  hunted  down  your  game, 
I  will  not  throw  you. 

Iona  Taurina 

{^During  this  speech  she  has  been  putting  on  boots  and  spur s^  and  a 
hunting  cap^  buckishly  cocked  on  one  side^  and  tucking  up  her  hair, 
she  leaps  nimbly  on  his  back.) 

Hoa  I  hoa  !  tallyho  !  tallyho  !  ho !  ho  ! 
Come,  let  us  hunt  these  ugly  badgers  down, 
These  stinking  foxes,  these  devouring  otters. 
These  hares,  these  wolves,  these  anything  but  men. 
Hey,  for  a  whipper-in  !  my  loyal  pigs, 
Now  let  your  noses  be  as  keen  as  beagles, 
Your  steps  as  swift  as  greyhounds,  and  your  cries 
More  dulcet  and  symphonious  than  the  bells 
Of  village-towers,  on  sunshine  holiday  ; 
Wake  all  the  dewy  woods  with  jangling  music. 
Give  them  no  law  (are  they  not  beasts  of  blood  }) 
But  such  as  they  gave  you.     Tallyho  !  ho  ! 
Through  forest,  furze,  and  bog,  and  den,  and  desart, 
Pursue  the  ugly  beasts  I  tallyho  !  ho  ! 

Full  Chorus  of  Iona  and  the  Swine 

Tallyho  !  tallyho  : 
Through  rain,  hail,  and  snow, 
Through  brake,  gorse,  and  briar. 
Through  fen,  flood,  and  mire, 
We  go  I  we  go  I 

Tallyho  !  tallyho  ! 
Through  pond,  ditch,  and  slough, 
Wind  them,  and  find  them, 
Like  the  Devil  behind  them, 
Tallyho  !  tallyho  ! 

Exeunt^  inftdl  cry. 

CEdipus  Tyrannus;  or  Svellfoot  tht  Tyra?tt :  a  Tragedy, 

P.  B.  Shelley,  1820. 


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SPORTING  EXTRACTS  135 


From  '  The  Love  Chase ' 

ACT  II.   SCENE  III. 

Constance.       .       .       .       Worthy  sir, 
Souls  attract  souls,  when  the/re  of  kindred  vein. 
The  life  that  you  love,  I  love.     Well  I  know, 
^Mongst  those  who  breast  the  feats  of  the  bold  chase, 
You  stand  without  a  peer  ;  and  for  myself 
I  dare  avow  'mong  such,  none  follows  them 
With  heartier  glee  than  I  do. 

WiLDRAKE.    Churl  were  he 
That  would  gainsay  you,  madam  ! 

Constance— c^wr/^jyiw^.    What  delight 
To  back  the  flying  steed,  that  challenges 
The  wind  for  speed  I — seems  native  more  of  air 
Than  earth  ! — whose  burden  only  lends  him  fire  ! — 
Whose  soul  in  his  task,  turns  labour  into  sport  ! 
Who  makes  your  pastime  his  !  I  sit  him  now  I 
He  takes  away  my  breath  ! — He  makes  me  reel  I 
I  touch  not  earth — I  see  not— hear  not— All 
Is  ecstacy  of  motion  ! 

WiLDRAKE.    You  are  used, 
I  see,  to  the  chase. 

Constance.     I  am,  Sir  :    Then  the  leap. 
To  see  the  saucy  barrier,  and  know 
The  mettle  that  can  clear  it  I  Then  your  time 
To  prove  you  master  of  the  manage.     Now 
You  keep  him  well  together  for  a  space. 
Both  horse  and  rider  braced  as  you  were  one. 
Scanning  the  distance — then  you  give  him  rein, 
And  let  him  fly  at  it,  and  o'er  he  goes 
Light  as  a  bird  on  wing. 

WiLDRAKE.     *Twere  a  bold  leap, 
I  see,  that  tum'd  you,  madam, 

Constance.    Sir,  you're  good  ! 
And  then  the  hounds,  sir.    Nothing  I  admire 
Beyond  the  running  of  the  well-tram'd  pack. 
The  training's  every  thing  I    Keen  on  the  scent  ! 
At  fault  none  losing  heart ! — but  all  at  work  ! 
None  leaving  his  task  to  another  I — answering 
The  watchful  huntsman's  caution,  check,  or  cheer 
As  steed  his  rider's  rein  !    Away  they  go  ! 
How  close  they  keep  together  I — What  a  pack  I 
Nor  turn  nor  ditch  nor  stream  divides  them — as 
They  moved  with  one  intelligence,  act,  will ! 
And  then  the  concert  they  keep  up  I— enough 
To  make  one  tenant  of  the  merry- wood, 


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136  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

To  list  their  jocund  music  I 

WiLDRAKE.     You  describe 
The  huntsman's  pastime  to  the  life  ! 

Constance.     I  love  it ! 
To  wood  and  glen,  hamlet  and  town,  it  is 
A  laughing  holiday  ! — Not  a  hill-top 
But's  then  alive  ! — Footmen  with  horsemen  vie. 
All  earth's  astir,  roused  with  the  revelry 
Of  vigour,  health,  and  joy  ! — Cheer  awakes  cheer, 
While  Echo's  mimic  tongue,  that  never  tires, 
Keeps  up  the  hearty  din  !     Each  face  is  then 
Its  neighbour's  glass — where  gladness  sees  itself, 
And,  at  the  bright  reflection,  grows  more  glad  ! 
Breaks  into  tenfold  mirth  ! — laughs  like  a  child  ! 
Would  make  a  gift  of  its  heart,  it  is  so  free  ! 
Would  scarce  accept  a  kingdom,  'tis  so  rich  ! 
Shakes  hands  with  all,  and  vows  it  never  knew 
That  life  was  life  before  ! 

The  Loi'e  Chiue.     James  Shkkiuan  Knowles,  1837. 


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^^^^^^y 

r^mr^^m^m£m.^^^^im 

INTRODUCTION 
TO  POEMS,  SONGS,  AND  BALLADS 


If  there  was  a  difficulty  in  selecting  the  most  interesting  ex- 
tracts from  among  the  many  allusions  to  sport  in  verse,  the 
work  of  deciding  w^hich  songs  and  ballads  should  be  included 
or  rejected  is  no  light  one. 

The  impression  that  a  person  must  be  a  song-writer  if 
capable  of  placing  a  capital  letter  before  every  five  or  six  words, 
and  ending  those  lines  with  terminations  which  rhyme  more  or 
less  accurately,  is  common  ;  but  we  must  study  songs  of  sport 
to  realise  fully  the  reductio  ad  absurdum  of  such  a  proposition. 
Gleaned  from  all  sources,  collections,  magazines,  newspapers 
and  manuscripts,  under  the  heading  of  every  conceivable  sport, 
we  have  more  than  ten  thousand  songs  ranging  over  the  last 
450  years.  Many  of  these  are  but  variations  of  the  same  verses 
reproduced  over  and  over  again  ;  in  the  first  edition  they  are 
often  amusing  on  account  of  their  quaintness,  but  the  intended 
improvements  have  slowly  abolished  the  one  small  charm  they 
had,  till  the  end  of  perfection  leaves  us  in  possession  of  pure 
and  unadulterated  trash. 

It  is  not  easy  to  determine  what  fiend  first  made  Auro  ra 
the  patron  saint  of  hunting  songs,  but  it  may  be  fairly  taken 
for  granted  that  in  one  out  of  three  cases  she  will  be  found 
mixed  up  in  the  first  two  lines.     Sometimes  she  is  coming 


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138  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

forth  or  about  to  appear ;  perhaps  she  may  be  summoning 
someone,  and  even  displaying  her  charms  or  having  them 
neglected  ;  in  fact,  doing  a  hundred  and  one  possible  and  im- 
possible things  which  enable  the  writer  to  work  in  such  rhymes 
as  dawn,  thorn,  lawn,  and  horn  in  this  way  : — 

Aurora,  fair  goddess  of  dawn, 
Is  gilding  the  point  of  a  thorn 
And,  roused  by  the  sound  of  our  horn. 
Displays  all  her  charms  on  the  lawn. 

No  sooner,  however,  have  we  settled  that  Aurora  is,  and  has 
for  some  reason  the  right  to  be,  considered  our  patron  saint, 
than  we  begin  to  be  doubtful,  for  we  find  that  Phoebus  and 
Sol  run  her  very  closely ;  for  while  Aurora  is  appearing,  Phoebus 
is  spreading  his  beams  over  the  streams,  or  mounting  his  car 
under  a  star,  whilst  Diana  is  eager  for  war.  Sol,  on  the  other 
hand,  seems  to  be  a  lower- minded  being  of  the  same  kind,  who 
is  usually  either  doffing  his  nightcap,  squinting,  winking  his 
eye,  or  rousing  himself  from  somebody's  lap— for  preference 
Hebe's.  We  have,  it  is  true,  for  a  change  now  and  then  a 
visit  from  Cynthia  or  Hesperus,  but  this  as  a  rule  is  only  when 
the  poet  likes  a  Httle  rugged  scansion. 

The  following  four  lines,  taken  at  random,  will  give  a  fair 
idea  (allowing  for  variations)  of  the  commencement  of  some 
two  thousand  songs  : — 

Fain  longer  would  indolent  Phoebus  recline, 

Neglecting  Aurora's  bright  charms. 
But  the  hale  glowing  troop  of  Diana  combine 

To  rouse  him  from  Sleep's  languid  arms. 

It  is  little  exaggeration  to  say  that  in  one  collection  of  over 
four  hundred  sporting  songs,  from  which  we  have  selected 
about  one  per  cent,  Aurora  and  Phoebus  have  each  close  on 
one  hundred  appearances,  Sol  rather  fewer,  and  the  minor 
deities  in  proportion.  Moreover,  the  compilers  of  such  inter- 
esting collections,  not  satisfied  with  ^yo,  or  six  versions  of  one 
song,  not  infrequently  have  printed  word  for  word  the  same 
verses  twice  over,  as  if  it  were  impossible  to  have  too  much  of 
so  good  a  thing. 


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INTRODUCTION  TO  POEMS,   SONGS,  ^c,        139 

Having  given  just  a  rough  idea  of  the  kind  of  songs  we  do 
not  intend  to  reproduce,  we  will  now  again  turn  to  the  still 
large  collection  before  us. 

The  oldest  of  these  songs  are  probably  to  be  found  in  the 
Roxburghe  and  various  collections  of  ballads  belonging  to  the 
British  Museum  and  other  libraries.  The  way  in  which  these 
stray  leaflets  or  broad-sheets  have  been  preserved  and  bound 
together  is  too  well  known  and  too  lengthy  a  matter  to  go  into 
here  ;  for  the  sake,  however,  of  those  who  have  not  had  the 
opportunity  of  seeing  some  of  the  originals,  we  reproduce  one 
here.  Most  of  these  ballads,  however,  are  much  older  in 
all  probability  than  the  paper  on  which  they  are  printed, 
many  having  been  handed  down  either  in  writing  or  by  word 
of  mouth,  and  as  they  were  reproduced  every  few  years,  it 
is  quite  possible  that  some  of  the  earlier  editions  have  long 
been  extinct.  The  woodcuts  on  the  top  of  many  of  them 
are  ver>'  quaint,  and  were  often  used  quite  indiscriminately  ; 
for  instance,  if  the  printer  had  no  hunting  scene,  he  would 
place  a  couple  of  lovers  above  *  The  Fox  Hunt ; '  or,  vice  versa, 
the  fox  and  hounds  over  a  love  song ;  sometimes  even,  if 
the  blocks  got  broken  or  defaced,  a  part  of  one  engraving  and 
a  part  of  another  over  either  or  both.  These  so-called  illus- 
trated songs  were  very  popular  in  their  day,  being  sold  for  a 
low  price  about  the  streets  and  in  the  various  shops.  They 
doubtless  would  have  been  even  more  prized  if  there  had  been 
a  greater  number  of  people  able  to  read  them. 

It  must  be  borne  in  mind  that  these  ballads  are  seldom 
dated,  and  as  many  of  them  have  been  collected  in  recent 
years,  the  only  clue  to  when  they  were  composed  must  either 
be  sought  from  the  print,  paper,  illustration,  or  in  the  matter 
itself.  The  Rev.  J.  W.  Ebsworth,  who  is  the  greatest  authority 
on  this  subject,  has  done  much  by  the  most  patient  research  to 
throw  a  light  on  the  darkness,  and  we  are  indebted  to  him  both 
for  his  works  and  his  kindly  personal  assistance.  Nevertheless, 
we  have  often,  after  trying  every  means  available,  been  obliged 
to  rely  on  very  slight  evidence,  more  especially  in  those  songs 


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I40 


THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 


which  are  obviously  much  older  than  the  first  known  edi- 
tions. Instead,  therefore,  of  giving  dates  which  often  have 
been  or  would  be  mere  guesswork,  it  will  be  our  endeavour 

Princely  Diverfion,  or  the  Jovial  Hunting  Match, 


ON  EVakntirterDajr  in  the  Morning,  A      The  Morning  was  plea(«nc  all  OTCr 
brixht  ch*b*u  began  to  appear,  Z  ^  >>r^9!^^  «nd  To  eletr  wasrbe  5kr. 

Sir  Wm  Cook  winding  hit  Horn  v  We  made  all  the  Woods  fa  to  roar. 

And  wasgoirtg  a  hunting  the  hare,  41  With  the  Noift  of  our  fwecc  harmonf. 

^ayi  Hsadford  uneouple  our  8cd{Mi^  m  t  was  for  the  (pace  of  three  Hours 

And  let  them  go  (^acf)ing  alojif  ^  We  held  all  oar  Hdrrcs  lo  fpceil 

For  loofe  her  or  win  her,  we  miiftgo  toiriMcr  g  Black  floven  held  hard  to  bay  Robfn 


Or  elfc  chey  will  think  me  long. 

Says  Hirndftrd  { pray  now  forbare  fir 
A  nd  talk  not  of  Dinner  fo  loon 
For  I've  not  been  a  hunting  this  Year 
And  how  can  you  give  oyer  by  Noou 
Black  Shvtfi  (h«U  W4rm  ynur  tay  Ketm 
And  make  him  lO  Smoacking  along. 
Bonny  Dick  (ball  not  Gallop  flb  quick 
If  we  light  of  a  Uafc  that  k  ftrong. 

Well  lUrndftrd  faid  the  good  Elquife. 
iDictn  to  (how  yoo  a  trick 
/value  not  hedges  nor  Ditches 
But  I'll  letyon  know  bonny  Dick 
Then  hie  for  the  Chfom'Btw.FieU^ 
We  Qiallget  her  Ten  thouland  to  one, 
7*herels  Wonder,  lays  hard  uponThooder 
Awty,  o*ei  away  (lie  is  goocs 


m  But  Yet  could  not  do  the  deed, 

m      ft  wa/  abour  Nine  in  rbe  morning 
m  W«  foaoded  our  6rft  pa/Eng  Bell 
^  dt  William  pray  put  up  your  born 
m  For  another  Frefb  Mare  will  do  well, 
f  Well  Hanafsrd  Uid  the  good  fiCqoire 
^  What  think  yov  oi  ay  bonny  Dtck 
2  doe'sihink  ihoo  can  make  hun  to  tiie 
9  or  not  for  to  Gallop  fo  qaick, 

2     Faith  MafUr  I  needs  muA  Cooliifc, 
W  Thar  i  fear  i  was  boafting  to  loon 
*  But  hie  fc>r  aoothet  freft  Hire 

»"  And  your  Dick  Ibould  have  dinn'd  by  oooa 
Well  H^itdford  have  tt  your  black  floyen 
;g  ril  makebim  in  Purple  Co  RJde 
an  And  if  he  does  offer  to  tiia 
▼/'ll  certainly  liqyotyeurhkle 


to  arrange  the  songs  in  the  order  of  their  apparent  age,  and 
to  give  the  name  of  the  collection  from  which  they  have  been 
taken. 


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INTRODUCTION  TO  POEMS,  SONGS,  dr^c.        141 

We  have  tried,  as  mentioned  in  the  Introduction,  to  trace 
back  each  piece  and  to  give  the  earliest  rendering,  thereby  dis- 
regarding the  many  stages  through  which  it  has  passed.     It  is 
possible  sometimes  to  find  eight  distinct  variations,  and  as  the 
first  is  not  always  the  best  verse,  some  of  our  friends  will  appear 
here  in  old  garments  that  seem  to  fit  them  rather  awkwardly. 
The  extraordinary  liberties  that  have  been  taken  in  the  past 
with  the  works  of  fairly  well-known  writers  will  be  incredible 
to  those  who  have  not  studied  the  subject.     Many  editors  and 
printers  seem  to  have  considered  it  part  of  their  duty  to  improve 
the  work  on  which  they  were  engaged,  till  often  in  a  hundred 
years  hardly  a  vestige  of  the  original  remains.     It  may  be  in- 
teresting to  give  an  example.     On   looking   over  one  of  the 
magazines  issued  seventy  years  ago,  a  passage  quoted  from  an 
author  whose  works  were  known  to  us  seemed  unfamiliar  ;  we 
traced  it,  however,  by  a  note  to  an  edition  printed  about  1720, 
and  found  that,  though  differing  slightly  on  account  of  a  few 
misprints,    it   was  fairly  accurate.      We  then   turned  to  the 
original   work,  but  still   failed   to   identify   it.      After  going 
through  four  other  intervening  reprints,  we  discovered  a  clue, 
and  were  able  at  last  to  fit  some  of  the  lines  in  their  places  ; 
the  others  had  been  simply  added  from  time  to  time.  One  of  the 
worst  of  these  faults  is  the  habit  of  altering  the  names  of  per- 
sons referred  to  in  the  text  to  suit  the  date  of  the  reprint,  in 
which  way  a  poet  who  died  in  the  sixteenth  century  may  be 
found  praising  the  excellent  horsemanship  of  some  king  born 
in  the  seventeenth. 

It  will  easily  be  seen,  since  this  was  done  openly  when  the 
poet  was  known,  how  careful  we  require  to  be  in  judging  a 
ballad  with  neither  date  nor  name.  The  mention  of  Queen 
Elizabeth  as  ruling  at  the  time  may  seem  conclusive  evidence, 
but  unless  we  know  how  many  names  had  preceded  hers,  it 
can  at  best  be  only  suggestive. 

It  is  somewhat  strange  that,  considering  how  popular  any 
collection  of  sporting  songs  has  always  proved,  no  attempt  ever 
seems  to  have  been  made  to  bring  out  even  an  approximately 


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142  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

representative  edition.  Those  that  we  have,  excepting  one  or 
two  on  Fishing,  are  out  of  date  ;  but  that  is  their  least  fault,  for 
no  pains  whatever  seems  to  have  been  taken  with  any  of  them 
either  in  the  selection  or  arrangement.  The  songs  are  seldom  of 
historical  interest,  and  the  few  w^hich  show  signs  of  it  have  been 
printed  in  such  a  comparatively  modern  and  garbled  form  that 
half  their  value  is  lost.  One  would  almost  suppose  these  works 
to  have  been  compiled  from  the  refuse,  carelessly  swept 
together,  of  a  sporting  editor's  waste-paper  basket. 

In  most  editorial  work  there  is  a  fairly  solid,  if  uneven, 
groundwork  on  which  to  build  ;  but  not  so  here,  and  we  trust 
in  some  way  to  remedy  the  defect.  That  our  collection  can  be 
perfect  is  impossible  ;  well  nigh  as  easy  would  it  be  to  compile 
an  accurate  dictionary  of  a  language  at  the  first  attempt.  In  the 
mass  of  chaff  some  good  grain  is  certain  to  have  slipt  through, 
besides  which  the  limitations  of  space  have  obliged  us  to 
leave  out  much  excellent  work  that  we  should  have  been  glad 
to  include.  Information  possessed  by  others  is,  moreover,  not 
always  procurable.  For  example,  there  is  or  was  a  song  on 
football  written  by  Somervile.  This  we  know,  but  every 
attempt  to  obtain  it  has  so  far  proved  unavailing,  though  we 
have  reason  to  believe  that  in  some  private  collection  a  copy 
still  exists,  and  probably  there  are  others  hidden  away.  It 
is  often  a  difficult  matter,  when  a  book  or  pamphlet  is  not  in 
any  of  the  well-known  public  libraries,  to  find  it,  and  a  good 
many  works  on  sporting  literature  are  unfortunately  not  in  any 
of  these  splendid  collections.  The  British  Museum  does  not 
contain  even  a  complete  edition  of  the  *  Sporting  Magazine,' 
although  three  or  four  perfect  sets  have  been  sold  in  the 
last  twenty  years.  Now,  however,  these  defects  are  being 
rapidly  remedied  by  the  energy  of  those  in  authority,  and 
even  w^hilst  collecting  material  for  this  work  we  discovered 
nearly  two  hundred  volumes  on  various  subjects  which  have 
since  been  bought  by  the  Trustees  and  added  to  our  national 
library. 

Whilst  speaking  of  the  British  Museum,  it  would  be  un- 


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INTRODUCTION  TO  POEMS,  SONGS,  6r-c.        143 

gracious  not  to  express  our  indebtedness  to  Dr.  Garnett  and 
Mr.  Fletcher  for  the  invariable  courtesy  and  assistance  we 
have  received  from  them,  as  well  as  from  many  others  in  the 
Reading-room.  Also  to  Professor  Colvin  and  his  assistants  in 
the  Print-room,  for  the  facilities  granted  us,  whilst  reproducing 
many  of  their  rare  and  valuable  illustrations,  and  for  informa- 
tion on  sporting  prints,  &c. 

It  may  be  surprising  to  some  of  our  readers  that  we  have 
included  so  little  that  has  been  written  of  recent  years.  In 
some,  but  not  many,  cases  the  law  of  copyright  has  prevented 
us  from  doing  so,  and  we  acknowledge  with  gratitude  the  kind 
permission  which  we  have  obtained  to  print  some  of  the  poems, 
without  which  the  book  could  hardly  have  been  considered 
complete.  But  possibly  from  the  reason  suggested  in  the  Intro- 
duction, there  has  been  little  of  note  written  for  some  time  on 
sport ;  our  modern  verse-writers  seem  to  have  been  too  busy 
either  love-making,  philosophising,  or  groaning  over  the  mis- 
fortunes of  life,  to  deign  to  descend  to  these  trivial  joys  ;  but 
signs  are  not  wanting  of  a  more  healthy  tone,  and  some  of  our 
leading  critics,  who  do  much  to  turn  the  tide  of  public  feeling, 
have  certainly  assisted  in  the  slaughter  of  the  effeminates. 
They  may  not  yet  have  discovered  a  poet  who  is  capable  of 
describing  a  perfectly  healthy  and  well-balanced  being,  but 
they  have  expressed  a  distaste  (shared  by  many)  for  having 
only  those  minds  which  are  nourished  by  diseased  bodies  dis- 
sected for  their  intellectual  entertainment. 

At  the  conclusion  of  what  we  may  term  the  more  serious 
portion  of  our  work  will  be  found,  under  the  heading  of  *  Humor- 
ous Songs  and  Parodies,'  a  number  of  songs  which  will,  we 
trust,  afford  amusement.  We  have  especially  endeavoured  to 
collect  some  pieces  written  in  close  imitation  of  the  style  of 
those  poets  whose  works  have  not  been  produced  here. 

Unfortunately  the  wit  of  bygone  days  was  too  often  of  a 
kind  which  does  not  harmonise  with  the  present  rules  of  taste, 
and,  therefore,  little  of  this  part  of  the  book  is  of  value  his- 
torically ;  but  we  think  that  the  veteran  sportsman  will  find 


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144  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

much  in  it  that  will  entertain  him,  while  to  the  novice  we  can 
highly  recommend  it  as  a  safe  form  of  inoculation.  A  small 
and  comparatively  painless  dose  of  this  satire  taken  into  the 
system  will  probably  save  him  many  hours  of  feverish  humi- 
liation not  easily  forgotten.  As  the  insects  that  sting  are 
better  known  and  remembered  than  the  many  other  species  of 
flies,  a  few  cutting  lines  (even  though  we  apply  them  only 
to  our  neighbours)  sink  in  and  have  more  effect  than  many 
careful  rules  ;  for  these  rules  are  at  critical  moments  often 
forgotten,  whilst  the  satire,  having  been  learnt  by  heart  for  the 
use  of  someone  else,  is  ever  present.  How  often  do  we  see 
some  comparative  novice  turn  with  the  scorn  called  forth  by 
a  remembrance  of  *  Handley  Cross '  upon  one  who  speaks  of  a 
dog  in  the  hunting  field  !  It  might,  in  fact,  be  given  as  a 
cockney  sporting  riddle,  *When  is  a  dog  not  a  dog?'  with 
answer,  'When  it's  a  hound.'  It  will,  I  fancy,  surprise  not  a 
few  of  these  would-be  authorities  to  find  that  this  absurdity 
was  as  unknown  even  among  so-called  sportsmen  prior  to  this 
century  as  it  is  by  sportsmen  at  the  present  time.  We  do  not 
say  that  Mr.  Surtees  is  to  blame,  but  that  the  novice,  having 
heard  the  term  dog  used  as  a  word  of  reproach  to  indicate  that 
every  dog  is  not  to  be  called  a  hound,  has  fallen  into  the  mis- 
take of  supposing  that  therefore  a  hound  is  not  to  be  called  a 
dog.  We  have  touched  on  this  matter  here  on  account  of  the 
frequent  mention  of  dogs  in  hunting  verse,  and  to  prevent  any 
of  our  readers  from  making  the  mistake,  of  which  a  super- 
ficial writer  recently  was  guilty,  to  suppose  that  anyone  who 
so  expressed  himself  was  not  qualified  by  experience  to 
write  on  the  subject.  The  true  sportsman  was  and  is  as  little 
afraid  of  calling  a  hound  a  dog  as  the  true  gentleman  would 
he  of  calling  a  lady  a  woman. 

Among  the  extracts  we  have  so  many  that  refer  to  various 
sports  that  it  was  impossible  to  subdivide  them  under  special 
headings,  but  in  the  songs  this  difficulty  rarely  occurs,  and  for 
the  sake  of  convenience  it  has  seemed  better  to  keep  them  as 
far  as  possible  separate,  so  that  anyone  interested  in  a  special 


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INTRODUCTION  TO  POEMS,  SONGS,  &^c.        145 

subject  shall  be  able  to  indulge  his  inclination  without  let  or 
hindrance. 

Hunting  and  Fishing,  being  the  most  ancient,  will  neces- 
sarily take  pre-eminence.  With  regard  to  Hawking,  we  have 
felt  compelled  to  curtail  the  space  as  much  as  possible  ;  for 
though  we  are  glad  to  say  that  it  is  far  from  being  an  obsolete 
sport,  yet,  on  account  of  the  many  difficulties  now  encoun- 
tered in  its  enjoyment,  it  is  open  to  few,  and  therefore  of 
less  general  interest ;  still,  we  feel  sure  that  those  who  care  to 


\ 

In 

bN«p^ 

follow  this  amusement  will  already  have  seen  that  it  has  not 
been  neglected. 

It  must  be  admitted  with  reluctance  that  Shooting  has  not 
been  very  satisfactorily  dealt  with  in  verse.  We  have  plenty 
of  material ;  but,  alas  I  the  pudding  is  heavy  and  the  plums 
few.  The  gun  seems  to  have  had  as  deadly  effect  upon  life 
in  the  verse  as  upon  life  in  the  victim  ;  for,  whereas  in 
the  days  of  archery  many  lines  and  lives  escaped  extinction, 


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146  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

the  invention  of  powder  seems  to  have  been  equally  fatal  to 
both.  Over  and  over  again  have  we  struck  some  new  lode 
which,  considering  its  thickness,  promised  to  contain  unhmited 
ore  ;  but,  alas  !  how  often  the  title  has  proved  but  a  decoy 
nugget  dropped  on  barren  clay  !  Many  of  these  curiosities  we 
possess,  and  as  they  are  likely  to  find  their  way  into  the  British 
Museum,  anyone  interested  in  the  subject  will  be  able  to  read 
them  at  his  leisure,  but  we  could  hardly,  even  on  acccount  of 
their  rarity,  inflict  them  on  the  public. 

Judging  from  the  works  of  early  writers,  it  does  not  seem 
that  the  games  which  we  now  include  as  sports  were  regarded 
by  them  with  the  same  reverence.  Golf,  goff,  bandy  ball,  or 
cambuca,  as  some  think  it  was  first  called,  seems  to  have  been 
the  most  ancient.  The  ball  employed  was  very  similar  to  the 
one  used  until  about  fifty  years  ago,  being  made  of  leather  stuffed 
with  feathers  ;  and  the  game  seems  to  have  been  always  played 
in  much  the  same  way,  either  by  two  or  four  players.  A 
variation  of  the  game  was  played  on  the  ice  in  Holland  ;  a 
good  illustration  of  which  is  reproduced  on  p.  145.  Though 
this  pastime  is  mentioned  in  prose  as  early  as  the  reign  of 
Edward  II.,  we  have  not  been  able  to  find  any  verse  on  the 
subject  before  the  end  of  the  sixteenth  century,  and  it  is 
usually  only  referred  to  in  songs  on  other  subjects,  as  in  the 
following  verse  from  *  And  to  each  pretty  lass  we  will  give  a 
green  gown '  : 

Thus  all  our  life  long  we  are  frolick  and  gay, 
And  instead  of  Court- revels,  we  merrily  play 
At  Trap,  at  Rules, ^  and  at  Barly-break '^  run  ; 
At  Goff,  and  at  Foot-ball,  and  when  we  have  done 
These  innocent  sports,  we'l  laugh  and  lie  down 

And  to  each  pretty  Lass 

We  will  give  a  ji^reen  Gon'n. 

I  f  t'stminster  Drollery,  ib-j\. 

Or  again,  as  in  the  '  Satyre  on  the  Familie  of  Stours,'  per- 
haps one  of  the  oldest : 

^  any  kind  of  frolic.  *  a  sort  of  prisoners'  base. 


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INTRODUCTION  TO  POEMS,   SONGS,  6^c.        147    ' 

He  Jure  postliminii  did  transub 

Himself  to  ball,  the  Parliament  to  club, 

Which  will  him  holl  when  right  teased  at  one  blow, 

Or  els  Sir  Patrick  will  be  the  shinnie  goe. 

Maidtncnt :  a  Ftook  of  Scoiish  Pasguils,  1568-171 5.     1868. 

It  was  not  until  the  beginning  of  the  seventeenth  century 
that  this  game,  with  many  others,  became  fashionable  ;  for  until 
then,  with  one  or  two  exceptions,  all  such  recreations  were 
looked  down  upon  as  being  fitted  only  either  to  prepare  youths 
for  what  were  considered  the  manlier  sports  of  hunting  and 
hawking,  or  else  as  a  pastime  for  the  common  people,  as  can 
be  noticed  in  such  references  as  this  on  football  :  — 

The  sturdie  plowmen  lustie,  strong  and  bold, 
Overcometh  the  winter  with  driving  the  foote-ball, 
Forgetting  labour  and  many  a  grievous  fall. 

Ship  of  Fools,  1508. 

The  consequence  is  that  we  are  rather  badly  off  for  old 
songs  on  games  ;  but  we  have  nevertheless  been  able  to  gather 
together  some  which  will  be  found  worthy  of  attention  ;  among 
them  there  is  one  on  billiards,  which,  as  far  we  know^,  is  here 
reprinted  for  the  first  time  after  a  lapse  of  two  hundred  years. 
If  we  are  right  in  thinking  that  these  verses  have  been  lost 
sight  of,  their  reproduction  is  of  considerable  importance  ;  for 
they  fully  explain  how  the  game  was  played  in  the  sixteenth 
century.  The  old  method  has  for  long  been  a  matter  of 
discussion,  and  even  Strutt  (the  most  painstaking  of  all  writers 
on  our  subject)  seems  to  have  been  unable  to  understand  it. 
The  verses,  however,  strengthen  his  view  that  billiards  was  at 
first  but  a  table  variation  of  mace  bowls. 

A  few  words  are  now  due  to  those  who  in  various 
parts  of  the  country  have  for  years  been  diligent  collectors  of 
sporting  songs,  some  giving  their  attention  to  one  branch  and 
some  to  another.  To  you,  most  dangerous  of  all  critics,  the 
several  joints  of  our  harness  will  be  revealed.  Lying  well 
guarded  in  the  armour  of  the  specialist,  with  the  sharp-pointed 
weapon  of  local  knowledge  to  thrust  at  the  general  traveller,  we 

1.  2 

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148  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

can  hardly  expect  to  escape  you  unwounded.  Had  we  sought 
in  all  your  private  libraries,  visited  all  your  favourite  haunts,  or 
hunted  with  each  local  pack,  and  thus  tried  to  discover  its 
special  bards,  we  know  still  that  you  would  have  been  too  many 
for  us.  From  some  secret  hiding-place  would  have  been  drawn 
those  harmless-looking  weapons,  a  more  ancient  version  of 
some  song,  a  ballad  of  infinite  superiority  to  anything  here 
produced  (and  of  which  only  twenty  copies  were  printed),  or 
worse  still,  some  evidence  to  prove  us  in  the  wrong  as  to  our 
dates,  names,  &c.  Do  we  not  ourselves  possess  such  valued 
weapons,  and  know  the  joy  of  handling  them  ?  Are  they  not 
piled  away  and  carefully  labelled,  ready  when  the  appointed 
time  shall  come,  or  already  rusty  with  the  blood  of  the  victim  ? 
Thus,  when  from  the  secure  retreat  of  our  speciality,  and  the 
well-known  haunts  in  which  we  deem  ourselves  invincible,  we 
have  dared  to  wander  over  your  preserves,  our  courage  wavers, 
and  fain  would  we  ask  for  terms  of  peace,  yet  refrain.  In  such 
not  really  unfriendly  warfare  is  error,  not  man,  defeated, 
and  if  one  or  two  of  us  get  a  mortal  wound  through  oar  pre- 
sumption, there  are  plenty  as  good  and  better  to  take  our 
place  and  drive  the  ball  of  information  gaily  on  its  way. 

But  after  all,  what  have  we  to  do  with  the  critic  ?  How 
easy  is  it  to  carp,  how  hard  to  be  natural  and  happy  ;  to  cast 
off,  if  only  for  the  time,  all  trouble  and  care,  and  sit  quietly 
down  and  enjoy  ourselves  !  A  much  brighter  life  would  be  ours 
if  some  blest  spirit  placed  in  our  too  prominent  nostrils  the  ring 
of  wisdom — we  should  find  the  earth  pleasanter  to  lie  upon  from 
our  inability  to  grub  beneath  the  surface  in  our  ceaseless  search 
for  error.  Therefore,  with  relief  we  turn  to  you,  our  brother 
sportsmen  ;  for  to  you,  and  to  you  only,  is  this  book  offered. 
If,  after  a  good  day's  sport,  you  are  not  too  weary  to  turn  over 
a  few  pages,  may  what  we  have  here  collected  recall  the  pre- 
vious pleasant  hours  ;  or  if  from  some  misfortune  you  are 
debarred  for  a  short  time  (and  may  such  times  be  few)  from 
participating  in  the  delight  of  action,  we  hope  these  pages  may 
bring  back  some  of  the  pleasure  of  which  otherwise  you  might 


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INTRODUCTION  TO  POEMS,   SONGS,  &-c.        149 

be  altogether  deprived.  When  we  cannot  live  in  the  present 
there  is  surely  a  joy  to  be  found  in  turning  to  the  past,  and  to 
those  whose  imagination  is  not  dead  what  a  field  of  suggestion 
is  open  here  !  The  petty  annoyances  of  the  moment  can  be 
forgotten  as  we  glide  lightly  over  the  years  that  are  gone,  and, 
half  dreaming,  find  ourselves  gaily  riding  forth  in  novel  costume 
with  the  merry  sportsmen  of  the  past.  We  hail  the  jovial 
country  squire,  and  as  he  chats  to  us  time  is  forgotten.  He 
may  not  be  quite  so  enlightened  in  some  things  (thank  Heaven  !) 
as  the  modern  School  Board  child ;  he  has  never  heard  of  rail- 
ways, of  telegraphs,  of  heredity  or  hypnotism  ;  but  he  can  tell 
us  something  about  country  life  as  it  was,  and  not  as  it  is 
often  represented  to  have  been  by  the  town-living  jaundiced 
dilettante.  His  grammar  may  be  a  little  shaky,  and  the  songs 
he  gives  us  after  dinner  not  always  quite  up  to  the  metrical 
standard  acquired  by  modern  songsters  ;  but  what  a  breath  of 
good,  honest,  healthy  life  seems  to  pervade  the  atmosphere  in 
which  we  find  him  !  Does  he  propound  such  pleasing  riddles  as 
*  Is  life  worth  living  ? '  Not  a  bit  of  it !  Having  found  out  un- 
consciously Punch's  answer,  he  has  never  even  been  troubled 
with  the  question,  and  would  consider  anyone  who  asked  it  a 
fool.  *  Life  worth  living  ! '  you  seem  to  hear  him  say.  *  Man 
alive,  don't  you  know  the  hounds  meet  to-morrow,  and  the 
wind's  backing  to  the  south  ?  Get  to  bed  !  We  shall  have  to 
be  off  before  sunrise,  and  you  can  answer  the  question  yourself 
when  you  hear  the  first  "  Tally-ho  !  " '  Dear  old  bygone  days  ! 
With  all  our  modern  improvement,  have  we  bettered  you? 
Are  we  really  so  much  wiser  and  nobler  and  happier  than  our 
ancestors  ?  It  is  easy  to  see  their  faults.  What  would  they 
think  of  ours  ?  It  is  easy  to  jeer  at  their  folly,  but  would  they 
have  nothing  to  laugh  at  were  they  with  us  once  again  ? 

May  the  day  be  far  distant  when  we  have  become  so  logical 
that  none  can  find  fault  with  us  ;  so  wise  that  simple  pleasure 
seems  foolishness  ;  so  sensible  that  we  die  either  of  despair 
or  dulness.  As  the  work  of  a  genius  is  always  more  open  to 
attack  than  that  of  the  dealer  in  elegant  platitudes,  so  are  the 


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THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 


exuberant  pleasures  of  health  than  the  morbid  moralisings  of 
distemper,  for  one  is  the  deformity  of  that  which  is  truthful, 
the  other  is  truthful  only  of  deformity.  Alas  !  to  many  it  seems 
more  righteous  to  speak  accurately  and  thereby  tell  a  lie,  than 
by  a  false  or  exaggerated  statement  to  convey  a  truth. 

Against  such  attacks  has  sport  and  all  that  pertains  to  it 
to  contend  ;  yet  has  it  nought  to  fear  ;  the  healthy  reaction 
which  follows  all  non-fatal  disease  is  still  working.  Though 
time  may  change  many  things,  and  the  conditions  of  life  must 
alter,  yet  will  the  children  of  Britain  remain  at  heart  what  they 
have  always  proved  themselves  to  be,  true  sportsmen. 


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POEMS,   SONGS,   AND    BALLADS 


HUNTING 
Sonet 

Who,  so  list  to  hount,  I  knowe  where  is  an  hynde. 

But,  as  for  me  halas^  I  may  no  more. 

The  vayne  travaill,  hath  weried  me  so  sore. 

I  am  of  them,  that  furdest  cume  behinde. 

Yet  may  I,  by  no  meanes,  my  weried  mynde 

Drawe  from  the  Deer  ;  but  as  she  fleeth  afore 

Faynting  I  followe,  I  leve  of  therefore, 

Sins  in  a  nett  I  seke  to  hold  the  wynde. 

Who  list  her  hunt,  I  put  him  owte  of  double 

As  well,  as  1  may  spend  his  tyme  in  vain. 

And,  graven  with  Diamondes,  in  letters  plain. 

There  is  written,  her  faier  neck  rounde  abowie. 

Noli  me  tangere,  for  Ciesars  1  am, 

And  wylde  for  to  holde,  though  I  seme  tame. 

Sir  Thomas  Wyatt,  from  a  MS.  formerly  in 
possession  of  Dr.  Xoit. 

From  '  A  Briefe  Discourse  of  the  true  (but 

neglected)  use  of  Charactring  the 

Degrees,  etc' 

A  Hunts  up.     (John  Bennet.) 

The  hunt  is  up,  sing  merrily  wee, 

The  hunt  is  up,  sing  merrily  wee,  the  hunt  is  up, 

The  Birds  they  sing,  the  Deare  they  fling, 

hey  nony  nony  nony  no, 
The  Hounds  they  crye,  the  Hunters  they  flye, 

hey  tro  li  lo,  tro  lo  li  lo,  hey  tro  lo  li  lo  li  li  lo. 
Cho.  The  hunt  is  up,  ut  supra. 


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152  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

The  IVoods  resounds 
To  heere  the  Hounds ^ 

hey,  nony  nony-no  : 
The  Rocks  resport 
This  merry  sport, 

hey,  trohlo  trololilo. 

/Cho.  The  hunt  is  up,  the  hunt  is  up, 

1  Sing  merrily  wee  the  hunt  is  up. 

Then  hye  apace 
Unto  the  chase 

hey  nony,  nony  nony— no. 
Whilst  every  thing 
Doth  sweetly  sing, 

hey  troli-lo  trololy — lo. 
The  hunt  is  up,  the  hunt  is  up. 
Sing  merrily  wee  the  hunt  is  up. 

Thomas  Ravenscrokt,  Bachelor  of  M us icke,  1614. 

To  Diana 

Oueene  and  Huntresse,  chaste,  and  faire. 
Now  the  Sunne  is  laid  to  sleepe, 
Seated,  in  thy  silver  chaire, 
State  in  wonted  manner  keepe  : 

Hesperus  intreats  thy  light, 

Goddesse,  excellently  bright. 

Earth,  let  not  thy  envious  shade 
Dare  it  selfe  to  interpose  ; 
Cynthias  shining  orbe  was  made 
Heaven  to  cleere,  when  day  did  close: 

Blesse  us  then  with  wished  sight, 

(joddesse,  excellently  bright. 

Lay  thy  bow  of  pearle  apart, 
And  thy  cristall-shining  quiver  ; 
Give  unto  the  flying  hart 
Space  to  breathe,  how  short  soever  : 

Thou  that  mak'st  a  day  of  night, 

Goddesse,  excellently  bright, 
Cynthia  s  Reiells.     Thf  Workcs  of  Beniafnin  Jonson,  161 6. 

Hymne  to  Pan 

1.  Oi  Pan  we  sing,  the  best  of  singers  Pan 
That  taught  us  swaines,  how  first  to  tune  our  layes, 
And  on  the  pipe  more  aires  then  Phoebus  can. 

Cho.  Heare  O  you  groves,  and  hills  resound  his  praise. 

2.  Of  Pan  we  sing,  the  best  of  Leaders,  Pan 


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HUNTING 


153 


That  leads  the  Nayad's,  and  the  Dryad's  forth, 
And  to  their  daunces  more  then  Hermes  can. 

Cho.  Hear  O  you  groves,  and  hills  resound  his  worth. 

3.  Oi  Pan  we  sing,  the  best  of  Hunters,  Pan 
That  drives  the  Heart  to  seeke  unused  wayes, 
And  in  the  chace  more  then  Sylvanus  can, 

Cho.  Heare  O  you  groves,  and  hills  resound  his  praise. 

4.  Of  Pan  we  sing,  the  best  of  Shepherds,  Pan^ 
That  keepes  our  flocks,  and  us,  and  both  leads  forth 
To  better  pastures  then  great  Pales  can  ; 

Cho.  Heare  O  you  groves,  and  hills  resound  his  wprth. 
And  while  his  powers,  and  praises  thus  we  sing,  « 

The  Valleys  let  rebound,  and  all  the  rivers  ring. 

Pans  Anniversarie.    The  Workes  of  Benin  mi  n  yonson,  1640. 


On   the    Head   of  a   Stag' 

So  we  some  antique  Herds  strength 
Learn  by  his  launces,  weight  and  length  ; 
As  these  vast  beams  expresse  the  beast, 


Whose  shadie  browes  alive  they  drest. 
Such  game  while  yet  the  world  was  new. 
The  mighty  Nimrod  did  pursue. 


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154  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

What  Huntsman  of  our  feeble  race, 
Or  dogs  dare  such  a  monster  chase  ? 
Resembling  with  each  blow  he  strikes 
The  charge  of  a  whole  troop  of  Pikes  • 
O  fertile  head  which  every  yeare 
Could  such  a  crop  of  wonder  bear  I 
The  teemmg  earth  did  never  bring 
So  soon,  so  hard,  so  huge  a  thing  ; 
Which  might  it  never  have  been  cast 
Each  years  growth  added  to  the  last : 
These  lolty  branches  had  supply'd 
The  earth's  bold  sons  prodigous  pride  : 
Heaven  with  these  engines  had  bin  scal'd 
When  mountains  heap'd  on  mountains  fail'd. 

The  Workes  of  Rdmond  Waller,  1645 


The  Fox  Chase 

The  sun  has  just  peep'd  his  head  o'er  the  hills, 
While  the  ploughboy  he  whistles  cross  the  fields, 
And  the  birds  they  are  singing  so  sweet  on  each  spray 
Says  the  huntsman  to  his  dogs,  *  tally  ho  I    hark  away  I ' 

CHORUS 

Tally  ho  I  hark  away,  tally  ho  !  hark  away. 
Tally  ho,  tally  ho,  tally  ho,  hark  away. 

Come,  come,  my  brave  sportsmen,  and  make  no  delay. 
Quick,  saddle  your  horses,  and  let's  brush  away, 
For  the  fox  is  in  view,  and  is  kindled  with  scorn, 
Come  along,  my  brave  sportsmen,  and  join  the  shrill  horn. 

Tally  ho,  &c. 

He  led  us  £.  chase,  more  than  fifty  long  miles, 
Over  hedges,  over  ditches,  over  gates,  and  over  stiles. 
Little  David  came  up  with  his  musical  horn. 
We  shall  soon  overtake  him,  for  his  brush  drags  along. 

Tally  ho,  &c. 

We  followed  him  in  chase,  six  hours  full  cry. 
Tally  ho,  hark  away,  for  now  he  must  die. 
Now  we'll  cut  off  his  brush,  with  a  hallooing  noise. 
And  drink  good  success  to  fox-hunting  boys. 

Tally  ho,  &c. 

CramptoH  Ballads^ 


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HUA'TING 

Three  Jovial  Huntsmen 

There  were  three  jovial  huntsmen, 

A  hunting  they  would  go, 
To  see  whether  they'd  find  sly  Reynard, 

Among  the  woods  and  groves. 


15S 


CHORUS 

With  a  hoop,  hoop,  hoop,  and  a  hallow, 

All  in  this  merry  train, 
To  my  ran  tan  too,  to  my  chevy,  chevy  chase, 
Away  to  the  royal  bar. 
With  my  ugle,  ugle,  ugle,  and  the  blast  of  the  bugle  horn. 

To  my  ri  fal  de  ra,  to  my  diddle  don, 
And  it's  through  the  woods  we'll  run,  brave  boys. 


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156  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

The  first  was  an  old  woman, 

A  combing  down  her  locks, 
She  said  she  saw  bold  Reynard 

Among  the  geese  and  ducks.  Chorus. 

The  next  was  a  miller, 

A  grinding  in  his  mill, 
He  said  he  saw  bold  Reynard, 

Approaching  yonder  hill. 

The  next  it  was  a  blind  man, 

As  blind  as  blind  could  be, 
He  said  he  heard  bold  Reynard 

Running  up  yonder  tree. 

The  next  it  was  a  Parson, 

He  was  dressed  in  black. 
He  said  he  saw  bold  Reynard 

Tied  to  the  huntsman's  back. 

With  a  hoop,  hoop,  hoop,  and  a  hallow, 

All  in  this  merry  train. 
To  my  ran  tan  too,  to  my  chevy  chase 
Away  to  the  Royal  Bar, 
With  my  ugle,  ugle,  and  the  blast  of  the  bugle  horn, 

To  my  ri  fal  de  ra,  to  my  diddle,  diddle  don, 
And  it's  through  the  woods  we'll  run,  brave  boys. 

liallad. 

Southerly  Wind  and  a  Cloudy  Sky 

Southerly  wind  and  a  cloudy  sky, 
Proclaims  a  hunting  morning, 
Before  the  sun  rise,  we  nimbly  fly, 
Dull  sleep  and  a  downy  bed  scorning. 

To  horse  my  boys,  to  horse  away, 

The  chase  admits  of  no  delay. 

On  horseback  we've  got,  together  we'll  trot. 

On  horseback  we've  got,  together  we'll  trot. 
Leave  off  your  chat,  see  if  the  cover  appear, 
The  hound  that  strikes  first,  cheer  him  without  fear. 
Drag  on  him,  ah  wind  him,  my  steady  good  hound, 
Drag  on  him,  ah  wind  him,  the  cover  resounds. 

How  completely  the  cover  and  furze  they  draw. 

Who  talks  of  Bany  or  Meynell, 

Young  Lasher  he  flourishes  now  thro'  the  shaw, 

And  Saucebix  roars  out  in  his  kennel. 
Away  we  fly  as  quick  as  thought, 
The  new  sown  ground  soon  makes  them  fault, 


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HUNTING  157 

Cast  round  the  sheep's  train,  cast  round,  cast  round, 
Try  back  the  deep  lane,  try  back,  try  back. 
Hark,  1  hear  some  hounds  challenge  in  yonder  spring  sedge, 
Comfort  Bitch  hits  it  off  in  that  old  thick  hedge. 
Hark  forward,  hark  forward,  have  at  him  my  Boys, 
Hark  forward,  hark  forward,  zounds  don't  make  a  noise. 

A  stormy  sky  overcharged  with  rain, 
Both  hounds  and  huntsmen  opposes. 
In  vain  on  your  mettle,  you  tr>'  boys  in  vain, 
But  down  you  must  go  to  your  noses. 

Each  moment  the  sky  now  grows  worse, 

Enough  to  make  a  parson  curse  ; 

Prick  thro'  the  plow'd  ground,  prick  through,  prick  through, 

Well  hunted  good  hounds,  well  hunted,  well  hunted. 
If  we  can  but  get  on,  we  shall  soon  make  him  quake. 
Hark,  I  hear  some  hounds  challenge  in  the  midst  of  the  brake, 
Tally  ho,  tally  ho,  there  across  the  green  plain. 
Tally  ho,  tally  ho,  boys  have  at  him  again. 


Prick  thro'  the  plow'd  ground 

Thus  we  ride,  whip  and  spur,  for  a  two  hours  chace. 

Our  horses  go  panting  and  sobbing. 

Young  Mad  Cap  and  Riot,  begin  now  the  race. 

Ride  on,  Sir,  and  give  him  some  mobbing. 
But  hold  alas,  you'll  spoil  our  sport. 
For  thro'  the  Hounds  you'll  head  him  short. 


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158  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

Clap  round  him  dear  pack,  clap  round,  clap  round, 
Hark,  Drummer,  hark  back,  hark  back,  hark  back. 
He's  jumping  and  dodging  in  every  bush. 
Little  Riot  has  fasten'd  her  teeth  in  his  brush. 
Whoo'  hoop,  whoo'  hoop,  he's  fairly  run  down, 
Whoo'  hoop,  whoo'  hoop,  he's  fairly  run  down. 

CrampUm  Ballads. 

The  Hunting  of  the   Hare 

With  her  last  Whj.  and  Testament 

As  'twas  perfornvd  on  Bamstead  downs 
By  Cony-catchers  and  their  hounds. 
To  a  pleasant  new  Tune. 

\Pf  all  the  sports  the  world  doth  yield.] 

Of  all  delights  that  Earth  doth  yeeld. 
Give  mee  a  pack  of  hounds  in  field  : 
Whose  eccho  shall  throughout  the  sky 
yi^k^Jove  admire  our  harmony, 

and  wish  that  he  a  mortal  were 

to  view  the  pastime  we  have  here. 

I  will  tell  you  of  a  rare  scent. 
Where  many  a  gallant  horse  was  spent 
On  Bamste  id- Downs  a  Hare  we  found 
Which  led  us  all  a  smoaking  round  ; 

o're  hedge  and  ditch  away  she  goes, 

admiring  her  approaching  foes. 

but  when  she  found  her  strength  to  wast 
She  parleyed  with  the  hounds  at  last : 
Kind  hounds,  quoth  she,  forbear  to  kill 
A  harmless  Hare  that  neer  thought  ill, 

and  if  your  Master  sport  do  crave, 

I'll  lead  a  scent  as  he  would  have. 

[huntsman] 

Away,  away,  thou  art  alone, 
Make  haste,  I  say,  and  get  thee  gone, 
Wee'l  give  thee  law  for  half  a  mile 
To  see  if  thou  canst  us  beguile, 

but  then  expect  a  thund'ring  cr>', 

made  by  us  and  our  harmony. 

[hare] 

Now  since  you  set  my  life  so  sleight, 
I'l  make  black  sloven  turn  to  white  :    • 
.\nd  Yorkshire  Gray  that  runs  at  all, 


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HUNTING  159 

rie  make  him  wish  he  were  in  stall, 
or  Sorrel  he  that  seems  to  flye, 
rie  make  him  supple  e're  he  dye. 

Let  Bamards  Bay  do  what  he  can, 
Or  Barrens  Bay  that  now  and  than, 
Did  interrupt  mee  on  my  way, 
rie  make  him  neither  jet  nor  play, 

or  constant  Robin  though  he  lye, 

at  his  advantage,  what  care  I. 

Will  Hatton  he  hath  done  mee  wrong. 
He  struck  mee  as  I  run  along, 
And  with  one  pat  made  mee  so  sore, 
That  I  ran  reeling  to  and  fro  ; 

but  if  I  dye  his  Master  tell, 

that  fool  shall  ring  my  passing  bell. 

[huntsman] 

Alas  poor  Hare  it  is  our  nature. 
To  kill  thee,  and  no  other  creature, 
For  our  Master  wants  a  bit, 
And  thou  wilt  well  become  the  spit, 

he'l  eat  thy  flesh,  we'l  pick  thy  bone, 

this  is  thy  doom,  so  get  thee  gone. 

[hare] 

Your  Master  may  have  better  chear. 

For  I  am  dry,  and  butter  is  dear, 

But,  if  he  please  to  make  a  friend. 

He'd  better  give  a  puddings  end, 
for  I  being  kill'd  the  sport  he'l  lack, 
and  I  must  hang  on  the  Hunts- man's  back. 

[huntsman] 

Alas  poor  Hare  we  pity  thee. 
If  with  our  nature  'twould  agree. 
But  all  thy  doubling  shifts  I  fear. 
Will  not  prevail,  thy  death's  so  near 

then  make  thy  Will,  it  may  be  that, 

may  save  thee,  or  I  know  not  what. 

[the  hare  makes  her  will] 

Then  I  bequeathe  my  body  free, 
Unto  your  Masters  courtesie  : 
And  if  he  please  my  life  to  grant, 
lie  be  his  game  when  sport  is  scant : 

but  if  I  dye  each  greedy  Hound, 

divides  my  entrals  on  the  ground.  ^  t 

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i6o  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 


Item,  I  do  give  and  bequeathe, 
To  men  in  debt  (after  my  death) 
My  subtle  scent,  that  so  they  may, 
Beware  of  such  as  would  betray, 

them  to  a  miserable  fate 

by  blood-hounds  from  the  Compter-gate. 

Item^  I  do  a  turn-coat  give 
(That  he  may  more  obscurely  live) 
My  swift  and  sudden  doublings  which, 
Will  make  him  politick  and  rich, 

though  at  the  last  with  many  wounds 
I  wish  him  kilFd  by  his  own  hounds. 

Item,  I  give  into  their  hands, 

That  purchase  Dean  &  Chapters  lands, 

My  wretched  jealousies  and  fears, 

Mixt  with  salt  of  Orphans  tears, 
that  long  vexations  may  persever, 
to  plague  them  and  their  heirs  for  ever. 

Before  I  dye  (for  breath  is  scant) 

I  would  supply  mens  proper  want. 

And  therefore  I  bequeath(e)  unto. 

The  Scrivener  (give  the  Devil  his  due) 
that  Forgeth,  Swears,  and  then  forswears 
(to  save  his  credit)  both  my  Ears. 

I  give  to  some  Sequestred  njan, 

My  skin  to  make  a  jacket  on  : 

And  I  bequeathe  my  feet  to  they, 

That  shortly  mean  to  run  away. 

When  truth  is  Speaker,  False-hood's  dumb. 
Foxes  must  flye  when  Lions  come. 

To  Fidlers  (for  all  Trades  must  live) 
To  serve  for  strings,  my  guts  I  give  : 
For  Gamesters  that  do  play  at  rut, 
And  love  the  sport,  I  give  my  skut  : 
but  (last  of  all  in  this  sad  dump) 
To  Tower-Hill  I  bequeathe  my  Rump» 

[huntsman] 

Was  ever  Hounds  so  basely  crost. 
Our  Masters  call  us  off  so  fast. 
That  we  the  scent  have  almost  lost. 
And  they  themselves  must  rule  the  rost, 

therefore  kind  Hare  wee'l  pardon  you. 

Thanks  gentle  Hounds,  and  so  adue. 


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o 
to 

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a 

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HUNTING  i6i 

[hare] 

And  since  your  Master  hath  pardon'd  me 
rie  lead  you  all  to  Banbury^ 
Whereas  John  Turner  hath  a  Room, 
To  entertain  all  Guests  that  come 

to  laugh  and  quaff  in  Wine  and  Beer 

a  full  carouse  to  your  Careere. 

Roxburghe  Ballads,  May,  1660. 

When  Bucks  a  Hunting  go 

How  sweet  is  the  horn  that  sounds  in  the  morn 

When  bucks  a  hunting  go, 
When  bucks  a  hunting  go, 

While  all  my  fancy  dwells  upon  Nancy, 
ril  sing  tally  oh  ! 

The  Fox  jump'd  over  the  gate  so  high. 

And  the  hounds  all  after  him  go, 
The  hounds  all  after  him  go. 

While  all  my  fancy  dwells  upon  Nancy, 
rU  sing  tally  oh  ! 

How  happy  is  my  wife  and  I, 

When  that  we  homeward  go. 
When  that  we  homeward  go, 

While  all  my  fancy  dwells  upon  Nancy, 
I'll  sing  tally  oh ! 

Now  since  it's  so,  let's  merry  be. 

We  will  drink  before  we  go, 
We  will  drink  before  we  go, 

While  all  my  fancy  dwells  upon  Nancy, 
I'll  sing  tally  oh  ! 


Ballad, 


The  Dusky  Night 


The  dusky  night  rides  down  the  sky 

And  ushers  in  the  mom. 
The  hounds  all  make  a  jovial  cry. 

The  huntsman  winds  his  horn. 
Then  a  hunting  we  will  go,  &c. 

The  wife  around  her  husband  throws. 

Her  arms  to  make  him  stay, 
My  dear,  it  hails,  it  rains,  it  blows. 

You  cannot  hunt  to  day. 

But  a  hunting  we  will  go,  &c. 

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i62  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

The  uncavern'd  fox,  like  lightning  flies, 

His  cunning's  all  awake, 
Again  the  race  he  eager  tries. 

His  forfeit  life's  the  stake. 
When  a  hunting  we  will  go,  &c. 

Rous'd  even  echo  huntress  turns, 

And  madly  shouts  her  joy, 
The  sportsman's  breast  enraptur'd  burns, 

The  chace  can  never  cloy. 
Then  a  hunting  we  will  go,  &c. 

Despairing  mark  he  seeks  the  tide, 

His  heart '  must  now  prevail, 
Hark  !  shouts  the  miscreant's  death  betide. 

His  speed,  his  cunning  fail. 
Then  a  hunting  we  will  go,  &c. 

For  oh  !  his  strength  to  faintness  worn, 

The  hounds  arrest  his  flight, 
Then  hungr}'  homewards  we  return. 
To  feast  away  the  night. 

Then  a  hunting  we  will  go,  &c. 

nallad. 

Hark  Forward's  the  Cry 

Hark  forward  I  away,  my  brave  boys  to  the  chase, 
To  the  joys  that  sweet  exercise  yield  ; 

The  bright  ruddy  morning  breaks  on  us  apace. 
And  invites  to  the  sports  of  the  field. 

Hark  forward's  the  cry,  and  cheerful  the  mom. 

Then  follow  the  hounds  and  merry-toned  horn. 

No  music  can  equal  the  hounds  in  full  cry. 

Hark  !  they  open — they  haste  away  ; 
O'er  hill,  dale,  and  valley,  with  vigour  we  fly, 

W^hile  pursuing  the  sports  of  the  day. 
Hark  forward's  the  cry,  &c. 

With  the  sports  of  the  field  no  joys  can  compare. 
To  pleasure's  light  footsteps  we  trace  ; 

We  run  down  dull  sloth,  and  we  distance  old  care. 
Rosy  health  we  o'ertake  in  the  chase. 

Hark  forward's  the  cry,  &c. 

Ballad. 


V.l.  art. 


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HUNTING  163 

White  Hare 

It's  near  Maxfield  town  boys  as  I  heard  them  tell, 
There  once  was  a  white  hare,  that  used  there  to  dwell, 
She's  been  hunted  by  greyhounds  and  beagles  as  fair, 
But  never  one  amongst  them  could  come  near  this  white  hare. 
With  my  fal  de  ral,  &c. 

Oh  !  then  squire  Strutford  hearing  of  the  news, 
Says  he  we'll  kill  this  white  hare  any  day  we  choose, 
With  ten  couple  beagles  and  a  few  gentlemen, 
It's  we  will  go  a  hunting  O  then  and  O  then. 

Then  they  came  to  the  place  where  this  white  hare  used  to  lie, 
They  uncoupled  the  beagles  and  began  for  to  try, 
They  uncoupled  the  beagles  and  beat  the  bushes  round, 
But  never  was  a  white  hare  in  that  field  to  be  found. 

It's  Jemmy  the  huntsman,  and  Tom  the  whipper-in. 
Go  look  in  yonder  fern-side  and  see  if  she  be  in. 
With  that  she  took  a  jump  boys  and  off  she  ran. 
It's  yonder  she  is  going,  don't  you  see  her  gentlemen  .'* 

The  footmen  did  run  and  the  horsemen  did  ride. 
Such  hallowing  and  shouting  on  every  side. 
Such  hallowing  and  shouting  I  never  knew, 
As  though  she'd  been  running  all  the  time  through. 

The  horsemen  and  footmen  they  all  drew  nigh. 
Thinking  that  this  white  hare  was  going  to  die. 
She  slipt  out  of  the  holly  bush,  she  thought  to  run  away, 
But  cruel  and  careless  which  caused  her  to  stay. 

Twas  twenty  good  beagles  that  caused  her  to  die. 
There  was  not  one  amongst  them  above  a  foot  high. 
The  number  of  dogs  there's  not  to  be  found, 
Nor  ever  better  hunting  upon  the  English  ground. 


Ballad. 


The   Hunting  Song 


The  Sun  from  the  East  tips  the  Mountains  with  Gold, 
And  the  Meadows  all  spangled  with  Dew-drops,  behold 
How  the  Lark's  early  Matin  proclaims  the  new  Day, 
And  the  Horn's  chearfiil  Summons  rebukes  our  Delay  ; 
With  the  Sports  of  the  Field  there's  no  pleasure  can  vie, 
While  Jocund  we  follow,  follow,  follow,  follow, 
Follow,  follow,  follow,  follow,  follow,  follow, 
Follow,  follow,  follow,  the  Hounds  in  full  Cry. 

M  2 


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i64  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

Let  the  Drudge  of  the  Town  make  Riches  his  Sport, 
And  the  Slave  of  the  State  hunt  the  Smiles  of  the  Court, 
Nor  care  or  Ambition  nor  patience  annoy, 
But  Innocence  still  gives  Zest  to  our  joy. 
With  the  Sports  of  the  Field,  &c. 

Mankind  all  are  Hunters  in  various  Degree, 
The  Priest  hunts  a  Living,  the  Lawyer  a  Fee  ; 
The  Doctor  a  Patient,  the  Courier  a  place. 
They  often  like  us  are  flung  out  with  Disgrace. 
With  the  Sports  of  the  Field,  &c. 

The  Cit  hunts  a  Plum  :  the  Soldier  hunts  Fame, 
The  Poet  a  Dinner,  the  Patriot  a  Name, 
And  the  artful  Coquette,  tho  she  seems  to  refuse, 
Yet  in  Spite  of  her  Airs  she  her  Lover  pursues. 
With  the  Sports  of  the  Field,  &c. 

Let  the  Bold  and  the  Busy,  hunt  Glory  and  Wealth, 
All  the  Blessing  we  ask  is  the  Blessing  of  Health  ; 
With  Hounds  and  with  Horns  thro'  the  Woodlands  to  roam. 
And  tired  Abroad  find  Contentment  at  Home. 
With  the  Sports  of  the  Field  there's  no  Pleasure  can  vie. 
While  jocund  we  follow,  follow,  follow,  follow. 
Follow,  follow,  follow,  follow,  follow,  follow, 
Follow,  follow,  follow,  the  Hounds  in  full  Cry. 

Sioeet Pollys  Garland, 

Princely  Diversion,  or  the  Jovial 
Hunting  Match 

One  Valentine's  Day  in  the  Morning, 

Bright  Phoebus  began  to  appear. 

Sir  Wm  Cook  winding  his  Horn 

And  was  going  a  hunting  the  hare. 

Says  Handford  uncouple  our  Beagles^ 

And  let  them  go  questing  along 

For  loose  her  or  win  her,  we  must  go  to  dinner 

Or  else  they  will  think  me  long, 

Says  Handford  i  pray  now  forbare  si(r) 
And  talk  not  of  Dinn(e)r  s(o)  soon, 
For  i've  not  been  a  hunting  this  Year 
And  how  can  you  give  over  by  Noon. 
Black  Sloven  shall  warm  your  bay  Robin 
And  make  him  go  Smoacking  along, 
Bonny  Dick  shall  not  gallop  so  quick 
If  we  light  on  a  Hare  that  is  strong, 


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HUNTING  165 

Well  Handford  said  the  good  Esquire, 
I  mean  to  show  you  a  trick 
I  value  not  hedges  nor  Ditches 
But  i'll  let  you  know  bonny  Dick 
Then  hie  for  the  Closom- Bow- Fields 
We  shall  get  her  Ten  thousand  to  one, 
There's  Wonder,  lays  hard  upon  Thunder 
Away,  o'er  away  she  is  gone. 

The  Morning  was  pleasant  all  over 
So  bright  and  so  clear  was  the  Sky 
We  made  all  the  Woods  for  to  roar, 
With  the  Noise  of  our  sweet  harmony 
It  was  for  the  space  of  three  Hours 
We  held  all  our  Horses  to  speed 
Black  sloven  held  hard  to  bay  Robin 
But  Yet  could  not  do  the  deed, 

It  was  about  Nine  in  the  morning 
We  sounded  our  first  passing  Bell, 
Sir  William  pray  put  up  your  horn 
For  another  Fresh  Hare  will  do  wel 
Well  Handford  said  the  good  Esquire 
What  think  you  of  my  bonny  Dick 
doe's  think  thou  can  make  him  to  tire 
or  not  for  to  Gallop  so  quick, 

Faith  Master  I  needs  must  Confess, 

That  i  fear  i  was  boasting  to  soon 

But  hie  for  another  fresh  Hare 

And  your  Dick  should  have  dinn'd  by  noon 

Well  Handford  have  at  your  black  sloven 

I'll  make  hnn  in  Purple  to  Ride 

And  if  he  does  offer  to  tire 

I'll  certainly  Liquor  your  hide 

You  serve  him  righ(t)  well  says  Jack  Wilson 
for  he  has  [been]  taunting  at  me 
i  never  was  beat  in  the  fi(e)ld 
so  for  a  fresh  Hare  let  us  see 
for  here  is  some  Closes  of  Com 
see  we(l)l  at  your  place  e'ery  one 
Then  Master  pray  pull  out  your  horn, 
for  away,  o'er  away,  she  is  gone 

Young  B(l)ue  b(e)ll  he  cr/d  is  before 
And  she  cr/d  it  all  over  the  Lane 
And  after  her  12  Couple  more 
thus  they  rattl(e)d  it  over  the  Plain 
Bonny  Dick  pla/d  with  his  Bridle, 
and  went  at  a  desperate  rate 

Come  Handford take  you  you're  idle 

Must  i  open  [for]  you  the  Gate  ^  j 

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i66  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

O,  your  humble  Servant  good  Master, 
But  I  will  not  die  in  your  debt 
You  shall  find  black  sloven  go  faster 
for  now  he  begins  for  to  sweet 
Theres  Wonder  and  thunder  and  dido 
And  merry-lass  sweetly  runs  on, 
There's  Younger  old  Ranter  Trantaive 
But  Beauty  she  leads  the  vain  : 

She  headed  them  stoutly  and  bravely  : 
Just  up  into  SuttoHs  close  field, 
Black  sloven  began  to  grow  heavy 
And  made  a  fair  offer  to  yield 
/ack  Wilson  came  swinging  before 
so  well  did  bay  Robin  maintain, 
And  after  him  bonny  Dick  scour'd 
black  sloven  was  spur'd  in  vain 

but  had  the  Luck  and  good  chance, 
for  to  go  now  and  then  by  the  string 
she  led  us  a  delicate  dance, 
but  as  we  came  by  the  Last  ring. 
A  fresh  Hare  duce  take  her  was  started 
We  ne'er  was  so  vexed  before 
And  e'ey  we  could  make  'Em  forsake  her 
We  run  her  two  Miles  or  more 

And  then  we  left  Sir  William  Cooke 
for  to  Ponder  upon  the  old  hare 
Who  presently  lept  o'er  a  brook. 
And  a  desperate  leap  i  declare 
he  had  not  got  past  a  mile 
the  Cunning  old  Gipsy  he  sp/d 
Was  making  back  to  her  old  sile, 
then  away,  o'er  away  he  cry'd. 

Away  o'er  away  my  brave  boys 
and  merrily  winded  his  horn 
o(u)r  beagles  all  tos'd  up  their  heads 
and  they  soon  made  a  speedy  return 
and  drawing  just  up  to  the  point. 
Where  this  Cunning  young  Gipsy  had  r(un  ?) 
You  never  saw  better  Dogs  hunt 
For  life  underneath  the  Sun. 

Now  there  was  Tantive  and  Ranter 
They  sounded  their  last  passing  bell 
And  Wilson  made  moan  unto  Handford 
A  Cup  of  Old-Hock  will  do  well 
And  Handford  cry'd  Master  ride  faster 
For  now  i  begin  to  grow  cool 
With  Swet  all  my  cloaths  are  as  wet 
As  if  i  had  been  in  some  Pool  ^  , 

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HUNTING  167 

Were  not  those  2  dainty  fine  Pusses 

They  held  us  from  7  to  one 

We  scour'd  thro'  Hedges  and  Bushes 

So  merrily  we  run  on 

And  as  for  the  praise  of  these  Hounds 

And  horses  too  that  Gallop  so  free 

My  Pen  would  not  bring  it  to  sound, 

If  time  would  allow  it  to  be 

Now  Gallants  i  bid  you  farewell 
For  i  fear  your  Patience  i've  tr/d 
And  hie  for  a  Glass  of  good  Ale, 
That  Peotry  may  be  admired 
And  here's  a  good  health  to  the  Sportman 
That  hunts  with  the  horn  and  the  hound 
I  hope  you'l  all  pledge  for  the  future, 
And  so  let  this  health  go  round. 

Roxburghe  Ballads. 

[Note  by  J.  W.  Ebnoorth. — Date  of  W.  Olney's  issue  1702  at  latest. 
This  is  a  Derbyshire  Ditty,  known  as  'The  Trusley  Hunting-Song,  and 
accredited  to  Tom  Handford,  the  poet-blacksmith  of  Tnisley,  seven  miles 
from  Derby,  an  occasional  whipper-in  to  Squire  C'oke  (here called  Cooke),  who 
died  in  1716,  the  last  William  Coke  of  Trusley.  He  had  Tom's  portrait 
painted  and  hung  up  in  the  Servants'  Hall  at  Trusley,  with  this  inscription  : 
•  This  is  Tom  Handford, — Don't  you  know  it  ?  He  was  both  Blacksmith  and 
Po<*t.' 


The  Death  of  the  Stag 

The  op'ning  mom  dispels  the  night. 

Her  beauties  to  display. 
The  sun  breaks  forth  in  glory  bright, 

And  hails  the  new-bom  day  : 
Diana  like,  behold  me  then 

The  silver  arrow  wield, 
And  call  on  horses,  dogs,  and  men. 

Arise  and  take  the  field. 
With  a  hey  ho  chivy, 
Hark  forward  tantivy ! 
Arise,  bold  hunters,  cheerly  rise, 
This  day  a  stag  must  die. 

O'er  mountains,  vallies,  hills,  and  dales, 

The  fleet-foot  coursers  fly. 
Nor  heed  whate'er  the  sport  assails 

Resolved  a  stag  shall  die  I 
Roads,  trees,  and  hedges,  seem  to  move> 


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THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 


Such  joys  does  hunting  yield  ; 
While  health  a  handmaid  deigns  to  prove, 
When  huntsmen  take  the  field. 
With  a  hey  ho  chivy,  &c. 

Thus  virgins  are  by  man  pursued. 

And  beauty  made  his  aim. 
Till  by  his  wily  craft  subdued, 

He  hunts  for  other  game  ; 


And  since  e'en  life  is  but  a  race. 
We  run  till  forced  to  yield  ; 

Yo,  ho,  tantivy,  join  the  chase, 
Arise  and  take  the  field, 

With  a  hey  ho  chivy,  &c. 


Ballad, 


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HUNTING  169 


Air 

Diana.  With  Horns  and  with  Hounds,  I  waken  the  Day  ; 
And  hye  to  my  Woodland- Walks  away  ; 
I  tuck  up  my  Robe,  and  am  buskin'd  soon, 
And  tie  to  my  Forehead  a  wexing  Moon. 
I  course  the  fleet  Stag,  unkennel  the  Fox, 
And  chace  the  wild  Goats  o'er  Summits  of  Rocks, 
With  shouting  and  hooting  we  pierce  thro'  the  Sky, 
And  Eccho  turns  Hunter,  and  doubles  the  Cr>\ 

Cho.    With  shouting  and  hooting  we  pierce  ihrd  the  Sky^ 
And  Eccho  turns  Hunter^  and  doubles  the  Cry. 

The  Secular  Masque,  JOHN  DRY  DEN,  1749. 

A  Hunting  Song 

With  early  horn  salute  the  morn. 

That  gilds  this  charming  place  ; 
With  cheerful  cries  bid  echo  rise 
And  join  the  jovial  chase. 
The  vocal  hills  around. 
The  waving  woods, 
The  chrystal  floods. 
Return  the  enliv'ning  sound. 

Jolly  Huntsman 

A   NEW   SONG 

The  hounds  are  all  out, 
And  the  morning  does  peep, 
How  caa  you,  you  sluggardly  sot, 
How  can  you,  how  can  you. 
Lie  snoring  in  bed, 
Whilst  we  all  on  horseback  have  got. 
My  brave  boys, 
Whilst  we,  &c. 

I  cannot  get  up. 
For  my  over  night's  cup, 
So  terribly  it  lies  on  my  head  ; 
Besides  my  wife  cries. 
My  dear  do  not  rise. 
But  stay  a  bit  longer  in  bed. 
My  dear  boys. 
But  stay  a  bit,  &c. 


Ballad, 


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THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

Come  on  with  your  boots, 
'  And  saddle  your  mare, 
Don't  make  any  longer  delay, 
The  cry  of  the  hounds, 
And  the  sight  of  the  hare, 
Will  chace  all  your  vapours  away. 
My  brave  [boys] 
Will  chace,  &c. 


Hark  !  hark  !  how  the  huntsman 
Has  started  poor  puss. 
He  has  her  now  still  in  his  view  ; 
We'll  never  forsake  her, 
Till  we  overtake  her. 
So  m(e;rrily  let  us  pursue. 

My  brave  boys, 
So  merrily,  &c. 
No  pleasure's  like  hunting 
To  pass  the  long  day. 
We  scour  the  hill  and  the  dale  ; 
At  night  for  our  supper 
We  feast  on  our  prey, 
W^hen  over  a  cup  of  good  ale, 
My  brave  boys. 
When  over,  &c. 

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HUNTING 


171 


Poor  Old  Horse 

When  I  wks  a  y6ung  horse 

All  in  my  youthful  prime, 
My  master  used  to  ride  on  me, 

He  thoiight  me  very  fine. 
But  now  I  am  grown  old, 

And  nature  does  decky 
My  master  frowns  upon  me, 

And  these  words  I  heard  him  say, 
Poor  old  horse,  poor  old  horse. 


Poor  old  horse.! '     These  words  I  heard  him  say 

My  clothing  that  was  once, 

Of  the  shining  superfine, 
Then  I  stood  in  my  stable, 

And  dfd  in  my  glory  shine. 
But  now  I  am  grown  old. 

And  nature  does  decay, 
My  master  frowns  upon  me, 

And  these  words  I  heard  him  say, 
Poor  61d  horse,  poor  old  horse. 


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172  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

My  feeding  it  was  once, 

Of  the  best  corn  and  hay, 
That  grew  in  the  fields, 

And  in  the  meadows  gay  ; 
But  now  I  am  grown  old, 

And  scarcely  can  I  crawl, 
Tm  forced  to  eat  the  coarsest  grass, 

That  grows  against  the  wall 
Poor  old  h6rse,  poor  old  horse. 

He  is  old,  and  he  is  cold. 

And  is  both  dull  and  slow, 
He  has  eat  up  all  my  hay. 

And  spoiled  all  my  straw. 
Nor  either  is  he  fit  at  all, 

To  draw  with  my  team. 
Take  him  and  whip  him, 

Is  now  my  master's  theme 
Poor  old  horse,  poor  old  horse  ; 

To  the  huntsman  now  he  shall  go, 

His  old  hide  and  shoes, 
Likewise  his  tender  carcass, 

The  hounds  will  not  refuse. 
His  body  that  so  swiftly. 

Has  run  so  many  miles. 
Over  hedges,  ditches,  brooks. 

And  cleared  bridges,  gates,  &  styles. 
Poor  old  horse,  poor  old  horse. 

Ballad. 


Hunting  Song^ 


Come  listen  all  you  sportsmen  gay,  who  love  to  run  a  hare,  sirs, 

A  story  of  a  course  I'll  tell,  whose  truth  1  do  declare,  sirs  : 

'Tis  of  a  famous  stout  game  hare,  which  lay  near  Lonsbro'  town, 

sirs. 
Who  beating  every  greyhound  there,  had  challenged  great  renown, 

sirs. 

1  This  song  is  of  very  ancient  dale ;  the  author  of  it  was  said  to  be  a 
Mr.  Perry,  the  clergyman  of  Nunburnholme,  a  village  in  the  East  Riding 
of  Yorkshire,  who,  resembling  many  clergymen  of  the  present  day,  was, 
no  doubt,  a  good  sportsman,  a  good  parson,  and  a  very  good  fellow  s^ter  alL 
The  town  of  Lonsborough,  a  seat  of  the  Duke  of  Devonshire,  was  always 
celebrated  for  stout  running  hares. 


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HUNTING 


173 


At  length  the  squire  of  Methills-hall^  heard  of  this  hare  by  hap, 

sirs, 
And  swore  to  all  his  company,  he'd  single  run  Blue  Cap^  sirs  ; 
At  which  they  laughed,  and  jeering  said,  '  He  never  would  come 

nigh  her.' 
'  My  friends  ! '  cried  he,  *  whatever  my  chance,  I  am  resolved  to  try 

her.' 


The  clerg>'man  he  gave  the  toast 

So  off  they  rode,  a  gallant  band,  to  seek  this  famous  hare,  sirs. 
Who  often  in  a  stone-pit  lay,  and  sure  they  found  her  there,  sirs — 
So  up  she  got !  and  off  they  went,  quite  o'er  the  dale  so  clever. 
And  brave  Squire    Hewitt  cried  aloud,  *  My  Blue  Cap,  now  or 
never ! ' 

And  when  they  got  upon  plain  ground,  swift  Blue  Cap  tum'd  her 

there,  sirs. 
But  still  the  company  would  bet  five  guineas  on  the  hare,  sirs  : 
Across  the  dale  she  took  once  more,   which   made  their  horses 

whinney, 
Yet  Hewitt  still  undaunted  cried,  *  My  Blue  Cap  for  a  guinea  ! ' 


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174  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

For  shelter  then  to  Warier    Wood^  swift  flew  this  gallant  hare, 

sirs, 
But  Blue  Cap  press'd  her  skut  so  close,  she  durst  not  enter  there, 

sirs — 
Then  off  she  went  for  Methills-kall,  which  was  a  gallant  round, 

sirs, 
When  Blue  Cap  took  this  famous  hare,  and  on  his  master's  ground, 

sirs. 

And  now  this  band  returning  home,  in  spirits  and  full  force,  sirs, 
O'er  good  roast  beef  and  .bowls  of  punch,  again  they  ran   the 

course,  sirs. 
The  Clergyman  he  gave  the  toiist,   which  some  thought  mighty 

clever  ; 
It  was,  *  The  Squire  of  Methtlls-hall,  and  brave  Blue  Cap  for  ever  J 

Sporting  Magazine,  August  1815. 


The  Galway  Sportsman 

You  county  Galway  men,  Hibernia's  noble  kin, 
The  muses  now  begin  to  ornament  your  fame, 
Ten  thousand  echoes  rise,  to  crown  your  native  skies. 
The  gods  themselves  supplies  the  tenor  of  your  theme  ; 
The  rosy  finger  mom,  salutes  the  sounding  horn. 
Rush  from  shades  of  sleep,  and  lurk  not  in  disguise, 
Let  morpheus  not  delight  you,  better  sports  invite  you, 
Pleasures  shall  requite  you,  rise,  you  blazers,  rise. 

Now  hark  the  morning  breeze,  salutes  the  slumbering  trees. 
The  ant  and  humming-bee  their  labour  does  begin, 
The  lark  aloft  do  wing,  and  cheerfully  do  sing,- 
To  praise  our  po(c)t  and  king,  while  sluggards  sleep  in  sin, 
The  shepherd's  lute  distil,  its  dawning  can  to  fill, 
The  stag  ascends  the  hill,  and  reynard  brush  the  dew. 
Poor  puss  with  terror  flies,  her  footsteps  to  disguise, 
Arise,  you  blazers,  rise,  and  take  the  morning  view. 

Your  downy  pillow  leave,  mount  like  Act(ae)on  brave, 
Whose  prancing  steed  would  leave  the  fleeting  winds  behind, 
Face  through  the  flowery  fie(l)ds,  where  sweet  fragrance  do  yield. 
Then  haste  to  Bally-tum  and  there  you  will  him  find  ; 
Where  all  the  gods  reside,  where  lakes  and  woods  deride, 
With  cover  well  supplied  to  shelter  all  the  game, 
Selins  and  his  ass,  push  round  the  sparkling  glass. 
No  landscape  can  surpass  young  Keere van's  demain. 


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HUNTING  175 

Our  plains  are  overspread  with  heroes  dressed  in  red, 
And  hunters  better  bred,  than  England  can  support, 
The  hounds  are  in  full  cry,  and  reynard  seems  to  fly, 
Its  fortune  sent  him  nigh,  to  ornament  our  sport, 
The  hills  and  dales  resound  with  entertaining  sound, 
No  precipice  or  bound  can  waft  his  swift  career, 
The  land  he  does  forsake,  and  swim  across  the  lake, 
But  to  his  great  mistake  the  blazers  still  keep  near. 

But  when  he  reached  the  shore,  ten  thousand  shouts  and  more. 

With  acclamations  bore  the  date  of  his  downfall, 

On  Bally-tum  hill  he  freely  made  his  will. 

With  cunning  art  and  skill  to  compliment  them  all. 

No  time  being  left  to  rave,  he  died  a  victim  brave, 

His  enemies  forgave,  and  bid  his  friends  farewell. 

The  night  will  chase  away  the  hardships  of  the  day. 

And  what  he  wished  to  say  some  future  age  can  tell. 

Those  blazers  we  can  trace  from  great  miletian  race. 

Whose  birth  without  disgrace  our  poet  can  extol, 

Great  Burks,  and  Blakes  you  know,  and  Keerevans  also. 

And  peers  of  Roxborough,  where  peers  do  often  call. 

There's  Yelverteres  and  Bradys,  Dillons,  Doreys,  Daleys, 

Butlers,  Lamberts,  Healys,  Donnelys  likewise, 

There's  Nugents,  Kellys,  Frenches,  Rath,  Burns,  and  Trenches, 

Hamiltonis  and  Lynches,  all  where  reynard  died. 

Our  county  Galway  joys  is  the  prize  of  Castle  boys. 
Who  ornament  the  cry  on  each  St.  Patrick's  day. 
Whose  fox-hounds  ne'er  did  fail  to  snuff  the  morning  gale. 
And  truly  brush  the  vale,  and  that  without  delay  ; 
His  steed  beyond  compare,  was  never  in  the  rear. 
Both  whip  and  spur  can  spare  while  reynard  is  in  view. 
So  here's  to  all  our  friends,  the  blazers'  praise  we'll  sing, 
While  time  is  on  the  wing,  its  pleasures  we'll  pursue. 

Old  Irish  Hallad. 

Song 

Hark  !  hark  !  the  joy-inspiring  horn. 
Salutes  the  rosy  rising  morn. 

And  echoes  thro'  the  dale  ; 
With  clam'rous  peals  the  hills  resound. 
The  hounds  quick-scented  scow'r  the  ground, 

.And  snuff  the  fragrant  gale. 

Nor  gales  *  nor  sledges  ^  can  impede 
The  brisk,  high  mettl'd,  starting  steed, 
The  jovial  pack  pursue  ; 


?  gates.  2  ?  hedges. 


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176  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

Like  light'ning  darting  o'er  the  plains, 
The  distant  hills  with  speed  he  gains. 
And  sees  the  game  in  view. 

Her  path  the  timid  hare  forsakes, 
And  to  the  copse  for  shelter  makes, 

There  pants  awhile  for  breath  ; 
When  now  the  noise  alarms  her  ear. 
Her  haunt's  descry'd,  her  fate  is  near, 

She  sees  approaching  death. 

Directed  by  the  well  known  breeze. 
The  hounds  their  trembhng  victim  seize, 

She  faints,  she  falls,  she  dies  ; 
The  distant  coursers  now  come  in, 
And  join  the  loud  triumphant  din, 

Till  echo  rends  the  skies. 


The  Masque,  1768. 


Tally  Ho  !  Hark  Away 

It  was  on  the  first  of  March,  in  the  year  of  thirty-three, 
There  was  fun  .ind  recreation,  in  our  own  country. 
The  King's  County  sportsmen  o'er  hills,  dales,  and  rocks. 
Most  nobly  set  out  in  the  search  of  a  fox. 

CHORUS 
Tally  ho  !  hark  away— tally  ho,  hark  away. 
Tally  ho  I  hark  away,  my  boys  away, — hark  away. 

When  they  started  poor  Reynard  he  fac'd  to  Tullamore, 
Through  Wicklow  and  Arklow,  along  the  sea  shore. 
They  kept  him  in  view  the  whole  length  of  the  way. 
And  closely  pursued  him  through  the  streets  of  Roscrea. 

When  Reynard  was  started  he  fac'd  down  the  hollow. 
Where  none  but  the  huntsmen  and  hounds  they  could  follow. 
The  gentlemen  cried  watch  him  saying  what  shall  we  do  here, 
If  the  hills  and  dales  don't  stop  them  he  will  cross  to  Kildare. 

There  were  120  sportsmen  went  down  to  Ballyland, 
From  that  to  Blyboyne  and  Ballycuminsland, 
But  Reynard,  sly  Reynard  arrived  on  that  night, 
And  said  they  would  watch  him  until  the  daylight. 

It  was  early  next  morning  the  hills  they  did  appear, 

With  the  echoes  of  the  horn  and  the  cry  of  the  hounds. 

But  in  spite  of  his  action  his  craft  and  his  skill. 

He  was  taken  by  young  Donohoe  going  down  Moranze  (Hill). 


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HUNTING  177 

When  Reynard  was  taken  his  losses  to  fulfill, 
He  called  for  pen,  ink  and  paper  to  write  his  last  will. 
And  what  he  made  mention  of  you'll  find  it  is  no  blank, 
For  he  gave  them  a  check  on  the  national  bank. 

Here  is  to  you  Mr.  Jackson,  of  Curragh,  more  estate, 
And  to  you  Sir  John  Power,  my  whip,  spurs,  and  cap. 
Who  crossed  walls  and  ditches  and  ne'er  looked  for  a  gap. 
And  to  you  Mr.  Gambler,  my  money  and  my  plate. 

Ulster  BaUad, 

The  Killruddery  Fox  Chace^ 

Hark,  hark,  jolly  sportsmen,  awhile  to  my  tale, 
Which  to  pay  your  attention,  I'm  sure  cannot  fail, 
'Tis  of  lads,  and  of  horses,  and  dogs  that  ne'er  tire. 
O'er  stone  walls  and  hedges,  thro'  dale,  bog  and  briar, 
A  pack  of  such  hounds,  and  a  set  of  such  men, 
*Tis  a  shrewd  chance  if  ever  you  meet  with  again  ; 
Had  Nimrod  the  mighti'st  of  hunter's  been  there, 
Foregad  he  had  shook  like  an  aspen  for  fear. 

In  seventeen  hundred  and  forty  and  four. 
The  fifth  of  December,  I  think  'twas  no  more, 
At  five  in  the  morning  by  most  of  the  clocks, 
We  rode  from  Killruddery  in  search  of  a  fox. 
The  Laughlinstown  landlord,  the  bold  Owen  Bray 
And  Johnny  Adair,  too,  was  with  us  that  day, 
Joe  Debill,  Hall  Preston,  that  huntsman  so  stout, 
Dick  Holmes,  a  few  others,  and  so  we  set  out. 

We  cast  off  our  hounds  for  an  hour  or  more, 

When  Wanton  set  up  a  most  tunable  roar  ; 

*  Hark  to  Wanton,'  cried  Joe,  and  the  rest  were  not  slack, 

For  Wanton's  no  trifle,  esteem'd  in  the  pack. 

Old  Bonny  and  Collier  came  readily  in. 

And  ev'ry  hound  join'd  in  the  musical  din  ; 

Had  Diana  been  there,  she'd  been  pleas'd  to  the  life, 

And  one  of  the  lads  got  a  goddess  to  wife. 

Ten  minutes  past  nine  was  the  time  of  the  day. 
When  Reynard  broke  cover,  and  this  was  his*  way  ; 
As  strong  from  Killeager,  as  tho'  he  could  fear  none, 
Away  he  brush'd  round  by  the  house  of  Kilteman, 

*  Thisalsooccurs  in  acollection  of  songs  called  T"-**?  J/oj^w^  (London,  1768), 
and  is  headed  '  A  favorite  Song.  The  celebrated  Fox  Chace,  from  Kille^rar 
through  Killteman,  Carrickraines,  and  other  towns  in  the  county  of  Dublin ; 
on  December  5,  1744.    To  the  tunc  of  Sheelane  Gira.' 


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178  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

To  Carrick-mines  thence,  and  to  Cherry-wood  then, 
Steep  Shank-hill  he  climb'd,  and  to  Ballymanglen, 
Bray  Common  he  cross'd,  leap'd  Lord  Anglesey's  wall. 
And  seem'd  to  say,  '  little  I  value  you  all.' 

He  ran  Bush's  grove,  up  to  Carbery  Byrn's, 
Joe  Debill,  Hall  Preston,  kept  leading  by  turns  ; 
The  earth  it  was  open  yet  he  was  so  stout, 
Tho'  he  might  have  got  in,  yet  he  chose  to  stay  out, 
To  Malpas'  high  hills  was  the  way  then  he  flew, 
At  Dalkey  stone  common  we  had  him  in  view  ; 
He  drove  on  by  Bullock,  thro'  shrub  Glenagary, 
And  so  on  to  Mountown,  where  Laury  grew  weary. 

Through  Roche's-town  wood  like  an  arrow  he  pass'd. 
And  came  to  the  steep  hills  of  Dalkey  at  last ; 
There  gallantly  plung'd  himself  into  the  sea, 
And  said  in  his  heart,  *  sure  none  dare  follow  me.' 
But  soon  to  his  cost,  he  perceiv'd  that  no  bounds, 
Could  stop  the  pursuit  of  the  staunch  mettl'd  hounds  ; 
His  policy  here  did  not  ser\'e  him  a  rush. 
Five  couple  of  tartars  were  hard  at  his  brush. 

To  recover  the  shore  then  again  was  his  drift, 

But  e'er  he  could  reach  to  the  top  of  the  clift. 

He  found  both  of  speed  and  of  cunning  a  lack, 

Being  way-laid,  and  kill'd  by  the  rest  of  the  pack. 

At  his  death  there  were  present  the  lads  that  I've  sung, 

Save  Laury,  who,  riding  a  garron,  was  flung  ; 

Thus  ended,  at  length,  a  most  delicate  chace. 

That  held  us  five  hours  and  ten  minutes  space. 

We  retum'd  to  Killruddery's  plentiful  board. 
Where  dwells  hospitality,  truth,  and  my  lord  ; 
We  talk'd  o'er  the  chace,  and  we  toasted  the  health 
Of  the  man  that  ne'er  vary'd  for  places  or  wealth. 

*  Owen  Bray  baulk'd  a  leap,'  says  Hall  Preston,  * 'twas  odd, 

*  'Twas  shameful,'  cried  Jack,  *  by  the  great  living  .  .  .  .' 
Said  Preston,  *  I  holloo'd,  get  on  tho'  you  fall, 

Or  ril  leap  over  you,  your  blind  gelding  and  all.' 

Each  glass  was  adapted  to  freedom  and  sport. 
For  party  afliairs  were  consign'd  to  the  court ; 
Thus  we  finished  the  rest  of  the  day  and  the  night. 
In  gay  flowing  bumpers,  and  social  delight, 
Then  'till  the  next  meeting  bid  farewell  each  brother. 
So  some  they  went  one  way,  and  some  went  another  ; 
As  Phoebus  befriended  our  earlier  roam, 
So  Luna  took  care  in  conducting  us  home. 

Ballad. 


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HUNTING  \n 

Hunting  Song 

I 

Hehold,  my  friend  !  the  rosy-finger'd  morn 

With  blushes  on  her  face, 

Peeps  o'er  yon  azure  hill ; 

Rich  gems  the  trees  enchase, 

Pearls  from  each  bush  distill, 
Arise,  arise,  and  hail  the  light  new-bom. 

II 
Hark  !  hark  !  the  merry  horn  calls,  come  away  : 

Quit,  quit  thy  downy  bed  ; 

Break  from  Amyntiis  arms  ; 

Oh  !  let  it  ne'er  be  said, 

That  all,  that  all  her  charms, 
Tho  she's  as  Venus  fair,  can  tempt  thy  stay. 

Ill 
Perplex  thy  soul  no  more  with  cares  below, 

For  what  will  pelf  avail  ? 

Thy  courser  paws  the  ground, 

Each  beagle  cocks  his  tail, 

They  spend  their  mouths  around 
While  health,  and  pleasure,  smiles  on  ev'ry  brow. 

IV 

Try  huntsmen  all  the  brakes,  spread  all  the  plain, 

Now,  now,  she's  gone  away. 

Strip,  strip,  with  speed  pursue  ; 

The  jocund  God  of  day 

Who  fain  our  sport  wou'd  view, 
See,  see,  he  flogs  his  fiery  steeds  in  vain. 


Pour  down,  like  a  flood  from  the  hills,  brave  boys, 

On  the  wings  of  the  wind 

The  merry  beagles  fly  ; 

Dull  sorrow  lags  behind  : 

Ye  shrill  ecchoes  reply. 
Catch  each  flying  sound,  and  double  our  joys. 

VI 

Ye  rocks,  woods,  and  caves  our  music  repeat. 

The  bright  spheres  thus  above, 

A  gay  refulgent  train 

Harmoniously  move, 

O'er  yon  celestial  plain 
Like  us,  whirl  along,  in  concert  so  sweet. 


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i8o  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

VII 
Now  Puss  threads  the  brakes,  and  heavily  flies, 

At  the  head  of  the  pack 

Old  Fidler  bears  the  bell, 

Ev'ry  foyl  he  hunts  back, 

And  aloud  rings  her  knell. 
Till  forc'd  into  view,  she  pants,  and  she  dies. 

VIII 

In  hfe's  dull  round  thus  we  toil,  and  we  sweat ; 

Diseases,  grief,  and  pain. 

An  implacable  crew. 

While  we  double  in  vain, 

Unrelenting  pursue, 
Till  quite  hunted  down,  we  yield  with  regret. 

IX 

This  moment  is  ours,  come  live  while  ye  may, 

What's  decreed  by  dark  fate, 

Is  not  in  our  own  pow'r, 

Since  to-morrow's  too  late. 

Take  the  present  kind  hour  ; 
With  wine  chear  the  night,  as  sports  bless  the  day. 

Poetical  Works.     Wm.  5jOMERVIle,  1766, 


My  Heart's  in  the  Highlands 

Tune : '  Failte  na  miofg ' 

My  heart's  in  the  Highlands,  my  heart  is  not  here  ; 
My  heart's  in  the  Highlands  a  chasing  the  deer  ; 
A  chasing  the  wild  deer,  and  following  the  roe, 
My  heart's  in  the  Highlands,  wherever  I  go. 
Farewell  to  the  Highlands,  farewell  to  the  North, 
The  birth  place  of  Valour,  the  country  of  Worth, 
Wherever  I  wander,  wherever  I  rove. 
The  bills  of  the  Highlands  for  ever  I  love. 

Farewell  to  the  mountains  high  cover'd  with  snow  ; 
Farewell  to  the  straths  and  green  vallies  below  : 
Farewell  to  the  forests  and  wild  hanging  woods  ; 
Farewell  to  the  torrents  and  loud  pouring  floods. 
My  heart's  in  the  Highlands,  my  heart  is  not  here. 
My  heart's  in  the  Highlands  a  chasing  the  deer  : 
Chasing  the  wild  deer,  and  following  the  roe  ; 
My  heart's  in  the  Highlands,  wherever  I  go. 

By  R.  Burns.     J.  Johnson,  The  Scots  Musical  Museum, 


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HUNTING  i8i 


A  New  Hunting  Song,  Made  on 
a  Fox  Chase 

Come  all  you  Foxhunters  wherever  you  be, 
Repair  to  the  Leven  if  Sportsmen  you'd  see 
Such  hounds  and  such  horses  of  mettle  and  game  ; 
As  are  worthy  to  be  recorded  in  Fame. 

SififT  BcUlinamona  oro.  Ballinctmona  oro. 

BoUlinamona  oro,  the  Jjods  of  Old  Cleveland  for  me* 

Dexter  and  Delver  and  Dido  for  speed, 

All  sprung  from  the  Race  of  Charles  Turner's  fam'd  breed, 

A  sportsman  so  rare,  and  the  first  in  renown, 

As  witness  the  match  over  Feldom  he  won. 

Rover  and  Rally  and  Minor  likewise. 
Old  Spanker,  so  fierce  the  thick  Cover  he  tries. 
Matcham  and  Merry  lass  Reynard's  sworn  foe  ; 
He  must  be  unkenneld,  hark  !  I  hear  Tally  O. 

Now  my  Lads  spur  your  Horses  and  smoke  'em  away. 
Jolly  Bacchus  and  Sampson  will  shew  you  some  play, 
Squire  Hall,  on  his  Wakefield  that  pampered  Nag, 
Comes  Neck  over  heels,  and  yet  of  him  will  brag. 

Burdon,  so  proud  of  his  high  mettled  Steeds, 
And  the  Annals  of  fame  record  their  great  deeds,     . 
Yet  in  hunting  he's  bet  sore  against  his  desire. 
He  sticks  in  the  dirt  and  he's  pass'd  by  the  Squire. 

George  Baker,  on  Blacklegs  how  determined  his  looks, 
He  defies  the  whole  field  over  hedge,  ditch,  or  brooks, 
He  keeps  him  quite  tight  and  he  only  desires, 
A  three  hours  chase  I'll  be  d if  he  tires. 

See  thumping  along  goes  jolly  old  Walker, 
Whilst  close  at  his  heels  lay  the  Gisborough  Prior, 
With  Powder  and  sweat,  Lord  !  how  awfull  he  looks, 
D you  Matt  did  you  mind  how  I  leap'd  yonder  brook. 

Watson,  so  fierce  how  he  rides  and  so  keen, 
He  thinks  he's  well  mounted  and  sure  to  be  in, 
But  if  he  keep  running  at  this  gallant  pace, 
'Tis  twenty  to  one,  he's  thrown  out  in  the  Chase. 

The  first  in  the  burst  was  Scroop  on  old  Match'em, 
Straining  hard  to  get  in  Tom  swore  he  would  catch  'em 
Whilst  screwing  along  see  Smith  only  mind  him, 
He's  top'd  the  barr'd  Gate  leaving  numbers  behind  him. 


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THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 


Yonder  goes  Stockdale  so  tight  and  so  trim 
How  he  strokes  down  his  mare  which  he  fancies  so  sHm, 
He  nicks  in  and  out  'till  he's  starv'd  with  the  cold, 
(}o  bid  him  but  thirty  and  then  he'll  ride  bold. 

Preston,  so  brave  with  his  heart  full  of  glee, 
On  his  Gaylass  well  mounted  as  he'd  wish  to  be, 
He  swears  that  he'll  ride  'till  he  dies  in  the  field, 
As  a  true  honest  Sportsman  he  never  will  yield. 

Coates,  on  his  Tyrant  he  creeps  like  a  snail, 
He  puffs  and  he  blows,  and  how  he  rolls  his  Tail  ; 
Yet  a  Sportsman  so  bold  he  attempts  at  a  flyer, 
Old  Tyrant  leaps  short  and  he's  down  in  the  mire. 


\^-t^^ 


He  sticks  in  the  dirt,  and  he's  pass'd  by  the  Squire 

The  Baronet  cautious  is  pass'd  by  his  Brother, 

As  like  you  woul'd  swear  as  one  Egg's  like  another. 

When  fully  intending  to  lead  the  whole  field 

A  d Stell '  held  'em  both  'till  the  Fox  he  was  kill'd. 

The  Doctor,  you  scarcely  know  where  you  have  him, 

For  sometimes  he's  dodging  and  sometimes  he's  dashing, 

But  yet  to  the  Chase  will  he  eagerly  rush 

And  lose  a  good  Patient  for  bold  Reynard's  brush. 

Rowntree,  a  noted  old  Sportsman  as  good 

Who  brags  of  his  (^reytail  that  choise  bit  of  Blood, 

How  at  Stockesly  so  clever  she  won  e'ery  Race, 

And  how  that  she's  equally  fam'd  for  the  Chace. 


a  broad  open  drain. 


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HUNTING  183 

Flounders,  the  younger  with  Eyelids  by  Glass, 
So  prim  on  his  Stallion  and  fond  of  his  slash, 
One  single  good  run  finished  off  the  gay  Quaker, 
And  now  he's  gone  dumb  with  intent  to  turn  speaker. 

Now  our  spout  being  over  let's  home  without  fail, 
And  drown  those  misfortunes  in  Punch  and  good  Ale  ; 
And  if  we're  thrown  out  we'll  draw  close  to  the  fire 
And  drink  a  good  health  to  the  Baronet  and  Squire. 

Roxbvrghe  Ballads.     Date,  circ&  1783, 


A  New  Fox-hunting  Song 

Composed  by  W.  S.  Kenrick  and  J.  Burtell 

The  Chace  run  by  the  Cleveland  Fox  Hounds  on  Saturday  the 
2^th  Day  of  January^  1785 

Ye  hardy  sons  of  Chace  give  ear, 

All  listen  to  my  Song  ; 
'Tis  of  a  Hunt  perform'd  this  Year, 

That  will  be  talk'd  of  long. 
When  a  hunting  we  do  go,  oho,  oho,  oho, 
And  a  hunting  we  will  go,  oho,  oho,  oho. 
And  a  hunting  we  will  go,  oho,  oho,  oho. 

With  the  Huntsman  Tally,  ho. 

On  Weary  Bank  ye  know  the  same, 

Unkenell'd  was  the  Fox  ; 
Who  led  us,  and  our  Hounds  of  F'ame, 

O'er  Mountains,  Moors  and  Rocks. 
When  a  Hunting  we  do  go,  &c. 

'Twas  Crayihorn  first  swift  Reynard  made, 

To  IJmton  then  did  fly  : 
Full  speed  pursu'd  each  hearty  blade, 

And  join'd  in  jovial  cry, 

With  the  Huntsman  Tally  ho. 

To  Worsal  next  he  took  his  flight, 

Escape  us  he  wou'd  fain  ; 
To  Picton  next  with  all  his  might. 

To  Cray  thorn  back  again, 

With  the  Huntsman  Tally  ho. 

»  Rev.  J.  W.  Ebsvvorth's  Note. — Thomas  Cole,  Huntsman  ;  Rev.  George 
Davison ;  Christopher  Rowntree,  Jun.  ;  William  Stockdale.  From  Cray- 
thome  and  Worsal  (near  Yarm),  by  Nunthorp,  Rosberry,  and  Kildale  to 
Hinderwell  sea-cliff  was  a  terrific  run.     Noble  fox  ! 


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i84  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

To  Weary  Bank  then  takes  his  course, 

Thro'  Fanny  BelPs  gill  flies  ; 
In  Seymour  Car  strains  all  his  force, 

His  utmost  vigour  tries, 

With  the  Huntsman  Tally  ho. 

To  Tanton^  Nunthorp^  next  he  flies. 

O'er  Langbrou^k  Rig  goes  he  ; 
He  scours  like  Light'ning  o'er  the  meads, 

More  swift  Fox  could  not  be, 

Nor  with  a  Huntsman  better  match'd,  &c. 

To  Newton,  then  to  Roseberry, 

To  Mutton  Lockerass  gill ; 
To  Lownsdale,  o'er  Court  Moor  go  we, 

From  thence  to  Kildale  Mill^ 

With  the  Huntsman  Tally  ho,  &c. 

By  this  our  zeal  was  not  subdu'd. 

All  crosses  were  in  vain  ; 
To  Kildale  Reynard  we  pursu'd, 

To  Lownsdale  back  again, 

With  the  Huntsman  Tally  ho,  &c. 

By  Percy  Cross  and  Sleddale  too, 

And /'/V/y/?/;^  full  fast. 
As  Fox  could  run  to  Skylderskew, 

And  Lockwood  Reck  he  past, 

With  the  Huntsman  Tally  ho,  &c. 

By  Freebrough  Hill  he  takes  his  way. 

By  Danby  I^dge  also  ; 
With  ardour  we  pursue  our  prey, 

As  swift  as  Hounds  could  go, 

With  the  Huntsman  Tally  ho,  &c. 

By  Coal  Pits  and  o'er  Stonegate  Moor^ 

To  Scayling  Reynard  ran  ; 
Was  such  a  Fox  e'er  seen  before  ? 

His  equal  shew  who  can  ! 

When  a  Hunting  we  do  go,  &c. 

To  Barnby  now  by  Ugthorp  Mill, 

And  Mickleby  likewise  ; 
To  Ellerby,  to  Hinderwell, 

Still  stubborn  Reynard  flies, 

With  the  Huntsman  Tally  ho,  &c. 
The  Huntsman  now  with  other  three. 

And  Reynard  you'll  suppose  ; 
Ten  couple  of  Hounds  of  high  degree. 

One  field  now  did  inclose. 

With  the  Huntsman  Tally  ho,  &c. 


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HUNTING  185 

But  now  our  Chase  draws  near  an  end, 

No  longer  we'll  intrude  ; 
For  on  the  Cliff,  rejoice  my  Friend, 

Swift  Reynard  there  we  view'd, 

With  the  Huntsman  Tally  ho,  &c. 

Sure  such  a  chase  must  wonder  raise. 

And  had  I  time  to  sing. 
The  Huntsman's  deeds  who  merits  praise. 

Would  make  the  Vallies  ring. 

When  a  Hunting  we  did  go,  &c. 

Come  sportsmen  all  your  Glasses  fill, 

And  let  the  toast  go  round  ; 
May  each  Foxhunter  flourish  still, 
In  Health  and  Strength  abound, 
When  a  Hunting  we  did  go,  &c. 

Roxburgfie  Ballads. 

Goddess  of  the  Chace 

Give  round  the  word — *  Dismount  I  dismount  I ' 

While  echo'd  by  the  sprightly  horn. 
The  toils  and  pleasures  we  recount 
Of  this  sweet  health-inspiring  mom. 

'Twas  glorious  sport !  none  e'er  did  lag. 
Nor  drew  amiss,  nor  made  a  stand  ; 
But  all  as  firmly  kept  their  pace 
As  had  Acteon  been  the  stag. 
And  we  hunted  by  command 
Of  the  goddess  of  the  chace. 

The  hounds  were  all  out,  and  snuff'd  the  air, 
And  scarce  had  reach'd  th'  appointed  spot, 

But  pleased,  they  plainly  heard  a  lair  ! 
And  presently  drew  on  the  slot. 
'Twas  glorious  sport,  &c. 

And  now  o'er  yonder  plain  he  fleets  I 
The  deep-mouth'd  hounds  begin  to  bawl. 

And  echo  note  for  note  repeats. 
While  sprightly  horns  resound  a  call. 
'Twas  glorious  sport,  &c. 

And  now  the  stag  has  lost  his  pace  ; 

And  while  '  War-haunch  ! '  the  huntsman  cries. 
His  bosom  swells,  tears  wet  his  face  ; 
He  pants,  he  struggles,  and  he  dies  I 
'Twas  glorious  sport,  &c. 

Thf  Comic  Son  tester,  1783. 


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1 86  THE   POETRY  OF  SPORT 

The   Chase  ^ 

I 

Earl  Walter  winds  his  bugle  horn  ; 

To  horse,  to  horse,  halloo,  halloo  ! 
His  fiery  courser  snuffs  the  morn, 

And  thronging  serfs  their  Lord  pursue, 

II 
The  eager  pack,  from  couples  freed, 

Dash  through  the  bush,  the  brier,  the  brake  ; 
While  answering  hound,  and  horn,  and  steed. 

The  mountain  echoes  startling  wake. 

Ill 
The  beams  of  God's  own  hallo w'd  day 

Had  painted  yonder  spire  with  gold, 
And,  calling  sinful  man  to  pray. 

Loud,  long,  and  deep  the  bell  had  toll'd. 

IV 

But  still  Earl  Walter  onward  rides  ; 

Halloo,  halloo,  and  hark  again  ! 
When,  spurring  from  opposing  sides, 

Two  stranger  horsemen  join  the  train. 

V 
Who  was  each  stranger,  left  and  right, 

Well  may  I  guess,  but  dare  not  tell  : 
The  right-hand  steed  was  silver  white, 

The  left,  the  swarthy  hue  of  hell. 

VI 

The  right-hand  horseman,  young  and  fair, 

His  smile  was  like  the  morn  of  May  ; 
The  left,  from  eye  of  tawny  glare. 

Shot  midnight  lightning's  lurid  ray. 

VII 

He  wav'd  his  huntsman's  cap  on  high, 
Cry'd,  *  Welcome,  welcome,  noble  Lord  ! 

*  What  sport  can  earth,  or  sea,  or  sky, 
'  To  match  the  princely  chase,  afford  ? ' 

'  The  Wild  Huntsman. — This  is  a  translation,  or  Mther  an  imitation,  of 
the  Wilde  Jcigcr  of  the  German  poet  Burger.  The  tradition  upon  which  it  is 
founded  bears,  that  formerly  a  Wildg^rave,  or  keeper  of  a  royal  forest,  named 
Faulkenburg,  was  so  much  addicted  to  the  pleasures  of  the  chase,  and  other- 
wise so  extremely  profligate  and  cruel,  that  he  not  only  followed  this  unhal- 
lowed amusement  on  the  Sabbath,  and  other  days  consecrated  to  religious 
duty,  but  accompanied  it  with  the  most  unheard-of  oppression  upon  the  poor 
peasants,  who  were  under  his  vassalage. 


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HUNTING  187 


VllI 

*  Cease  thy  loud  bugle's  clanging  knell,' 

Cry  'd  the  fair  youth,  with  silver  voice  ; 

*  And  for  Devotion's  choral  swell 

*  Exchange  the  rude  discordant  noise. 


IX 


*  To-day  th'  ill-omen'd  chase  forbear  ; 

*  Yon  bell  yet  summons  to  the  fane  : 
'  To-day  the  warning  spirit  hear, 

*  To-morrow  thou  may'st  mourn  in  vain.' 


*  Away,  and  sweep  the  glades  along  1 ' 

The  sable  hunter  hoarse  replies  ; 

*  To  muttering  Monks  leave  matin  song, 

'  And  bells,  and  books,  and  mysteries.' 

XI 

Earl  Walter  spurr'd  his  ardent  steed. 
And,  launching  forward  with  a  bound, 

*  Who  for  thy  drowsy  priestlike  rede 

*  Would  leave  the  jovial  horn  and  hound  ? 

XII 

*  No  :  pious  fool,  I  scorn  thy  lore  ; 

*  Let  him  who  ne'er  the  chase  durst  prove 

*  Go  join  with  thee  the  droning  choir, 

'  And  leave  me  to  the  sport  I  love.' 

XIII 

Fast,  fast  Earl  Walter  onward  rides, 
O'er  moss  and  moor,  o'er  holt  and  hill. 

And  onward  fast  on  either  side 

The  stranger  horsemen  follow'd  still. 

XIV 

Up  springs,  from  yonder  tangled  thorn, 

A  stag  more  white  than  mountain  snow  ; 
And  louder  rung  Earl  Walter's  horn, 

*  Hark  forward,  forward,  holla,  ho  ! ' 

XV 

A  heedless  wretch  has  cross'd  the  way, — 
He  gasps  the  thundering  hoofs  below  ; 

But,  live  who  can,  or  die  who  may. 
Still  forward,  forward  I     On  they  go. 


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XVI 


See  where  yon  simple  fences  meet, 

A  field  with  Autumn's  blessings  crown'd 
See  prostrate  at  Earl  Walter's  feet 
A  husbandman  with  toil  embrown'd. 


XVII 


*  O  mercy  !  mercy  I  noble  Lord  ; 

'  Spare  the  hard  pittance  of  the  poor, 
*  Eam'd  by  the  sweat  these  brows  have  pour'd 
*  In  scorching  July's  sultry  hour.' 


XVIII 

Earnest  the  right-hand  stranger  pleads. 
The  left  still  cheering  to  the  prey  : 

Th'  impetuous  Earl  no  warning  heeds. 
But  furious  holds  the  onward  way. 

XIX 

*  Away,  thou  hound,  so  basely  born, 

*  Or  dread  the  scourge's  echoing  blow  ! ' 
Then  loudly  rung  his  bugle  horn, 

*  Hark  forward,  forward,  holla,  ho  I ' 


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HUNTING  189 


XX 


So  said,  so  done — a  single  bound 
Clears  the  poor  labourer's  humble  pale  : 

Wild  follows  man,  and  horse,  and  hound, 
Like  dark  December's  stormy  gale. 

XXI 

And  man,  and  horse,  and  hound,  and  horn. 
Destructive  sweep  the  field  along, 

While  joying  o'er  the  wasted  corn 

Fell  Famine  marks  the  madd'ning  throng. 

XXII 

Again>  up  rous'd  the  tim'rous  prey 

Scours  moss  and  moor,  and  holt  and  hill ; 

Hard  run,  he  feels  his  strength  decay. 
And  trusts  for  life  his  simple  skill. 

XXIIl 

Too  dangerous  solitude  appear'd  ; 

He  seeks  the  shelter  of  the  crowd  ; 
Amid  the  flock's  domestic  herd 

His  harmless  head  he  hopes  to  shroud. 

XXIV 

O'er  moss  and  moor,  and  holt  and  hill, 
His  track  the  steady  blood-hounds  trace  ; 

O'er  moss  and  moor,  and  holt  and  hill, 
Th'  unweary'd  Earl  pursues  the  chase. 

XXV 

The  anxious  herdsman  lowly  falls  : 

*  O  spare,  thou  noble  Baron,  spare 

*  These  herds,  a  widow's  little  all, 

*  These  flocks,  an  orphan's  fleecy  care.' 

XXVI 

Earnest  the  right-hand  stranger  pleads, 
The  left  still  cheering  to  the  prey  ; 

Nor  prayer  nor  pity  Walter  heeds. 
But  furious  keeps  the  onward  way. 

XXVII 

*  Unmanner'd  dog  !     To  stop  my  sport 

*  Vain  were  thy  cant  and  beggar  whine, 

*  Though  human  spirits  of  thy  sort 

*  Were  tenants  of  these  carrion  kine  ! ' 


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XXVIII 


Again  he  winds  his  bugle  horn, 

*  Hark  forward,  forward,  holla,  ho  I ' 
And  through  the  herd,  in  ruthless  scorn. 
He  cheers  his  furious  hounds  to  go. 


XXIX 


1 1)  heaps  the  throttled  victims  fall  ; 

Down  sinks  their  mangled  herdsman  near  ; 
The  murd'rous  cries  the  stag  appal, 

Again  he  starts,  new-nerv'd  by  fear. 


XXX 


With  blood  besmear'd,  and  white  with  foam, 
While  big  the  tears  of  anguish  pour. 

He  seeks,  amid  the  forest's  gloom, 
The  humble  hermit's  hut  obscure. 


XXXI 


But  man  and  horse,  and  horn  and  hound, 
Fast  rattling  on  his  traces  go  ; 

The  sacred  chapel  rung  around 
With  hark  away,  and  holla,  ho  ! 


XXXII 


All  mild,  amid  the  route  profane, 
The  holy  hermit  pour'd  his  pray'r  : 

*  Forbear  with  blood  God's  house  to  stain, 
*  Revere  his  altar,  and  forbear  I 


XXXIII 


*  The  meanest  brute  has  rights  to  plead, 

*  Which,  wrong'd  by  cruelty  or  pride. 
Draw  vengeance  on  the  ruthless  head  ; — 

*  Be  warn'd  at  length,  and  turn  aside.' 


xxxiv 


Still  the  fair  horseman  anxious  pleads, 

The  black  wild  whooping  points  the  prey  ; 

Alas  !  the  Earl  no  warning  heeds, 
But  frantic  keeps  the  forward  way. 


XXXV 


*  Holy  or  not,  or  right  or  wrong, 

*  Thy  altar  and  its  rights  1  spurn  ; 

*  Not  sainted  martyrs'  sacred  song, 

*  Not  God  himself  shall  make  me  turn/ 


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HUNTING  191 


XXXVI 
He  spurs  his  horse,  he  winds  his  horn, 

*  Hark  forward,  forward,  holla,  ho  I ' 
But  off,  on  whirlwind's  pinions  borne, 

The  stag,  the  hut,  the  hemiit,  go. 

XXXVII 

And  horse  and  man,  and  horn  and  hound, 
And  clamour  of  the  chase  was  gone  : 

For  hoofs  and  howls,  and  bugle  sound, 
A  deadly  silence  reign*d  alone. 

XXXVIII 

Wild  gaz'd  th'  affrighted  Earl  around  ; — 
He  strove  in  vain  to  wake  his  horn, 

In  vain  to  call ;  for  not  a  sound 
Could  from  his  anxious  lips  be  borne. 

XXXIX 

He  listens  for  his  trusty  hounds  ; 

No  distant  baying  reach'd  his  ears  ; 
His  courser,  rooted  to  the  ground. 

The  quick'ning  spur  unmindful  bears. 


Still  dark  and  darker  round  it  spreads, 
Dark  as  the  darkness  of  the  grave  ; 

And  not  a  sound  the  still  invades, 
Save  what  a  distant  torrent  gave. 

XLl 

High  o'er  the  sinner's  humbled  head 
At  length  the  solemn  silence  broke  ; 

And  from  a  cloud  of  swarthy  red. 
The  awful  voice  of  thunder  spoke. 

XLII 

*  Oppressor  of  creation  fair  I 

*  Apostate  spirits'  harden'd  tool ! 

*  Scorner  of  God  !  scourge  of  the  poor  ! 

*  The  measure  of  thy  cup  is  full. 

XI.III 

*  Go,  hunt  for  ever  through  the  wood, 

*  For  ever  roam  th'  affrighted  wild  ; 

*  And  let  thy  fate  instruct  the  proud  . 

'  God's  meanest  creature  is  his  child.' 


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192  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 


XLIV 


Twas  hush'd  :  one  flash  of  sombre  glare 
With  yellow  ting'd  the  forests  brown  ; 
Up  rose  Earl  Walter's  bristling  hair, 
And  horror  chill'd  each  nerve  and  bone. 

XLV 

Cold  pour'd  the  sweat  in  freezing  rill ; 

A  rising  wind  began  to  sing  ; 
And  louder,  louder,  louder  still, 

Brought  storm  and  tempest  on  its  wing. 

XLVI 

The  earth  is  rock'd,  it  quakes,  it  rends  ; 

From  yawning  rifts,  with  many  a  yell, 
Mix'd  with  sulphureous  flames,  ascend 

The  misbegotten  dogs  of  hell. 

XLVII 

What  ghastly  huntsman  next  arose, 
Well  may  I  guess,  but  dare  not  tell : 

His  eye  like  midnight  lightning  glows, 
His  steed  the  swarthy  hue  of  hell. 

XLVIII 

Earl  Walter  flies  o'er  bush  and  thorn. 
With  many  a  shriek  of  helpless  woe  ; 

Behind  him  hound,  and  horse,  and  horn. 
And  hark  away,  and  holla,  ho  ! 

XLIX 

With  wild  despair's  reverted  eye, 

Close,  close  behind  he  marks  the  throng  ; 

With  bloody  fangs,  and  eager  cry, 
In  frantic  fear  he  scours  along. 


Still  shall  the  dreadful  chase  endure       # 
Till  time  itself  shall  have  an  end  ; 

By  day  earth's  tortured  womb  they  scour, 
At  midnight's  vvitching  hour  ascend. 

LI 

This  is  the  horn,  the  hound,  and  horse. 
That  oft  the  lated  peasant  hears  : 

Appal'd  he  signs  the  frequent  cross. 
When  the  wild  din  invades  his  ears. 


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HUNTING 


193 


LI  I 

The  wakeful  priest  oft  drops  a  tear 

For  human  pride,  for  human  woe, 
When  at  his  midnight  mass  he  hears 

Th'  infernal  cry  of  holla,  ho  ! 

The  Chase,  from  the  German  of  Gottfried  Aucl'STUS  BCrger 
[trans,  by  Walter  Scott,  Esq.],     1796. 


Hunting  Song 


Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay, 

On  the  mountain  dawns  the  day, 

All  the  jolly  chace  is  here. 

With  hawk,  and  horse,  and  hunting  spear  ; 

Hounds  are  in  their  couples  yelling, 

Hawks  are  whistling,  horns  are  knelling, 

Merrily,  merrily,  mingle  they,    ' 

*  Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay.' 


Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay, 
The  mist  has  left  the  mountain  gray, 
Springlets  in  the  dawn  are  steaming. 
Diamonds  on  the  brake  are  gleaming  : 


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194  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

And  foresters  have  busy  been, 
To  track  the  buck  in  thicket  green  ; 
Now  we  come  to  chaunt  our  lay, 
'  Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay.' 

Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay, 
To  the  green-wood  haste  away  ; 
We  can  shew  you  where  he  lies. 
Fleet  of  foot,  and  tall  of  size  ; 
W^e  can  shew  the  marks  he  made. 
When  'gainst  the  oak  his  antlers  fray'd  ; 
You  shall  see  him  brought  to  bay, 
*  Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay.' 

Louder,  louder  chaunt  the  lay, 

Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay  ! 

Tell  them  youth,  and  mirth,  and  glee. 

Run  a  course  as  well  as  we  ; 

Time,  stem  huntsman  I  who  can  baulk, 

Staunch  as  hound,  and  fleet  as  hawk  ; 

Think  of  this,  and  rise  with  day, 

Gentle  lords  and  ladies  gay. 

The  Poetical  Works  of  Walter  Scott,  Esq.,   1820. 


The  Death  of  Keeldar 


up  rose  the  sun,  o'er  moor  and  mead  ; 
Up  with  the  sun  rose  Percy  Rede  ; 
Brave  Keeldar,  from  his  couples  freed, 

Career'd  along  the  lea  ; 
The  Palfrey  sprung  with  sprightly  bound. 
As  if  to  match  the  gamesome  hound  ; 
His  horn  the  gallant  huntsman  wound : 

They  were  a  jovial  three  I 

Man,  hound,  or  horse,  of  higher  fame, 
To  wake  the  wild  deer  never  came, 
Since  Alnwick's  Earl  pursued  the  game 

On  Cheviot's  rueftil  day  ; 
Keeldar  was  matchless  in  his  speed, 
Than  Tarras,  ne'er  was  stauncher  steed, 
A  peerless  archer,  Percy  Rede : 

And  right  dear  friends  were  they. 

>  Percy  or  Percival  Rede  of  Trochend,  in  Redesdale,  Xorihunibcrland. 
is  celebrated  in  tradition  as  a  huntsman  and  a  soldier.  He  was.  upon  two 
occasions,  singularly  unfortunate ;  one**,  when  an  arrow,  which  he  had  dis- 
charged at  a  deer,  killed  his  celebrated  dog  Keeldar ;  and  again,  when, 
being  on  a  hunting  party,  he  was  betraved  into  the  hands  of  a  clan  called 
Crossar,  by  whom  he  was  murdered.  Mr.  Cooper's  painting  of  the  lirst  of 
these  incidents  suggested  the  above  stanzas. 


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HUNTING 

The  chase  engross'd  their  joys  and  woes, 
Together  at  the  dawn  they  rose, 
Together  shared  the  noon's  repose. 

By  fountain  or  by  stream  ; 
And  oft,  when  evening  skies  wore  red, 
The  heather  was  their  common  bed, 
Where  each,  as  wildering  fancy  led. 

Still  hunted  in  his  dream. 


195 


Now  is  the  thrilling  moment  near. 
Of  sylvan  hope  and  sylvan  fear. 
Yon  thicket  holds  the  harbour'd  deer, 

The  signs  the  hunters  know  ; — 
With  eyes  of  flame,  and  quivering  ears. 
The  brake  sagacious  Keeldar  nears  ; 
The  restless  palfrey  paws  and  rears  ; 

The  archer  strings  his  bow.  o^  , 

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196  THE  POETRY  OF   SPORT 

The  game's  afoot  !— Halloo  I  Halloo  ! 
Hunter,  and  horse,  and  hound  pursue  ; — 
But  woe  the  shaft  that  erring  flew — 

That  e'er  it  left  the  string  I 
And  ill  betide  the  faithless  yew  ! 
The  stag  bounds  scatheless  o'er  the  dew, 
And  gallant  Keeldar's  life-blood  true 

Has  drench'd  the  grey-goose  wing. 

The  noble  hound — he  dies,  he  dies, 
Death,  death  has  glazed  his  fixed  eyes. 
Stiff  on  the  bloody  heath  he  lies, 

Without  a  groan  or  quiver. 
Now  day  may  break  and  bugle  sound, 
And  whoop  and  hollow  ring  around, 
And  o'er  his  couch  the  stag  may  bound, 

But  Keeldar  sleeps  for  ever. 

Dilated  nostrils,  staring  eyes, 

Mark  the  poor  palfrey's  mute  surprise. 

He  knows  not  that  his  comrade  dies. 

Nor  what  is  death  —but  still 
His  aspect  hath  expression  drear 
Of  grief  and  wonder,  mix'd  with  fear. 
Like  startled  children  when  they  hear 

Some  mystic  tale  of  ill. 

But  he  that  bent  the  fatal  bow. 
Can  well  the  sum  of  evil  know. 
And  o'er  his  favourite,  bending  low, 

In  speechless  grief  recline  ; 
Can  think  he  hears  the  senseless  clay. 
In  unreproachful  accents  say, 

*  The  hand  that  took  my  life  away, 

Dear  master,  was  it  thine  } ' 

*  And  if  it  be,  the  shaft  be  bless'd. 
Which  sure  some  erring  aim  address'd. 
Since  in  ypur  service  prized,  caress'd 

I  in  your  service  die  ; 
And  you  may  have  a  fleeter  hound. 
To  match  the  dun-deer's  merry  bound. 
But  by  your  couch  will  ne'er  be  found 

So  true  a  guard  as  I.' 

And  to  his  last  stout  Percy  rued 
The  fatal  chance,  for  when  he  stood 
'Gainst  fearful  odds  in  deadly  feud, 
And  fell  amid  the  fray, 


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HUNTING  197 

E'en  with  his  dying  voice  he  cried, 
*  Had  Keeldar  but  been  at  my  side, 
Your  treacherous  ambush  had  been  spied^ 
I  had  not  died  to-day  I ' 

Remembrance  of  the  erring  bow 

Long  since  had  join'd  the  tides  which  flow, 

Conveying  human  bliss  and  woe 

Down  dark  oblivion's  river  ; 
But  Art  can  Time's  stern  doom  arrest, 
And  snatch  his  spoil  from  Lethe's  breast, 
And,  in  her  Cooper's  colours  drest. 

The  scene  shall  live  for  ever. 
■     The  Poetical  Works  of  Sir  Waller  Scott,  Bart,,  1848. 


Song 


Huntsman,  rest  !  thy  chase  is  done, 

While  our  slumbrous  spells  assail  ye. 
Dream  not  with  the  rising  sun, 

Bugles  here  shall  sound  reveillie. 
Sleep  I  the  deer  is  in  his  den  ; 

Sleep  !  thy  hounds  are  by  thee  lying  ; 
Sleep  !  nor  dream  in  yonder  glen, 

How  thy  gallant  steed  lay  dying. 
Huntsman,  rest !  thy  chase  is  done, 
Think  not  of  the  rising  sun. 
For  at  dawning  to  assail  ye, 
Here  no  bugles  sound  reveillie. 
Tfu  Poetical  Works  of  Sir  Walter  Scott,  Bart.  :  Lady  of  the  Lake,  1848. 

Invisible  Deer  Hunting 

Ere  since  of  old,  the  haughty  thanes  of  Ross, 
So  to  the  simple  swain  tradition  tells  ; 
Were  wont  with  clans,  and  ready  vassals  thronged, 
To  wake  the  bounding  stag,  or  guilty  wolf. 
There  oft  is  heard  at  midnight,  or  at  noon, 
Beginning  faint,  but  rising  still  more  loud 
And  nearer,  voice  of  hunters,  and  of  hounds, 
And  horns  hoarse-winded,  blowing  far  and  keen  ; 
Forthwith  the  hubbub  multiplies,  the  gale 
Labours  with  wilder  shrieks,  and  rifer  din 
Of  hot  pursuit,  the  broken  cry  of  deer 
Mangled  by  throttling  dogs,  the  shouts  of  men, 
And  hoofs  thick  beating  on  the  hollow  hill. 


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198  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

Sudden  the  grazing  heifer  in  the  vale 

Starts  at  the  noise,  and  both  the  herdsman's  ears 

Tingle  with  inward  dread.     Aghast  he  eyes 

The  mountains  height,  and  all  the  ridges  round. 

Yet  not  one  trace  of  living  wight  discerns  ; 

Nor  knows,  o'erawed,  and  trembling  as  he  stands, 

To  what,  or  whom,  he  owes  his  idle  fear, 

To  ghost,  to  witch,  to  fairy,  or  to  fiend. 

But  wonders,  and  no  end  of  wondering  finds. 

Siotdsh  Descriplive  Poems,  J.  LKvnKN,  1803. 

Hunting,  Love,  and  Wine 

Say,  what  is  wealth  without  delight, 
'Tis  dross,  'tis  dirt,  'tis  useless  quite, 
Better  be  poor,  and  taste  of  joy. 
Than  thus  your  wasted  time  employ. 
Then  let  a  humble  son  of  song, 

Repeat  those  pleasures  most  divine  ; 
The  joys  that  life's  best  hours  prolong, 

Are  those  of  hunting,  love,  and  wine. 

For  hunting  gives  us  jocund  health, 
We  envy  not  the  miser's  wealth, 
But  chace  the  Fox,  or  timid  Hare, 
And  know  delight  he  cannot  share. 
Then  home  at  eve  we  cheerly  go, 

Whilst  round  us  brightest  comforts  shine  ; 
With  joy  shut  in,  we  shut  out  woe, 

^d  sing  of  hunting,  love,  and  wine. 

Mild  love  attunes  the  soul  to  peace, 
And  bids  the  toiling  sportsman  cease  ; 
This  softer  passion's  pleasing  pow'rs, 
With  bliss  ecstatic  wings  the  hours. 
It  sooths  the  mind  to  sweetest  rest, 

Or  savage  thoughts  might  there  entwine  ; 
Thus  he  alone  is  truly  blest, 

Whose  joys  are  hunting,  love,  and  wine. 

Tis  wine  exhilarates  the  heart, 
W^hen  sinking  under  sorrow's  smart  ; 
'Tis  that  can  ease  the  wretch's  woe, 
And  heighten  ev'rj-  bliss  we  know. 
But  wine's  abuse  makes  man  a  beast. 

Be  all  with  moderation  mine  ; 
Life  will  appear  one  endless  feast. 

While  blest  with  hunting,  love,  and  wine. 

Sonqs  of  the  Chase,  i8i  1 . 


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HUNTING  199 


John  Peel 


D'ye  ken  John  Peel  with  his  coat  so  gray  ? 
D'ye  ken  John  Peel  at  the  break  of  the  day  ? 
D'ye  ken  John  Peel  when  he's  far,  far  away 
With  his  hounds  and  his  horn  in  the  morning  ? 
'Twas  the  sound  of  his  horn  called  me  from  my  bed, 
And  the  cry  of  his  hounds  has  me  oft-times  led, 
For  Peel's  view-hollo  would  awaken  the  dead 
Or  a  fox  from  his  lair  in  the  morning. 

D'ye  ken  that  bitch  whose  tongue  is  death  ? 
D'ye  ken  her  sons  of  peerless  taith  ? 
D'ye  ken  that  a  fox  with  his  last  breath 
Cursed  them  all  as  he  died  in  the  morning  ? 
'Twas  the  sound  of  his  horn,  etc. 

Yes  I  ken  John  Peel,  and  Ruby  too 

Ranter  and  Royal  and  Bellman  as  true  ; 

From  the  drag  to  the  chase,  from  the  chase  to  a  view, 

From  a  view  to  the  death  in  the  morning. 

'Twas  the  sound  of  his  horn,  etc. 

And  I've  followed  John  Peel  both  often  and  far, 
O'er  the  rasper-fence  and  the  gate  and  the  bar, 
F'rom  Low  Denton- Holme  up  to  Scratchmere  Scar, 
When  we  vied  for  the  brush  in  the  morning. 
'Twas  the  sound  of  his  horn,  etc. 

Then  here's  to  John  Peel  with  my  heart  and  soul, 
Come  fill— fill  to  him  another  strong  bowl  : 
And  we'll  follow  John  Peel  through  fair  and  through  foul 
While  we're  waked  by  his  horn  in  the  morning. 
'Twas  the  sound  of  his  horn,  etc. 

John  Wcx^oroc  k  Graves  (<7r.  1825*. 

Hunting  Song 

See  seated  around  the  winter's  fire. 

The  heroes  of  the  chase  ; 
See  I  many  an  honest  heart  is  there. 

And  many  a  cheerful  face. 

Friendship,  amidst  the  jolly  throng. 

Their  gen'rous  ardour  leads. 
And  tunes  the  rustic  huntsman's  song, 

Or  tells  of  former  deeds. 


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THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

For  now,  when  toils  of  chase  are  o'er, 

With  many  a  near  escape. 
To  Bacchus,  jovial  god,  they  pour, 

The  nectar  of  the  grape. 

For  Bacchus  gives  fresh  strength  to  all, 

Fresh  vigour  to  the  mind, 
And  fills  the  wearied  huntsman's  hall, 

With  luxury  refined. 


And  while  the  bottle  passes  round, 
Or  jug  of  sparkling  ale. 
Each  joins  the  merry  jovial  sound, 
Each  tells  his  fa v' rite  tale  : 

How  reynard  pass'd  the  rivers  flood. 

The  valley  and  the  mead  ; 
How  Basto  check'd  him  at  the  wood. 

Or  Tartar  took  the  lead. 

Each  tongue  relates  with  ardent  breath, 
'Midst  loud  applauding  cries. 

Who  came  the  foremost  to  the  death. 
And  gain'd  the  noble  prize. 


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HUNTING  20I 

How  Dick,  the  parson,  jolly  soul ! 

Did  dash  through  thick  and  thin  ; 
And  Tom,  the  huntsman,  reached  the  goal. 

With  Jack  the  whipper-in. 

But  now  they  fill  their  glasses  high, 

While  mirth  lights  every  face, 
And  toast  with  many  a  joyful  cry, 

*  The  champions  of  the  chase.' 

The  sportsman's  Vocal  Cabinet,  1830. 

Calm  the  Winds 

Calm  the  winds,  the  distant  ocean. 

Where  our  ships  in  triumph  ride, 
Seems  to  own  no  other  motion 

Than  the  ebb  and  flow  of  tide. 

High  perch'd  upon  his  fav'rite  spray, 

The  thrush  attention  hath  bespoke  ; 
The  ploughman,  plodding  on  his  way, 

To  listen,  stops  the  sturdy  yoke. 

But  see,  the  loud-tongu'd  pack  in  view, 

The  peopled  hills  the  cry  resound ; 
The  sportsmen  joining  chorus,  too, 

And  rapt'rous  peals  of  joy  go  round. 
Soon,  soon  again,  the  scene,  so  gay. 
In  distant  murmurs  dies  away. 

Again  from  lazy  echo's  cell, 

No  sound  is  heard  of  mirth  or  woe. 
Save  but  the  crazy  tinkling  bell 

The  shepherd  hangs  upon  the  ewe. 

The  Sportsman's  Vocal  Cabinet,  1830. 


Tally-ho 


The  world  is  amazingly  full  of  deceit, 
Incredible  numbers  are  given  to  cheat ; 
And  among  the  more  honest,  too  many  are  found, 
Who  will  hold  with  the  hare,  and  run  with  the  hound. 

Tally-ho,  &c. 

The  prince,  heaven  preserve  him,  at  taking  a  leap, 
And  the  sportsmen  at  large  who  their  game  strictly  keep, 
Which  they  doom  to  the  chase  ;  at  the  horn's  cheerful  sound. 
Clearly  hold  with  the  hare,  and  yet  run  with  the  hound. 

Tally-ho,  &c. 


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202  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

The  parson,  who  shows  no  true  zeal  for  the  Church  ; 
Who,  allured  by  the  world,  leaves  his  flock  in  the  lurch, 
While  conventicles  flourish,  dissenters  abound. 
Clearly  holds  with  the  hare,  and  yet  runs  with  the  hound. 

Tally-ho,  &c. 

The  lawyer,  who  takes  from  his  client  a  fee. 
And  tells  him  his  cause  is  as  good  as  can  be  ; 
Yet,  on  sight  of  a  bribe,  lets  it  fall  to  the  ground. 
Clearly  holds  with  the  hare,  and  yet  runs  with  the  hound. 

Tally-ho,  «S:c. 

The  suitor,  whose  favourite  object  is  pelf, 
Who  kisses  his  girl,  yet  loves  none  but  himself. 
Can  never  be  happy,  in  wedlock  when  bound. 
For  he  holds  with  the  hare,  and  yet  runs  with  the  hound. 

Tally-ho,  &c. 

The  youth,  who,  with  two  or  three  strings  to  his  bow. 
Leaves  his  fair  to  a  different  market  to  go, 
Tells  the  same  tale  to  all,  and  makes  love  a  mere  sound, 
Clearly  holds  with  the  hare,  and  yet  runs  with  the  hound. 

Tally-ho,  &c. 

The  merchant,  mechanic,  belle,  beau,  nymph,  and  swain, 
To  enumerate  all,  my  endeavours  are  vain  ; 
For  each  sex,  and  all  classes,  with  objects  abound, 
Who  will  hold  with  the  hare,  and  yet  run  with  the  hound. 

Tally-ho,  &c. 

From  the  field  of  wild  tares,  seeds  of  wheat  may  we  glean, 
May  we  never  act  treacherous,  dirty,  or  mean  ; 
May  our  friends  be  sincere,  and  our  neighbours  around, 
Scorn  to  hold  with  the  hare,  while  they  run  with  the  hound. 

Tally-ho,  &c. 
The  Sportsman's  Vocal  Cabinet ,  1830. 


Otter  Hunting 


Look,  look  I  brother  Bob,  to  the  meadows  below, 

Over-arched  by  that  rainbow  so  bright, 
And  covered  with  lady-smocks  whiter  than  snow, 

What  a  gay,  what  a  delicate  sight  I 
And  the  river,  how  briskly  it  prattles  along, 

'Neath  those  willows  that  kiss  the  clear  stream  ; 
And  hark  I  to  the  nightingale  I  sweetly  in  song. 

While  the  ousel  cock  joins  in  his  theme. 


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HUNTING 


20S 


That  crowd  of  young  sportsmen,  how  brisk  they  «ippear, 

With  their  sharp  pointed  spears  raised  on  high, 
To  dart  at  the  otter  that  wantons  so  near  ; 

For  'tis  fit  that  the  tyrant  should  die  : 
He's  a  foe  to  our  sports,  and  the  angler's  hate, 

Not  a  fish  but  he  seeks  for  his  prey  ; 
He's  a  check  to  our  labours,  for  early  or  late, 

He  bears  the  rich  morsel  away. 


Come,  let  us  away,  and  join  the  blithe  throng  : 

See  1  see  he  comes  up  for  a  vent  ; 
And  hark  to  the  pack,  how  they  carol  along. 

Till  the  air  with  their  music  is  rent : 
That  spear-man  how  manly  he  handles  the  dart, 

How  skilful  the  weapon  he  throws  ; 
The  point  of  the  spear  has  now  enter'd  the  heart. 

And  there's  one  less  to  league  with  our  foes. 

Through  strong  breathing  brass  the  welkin  loud  rings,* 

They've  brought  the  dead  culprit  to  land  ; 
As  the  conquest  spreads  round  on  felicity's  wings, 

The  iTJStics  rejoice  with  the  band  : 
Not  an  angler  but  sought  the  bold  glutton  with  hate. 

And  exults  in  the  watery  chase  ; 
Not  a  creature  to-day  but  grows  glad  at  his  fate. 

And  longs  to  extinguish  the  race. 


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204  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

Sage  WALTON  and  COTTON  the  otter  despised, 

As  a  check  on  the  pleasures  of  man  ; 
And  thought  it  a  pity  the  race  were  devised, 

When  time  the  creation  began. 
The  shorn  monks  of  Waltham  held  once  a  dispute. 

Ere  their  lent  and  their  fast  day  began, — 
If  the  otter  should  class  with  the  fish  or  the  brute, 

Or  their  flesh  be  a  dainty  for  man. 

The  church  soon  declared  him  unfit  for  their  dis'... 

And  quickly  spread  round  their  report. 
And  from  that  day  to  this,  he's  rejected  as  fish, 

And  for  hunters  become  the  free  sport. 
Now  let  us  away  where  good  liquors  abound. 

O'er  the  death  of  the  otter  we'll  sing, 
May  the  fiends  of  destruction,  wherever  they're  found, 

Make  sport  for  the  people  and  king. 

The  Sportsman* 5  Vm'al  Cabinet,  1830. 


The  Old  English  Squire 

About  fifty  years  ago  when  old  George  the  third  was  King, 

And  the  Prince  the  star  of  fashion  brightly  shone  in  pleasure's  ring, 

The  English  country'  Squire  was  a  man  of  great  renown. 

He'd  an  old  Hall  in  the  country  and  a  modern  house  in  town. 

A  Justice  of  the  Peace  he  was  and  also  an  M.P. 

But  was  fettered  to  no  party,  his  principles  were  free. 

He  courted  not  the  Premium  though  his  son  was  in  the  guards, 

With  Fox  he  sometimes  voted,  but  much  oftener  played  at  cards. 

He  kept  a  stud  of  Racers  'twas  his  joy  to  see  them  run. 

And  his  sideboards  were  well  covered  with  the  gold  cups  ihey  had 

won. 
To  the  town  he  represented  every  year  he  gave  a  plate, 
And  to  the  course,  in  coach  and  six,  he  always  came  in  state 
Six  goodly  nags  they  were,  though  very  fat  and  slow. 
Their  manes  were  decked  with  ribbons,  and  their  flowing  tails  also  ; 
His  lady  sat  beside  him  tall  and  upright  as  a  wand 
And  the  people  loudly  cheered  him  on  alighting  at  the  stand. 

He  kept  a  pack  of  fox  hounds  of  pure  old  English  breed  ; 
Most  musical  and  staunch  they  were,  but  not  much  famed  for  speed  ; 
His  hunters  were  enduring,  and  could  go  a  decent  pace  ; 
To  suit  his  hounds  he  bred  them,  not  to  run  a  steeple-chase  : 
He  boldly  went  at  hedge  or  gate  nor  stop't  at  ditch  or  brook, 
And  many  a  Melton  Mowbray  swell  might  shy  the  leap  he  took, 
'Twas  a  pleasant  sight  to  see  him  through  a  bun-fence  make  a  gap, 
With  a  pig-tail  like  a  drum  stick,  cocking  out  behind  his  hat. 


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205 


On  the  first  day  of  September,  as  the  season  still  came  round, 

With  his  pointers  in  (th)e  stubble  he  was  always  to  be  found, 

Though  his  gun  was  like  a  musket,  an  old  fashioned  flint  and  steel. 

Wide  muzzled  and  a  kicker,  she  was  heavy  in  the  heel. 

Yet  birds,  they  being  plentiful,  he  brought  down  many  a  brace  : 

And  if  he  found  them  sitting  why  he  show'd  them  little  grace, 

For  thought  of  shooting  flying  about  fifty  years  ago, 

Kill  when  you  can  was  then  the  word  and  truest  shooting  low. 


His  rent  day  was  at  Michaelmas,  within  his  oak  roof'd  wall, 
Where  portraits,  arms  and  horns  of  Deer  bedeck'd  the  pannel'd  wall, 
It  was  his  custom  and  a  good  one  with  his  tenentry  to  dine, 
And  a  fine  toast  that  he  gave  them,  in  a  gold  cup  fill'd  with  wine, 
Old  claret  rich  and  sparkling  such  as  seldom's  tasted  now. 
Was  the  King  and  Royal  Family,  and  God  speed  the  Plough, 
Amen  exclaimed  the  Vicar,  while  his  patron  seated  were. 
While  the  farmers  drank  their  bumpers  off,  and  gave  a  hearty  cheer. 

Tis  now  thirty  years  ago,  the  sad  time  I  well  remember, 
On  a  dull  and  dreary  day,  in  the  dark  month  of  November, 
This  good  old  English  Squire,  aged  three  score  years  and  ten, 
Was  gathered  to  his  fathers  to  the  grief  of  all  good  men. 
In  the  village  church  he's  buried,  scarce  a  mile  from  the  old  Hall, 
His  Heir  was  chief  mourner,  six  old  neighbours  bore  the  Pall, 
His  memory  is  cherished  yet,  and  many  people  say 
With  the  good  old  English  Squire,  good  old  times  are  gone  away. 

Ballad. 


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1 


2o6  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 


The  Rising  of  the  Sun 


TO   A   WELSH   AIR 

Wake  I  wake  I  wake  to  the  hunting  ! 
Wake  ye,  wake  !  the  morning  is  nigh  I 

Chilly  the  breezes  blow 

Up  from  the  hill  below, 
Chilly  the  twilight  creeps  over  the  sky  ; 

Mark  how  fast  the  stars  are  fading  I 

Mark  how  wide  the  dawn  is  spreading  I 
Many  a  fallow  deer 
Feeds  in  the  forest  near  ; 
Now  is  no  time  on  the  heather  to  lie  : 

Rise  I  rise  I  hark  on  the  ocean, 
Rise  ye,  rise,  and  look  on  the  sky  ! 

Softly  the  vapours  sweep 

Over  the  level  deep  ; 
Softly  the  mists  on  the  waterfall  lie  I 
In  the  clouds  red  tints  are  glowing  ; 
On  the  hill  the  black  cock's  crowing  ; 

And  through  the  welkin  red 

See  where  he  lifts  his  head  I 
Forth  to  the  hunting  1  the  sun's  riding  high  I 

Bishop  Heber,  from  The  Casket,  1829. 


The  Hunting 


I 

Haste,  ranger,  to  the  Athol  mountains  blue  ! 

Unleash  the  hounds,  and  let  the  bugles  sing  I 
The  thousand  traces  in  the  morning  dew. 

The  bounding  deer,  the  black-cock  on  the  wing. 

Bespeak  the  rout  of  Scotland's  gallant  king  ; 
The  bearded  rock  shouts  to  the  desart  hoar  ; 

Haste,  ranger  I— all  the  mountain  echoes  ring. 
From  cairn  of  Bruar  to  the  dark  Glen- More, 
The  forest's  in  a  howl,  and  all  is  wild  uproar  I 


O  many  a  gallant  hart  that  time  was  slain  I 
And  many  a  roe-buck  founder'd  in  the  glen  I 

The  gor-cock  beat  the  shivering  winds  in  vain  ; 
The  antler^d  rover  sought  his  widowed  den  ; 
Even  birds  that  ne'er  had  seen  the  forms  of  men. 


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HUNTING  207 

But  roosted  careless  on  the  desart  doone, 
An  easy  mark  to  ruthless  archer's  ken  I 
No  more  they  whirr  and  crow  at  dawning^  boon, 
Far  on  their  grizzled  heights,  contiguous  to  the  moon  ! 

Ill 
Where'er  the  chase  to  dell  or  valley  near'd, 

There  for  the  royal  train  the  feast  was  laid  ; 
There  was  the  monarch's  light  pavilion  rear'd  ; 

There  flow'd  the  wine,  and  much  in  glee  was  said 

Of  lady's  form,  and  blooming  mountain  maid  ; 
And  many  a  fair  was  toasted  to  the  brim  : 

But  knight  and  squire  a  languishing  betray'd 
When  one  was  named,  whose  eye  made  diamonds  dim  ! 
The  King  look'd  sad  and  sigh'd  !  no  sleep  that  night  for  him  ! 

IV 

The  morning  rose,  but  scarce  they  could  discern 

When  Night  gave  in  her  sceptre  to  the  day. 
The  clouds  of  heaven  were  moor'd  so  dark  and  dem,' 

And  wrapt  the  forest  in  a  shroud  of  gray. 

Man,  horse,  and  hound,  in  listless  languor  lay, 
For  the  wet  rack  traversed  the  mountain's  brow  ; 

But,  long  ere  night,  the  Monarch  stole  away  ; 
His  courtiers  search'd,  and  raised  the  loud  halloo. 
But  well  they  knew  their  man,  and  made  not  much  ado. 


Another  day  came  on,  another  still. 

And  aye  the  clouds  their  drizzly  treasures  shed  ; 
The  pitchy  mist  hung  moveless  on  the  hill. 

And  hooded  every  pine-tree's  reverend  head  : 

The  heavens  seem'd  sleeping  on  their  mountain  bed. 
The  straggling  roes  mistimed  their  noontide  den, 

And  strand  the  forest,  belling  for  the  dead. 
Started  at  every  rustle — paused,*  and  then 
Sniff'd  whistling  in  the  wind,  and  bounded  to  the  glen. 

VI 

The  King  was  lost,  and  much  conjecture  past. 

At  length  the  morning  rose  in  hghtsome  blue, 
Far  to  the  west  her  pinken  veil  she  cast ; 

Up  rose  the  fringed  sun,  and  softly  threw 

A  golden  tint  along  the  moorland  dew  : 
The  mist  had  sought  the  winding  vales,  and  lay 

A  slumbering  ocean  of  the  softest  hue, 
Where  mimic  rainbows  bent  in  every  bay. 
And  thousand  islets  smiled  amid  the  watery  way. 


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2o8  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 


VI 

The  steeps  of  proud  Ben- Glow  the  nobles  scaled, 
For  there  they  heard  their  Monarch's  bugle  yell  ; 

First  on  the  height,  the  beauteous  mom  he  hail'd, 
And  rested,  wondering,  on  the  heather  bell. 
The  amber  blaze  that  tipt  the  moor  and  fell. 

The  fleecy  clouds  that  roll'd  afar  below. 
The  hounds'  impatient  whine,  the  bugle's  swell, 

Raised  in  his  breast  a  more  than  wonted  glow. 

The  nobles  found  him  pleased,  nor  farther  strove  to  know. 

VIII 

The  driver  circle  narrow'd  on  the  heath. 

Close,  and  more  close,  the  deer  were  bounding  by  ; 
Upon  the  bow-string  lies  the  shaft  of  death  ! 

Breathless  impatience  burns  in  every  eye  ! 

At  once  a  thousand  winged  arrows  fly  ; 
The  grayhound  up  the  glen  outstrips  the  wind  ; 

At  once  the  slow-hounds'  music  rends  the  sky, 
The  hunters  whoop  and  hallo  cheers  behind  ! 
Haloo  !  away  they  speed  !  swift  as  the  course  of  mind  ! 

IX 

There  roll'd  the  bausin'd  *  hind  adown  the  linn, 

Transfix'd  by  arrow  from  the  Border  bow  ; 
There  the  poor  roe-deer  quakes  the  cliff  within, 

The  silent  gray-hound  watching  close  below. 

But  yonder  far  the  chestnut  rovers  go. 
O'er  hill,  o'er  dale,  they  mock  thy  hounds  and  thee  ; 

Cheer,  hunter,  cheer  !  unbend  thy  cumbrous  bow, 
Bayard  '^  and  blood-hound  now  thy  hope  must  be. 
Or  soon  they  gain  the  steeps,  and  pathless  woods  of  Dee. 


Halloo,  o'er  hill  and  dale  I  the  slot  is  warm  ! 

To  every  cliff  the  bugle  lends  a  bell ; 
On  to  the  northward  peals  the  loud  alarm, 

And  ay  the  brocket  ^  and  the  sorel  ^  fell  : 

But  flying  still  before  the  mingled  yell. 
The  gallant  herd  outspeeds  the  troubled  wind  ; 

Their  rattling  antlers  brush  the  birken  "'*  dell  ; 
Their  haughty  eyes  the  rolling  tear-drops  blind  ; 
But  onward  still  they  speed,  and  look  not  once  behind  ! 

1  face  striped  with  white.  *  a  bay  horse.        *  buck  in  second  year. 

4  buck  in  third  year.  ^  birchen. 

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HUNTING  209 

XI 

The  Tilt  is  vanish'd  on  the  upland  gray, 

The  Tarf  is  dwindled  to  a  foaming  rill ; 
But  many  a  hound  lay  gasping  by  the  way, 

Bathed  in  the  stream,  or  stretch'd  upon  the  hill ; 

The  cooling  brook  with  burning  Jaws  they  swill. 
Nor  once  will  deign  to  scent  the  tamted  ground  : 

The  herd  has  crossed  Breriach's  gulfing  gill, 
The  Athol  forest's  formidable  bound, 
And  in  the  Garcharye  a  last  retreat  have  found. 


XII 

One  hound  alone  has  cross'd  the  dreary  height, 
The  deep -toned  Jowler,  ever  staunch  and  true. 

The  chace  was  o'er  ;  but  long  ere  fell  the  night, 
Full  thirty  hinds  those  gallant  hunters  slew, 
Of  every  age  and  kind  ;  the  drivers  drew 

Their  quarry  on  behind  by  ford  and  lea  : 
But  never  more  shall  eye  of  monarch  view 

So  wild  a  scene  of  mountain  majesty 

As  Scotland's  king  beheld  from  the  tall  peaks  of  Dee. 

Madoc  of  the  Moor,  Jamks  Hogg.  1816. 


Hark!  Hark 


F'or  hark  I  hark  I  hark  I 
The  dog  doth  bark. 

That  watches  the  wild  deer's  lair. 
The  hunter  awakes  at  the  peep  of  the  dawn, 
But  the  lair  is  empty,  the  deer  it  is  gone, 

And  the  hunter  knows  not  where. 

Then  follow,  oh  follow  I  the  hounds  do  cry  : 
The  red  sun  flames  in  the  eastern  sky  : 

The  stag  bounds  over  the  hollow. 
He  that  lingers  in  spirit,  or  loiters  in  hall, 
Shall  see  us  no  more  till  the  evening  fall, 
And  no  voice  but  the  echo  shall  answer  his  call 

Then  follow,  oh  follow,  follow  : 

Follow,  oh  follow,  follow  I 

Though  I  be  now  a  grey,  grey  friar, 
Yet  I  was  once  a  hale  young  knight : 
The  cry  of  my  dogs  was  the  only  choir 
In  which  my  spirit  did  take  delight. 


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2IO  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

Little  I  recked  of  matin  bell, 

But  drowned  its  toll  with  my  clanging  horn  : 

And  the  only  beads  I  loved  to  tell 

Were  the  beads  of  dew  on  the  spangled  thorn. 


An  archer  keen  I  was  withal, 

As  ever  did  lean  on  greenwood  tree  : 
And  could  make  the  fleetest  roebuck  fall, 

A  good  three  hundred  yards  from  me. 
Though  changeful  time,  with  hand  severe, 

Has  made  me  now  these  joys  forego, 
Yet  my  heart  bounds  whene'er  I  hear 

Yoicks  I  hark  away  !  and  tally  ho  ! 

Maid  Marian,  Thomas  Lovk  Peacock,  1822. 


The  Joys  of  Sporting 

There  is  a  spirit  in  the  chase, 
The  fervor  of  whose  wild  embrace 

The  sportsman  only  knows  ; 
He  feels  its  freshness  in  the  gale, 
And  hears  its  music  in  the  vale. 

Where  the  brook  murmuring  flows. 

The  mom  for  him  hath  jovial  eye ; 
And  its  own  strain  of  melody 

Is  musically  clear. 
There's  not  a  breath  that  Nature  breathes, 
Nor  a  fantastic  work  she  wreaths 

For  spirits  wild  and  dear. 

But  glad  the  children  of  the  chase, 
And  meet  them  ever  as  they  pace 

Exultingly  along : 
O  who  would  ever  spurn  the  joys 
(Unlike  to  pleasure's  sickening  toys) 

That  to  the  chase  belong  ? 

O  who  could  hear  the  enlivening  horn 
Gush  out  in  bursts,  by  echo  borne 

Upon  the  listening  breeze. 
And  not  repose  upon  the  sound— 
And  feel  his  gladden'd  spirit  bound 

As  the  wild  chase  he  sees  .^ 

Hark  to  the  jovial  hunters'  cry  I  — 

And  now  the  steeds  triumphantly 

Follow  the  deep-toned  pack  ; 


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C3    C3 


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HUNTING 

They  pass  the  vale— ascend  the  hill, 
And  bear  away  in  spirit  still 
Along  the  mountain's  track  ! 

This  is  the  hunter's  banquet  day  ! 
For  sickly  Care,  the  *  Hark — away  ! ' 

Will  ever  wisely  leave  : 
It  cannot  follow  in  the  train. 
With  the  wild  chorus,  o'er  the  plain. 

But  looks  awhile  to  grieve. 


And  there  are  other  sports  that  yield 
The  milder  pleasures  of  the  field, 

That  sportsmen  rarely  shun. 
And  happier  he,  than  child  of  fame, 
(The  restless  hunter  of  a  name,) 

Who  loves  his  dog  and  gun  ; 

And  laughs  at  all  the  toils  of  life. 
The  feverish  fume,  the  stir,  the  strife. 

That  cloud  our  mortal  day  ; 
Thrice  happy,  when  the  eve  shall  bring 
The  social  board  where  hunters  sing 
The  jovial  *  Hark— away  ! ' 

Sporting  Magazine,  February  1822. 
P  2 


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THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 


The  Dawning  of  Day 

A   HUNTING   SONG 

The  grey  eye  of  morning  was  dear  to  my  youth, 
When  I  sprang  like  the  roe  from  my  bed, 

With  the  glow  of  the  passions,  the  feelings  of  truth, 
And  the  light  hand  of  Time  on  my  head. 

For  then  'twas  my  maxim  through  life  to  be  free, 
And  to  sport  my  best  moments  away  ; 

The  cry  of  the  hounds  was  the  music  for  me, 
My  glory— the  dawn  of  the  day. 


In  yellow-leaved  autumn,  the  haze  of  the  morn 

Gave  promise  of  rapture  to  come  : 
Then  melody  woke  in  the  sound  of  the  horn, 

As  we  cheer'd  the  old  fox  from  his  home  ; 

The  breeze  and  the  shout  met  the  sun's  early  beam, 
With  the  village  response  in  full  play  ; 

All  vigour,  my  steed  leap'd  the  fence  or  the  stream, 
And  was  foremost  at  dawn  of  the  day. 


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HUNTING  213 

The  well-tuned  view-halloo  that  shook  the  green  wood, 

And  arrested  the  ploughman's  gay  song, 
Gave  nerve  to  the  hunters,  and  fire  to  the  blood 

Of  the  hounds,  as  they  bounded  along. 

And  shall  I  relinquish  this  joy  of  my  heart 

While  years  with  my  strength  roll  away  ? 
Hark  I  the  horn — bring  my  horse — see,  they're  ready  to  start  I 

Tally-o  I  at  the  dawning  of  day. 

Remains,  Romert  Bloomfield,  1824. 

The  First  Day  of  the  Season 

'Tis  come— 'tis  come — my  gallant  steed. 

No  longer  shalt  thou  pine  ; 
From  stall  and  bower  to-day  we're  freed, 
And  swift  as  mountain-breeze  shall  speed 
Once  more  o'er  hill — and  mount— and  mead 

Those  stalwart  limbs  of  thine  I 

'Tis  come— 'tis  come— my  hounds  so  true  I  — 

The  light  cloud  is  on  high — 
Pale  autumn  gently  crisps  the  dew, 
Where  leaves  have  donned  their  russet  hue, 
And  ga'es  sigh  soft,  as  though  they  blew 

The  welcome  of  the  sky  I 

'Tis  come— 'tis  come— that  soul-felt  thrill  1 

My  straining  courser  bounds  ; 
And  echoing  wide  o'er  copse  and  rill. 

The  maddening  chorus  sounds  ! 
By  heaven  !     He  scales  the  distant  hill ! 
And  hark  !  the  horn's  wild  summons  shrill — 
On  1— On  I— my  steed  I     We're  laggards  still— 

On  I — On  I— my  gallant  hounds  I 

Dashwooi),  \cw  Sporting  Magazine,  1831. 

The  Little  Red  Rover 

I 

The  dewdrop  is  clinging 

To  whin-bush  and  brake, 
The  skylark  is  singing 

*  Merrie  hunters,  awake.' 
Home  to  the  cover. 

Deserted  by  night. 
The  little  Red  Rover 

Is  bending  his  flight. 


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THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

II 
Resounds  the  glad  hollo  ; 

The  pack  scents  the  prey  ; 
Man  and  horse  follow  ; 

Away  !     Hark,  away  I 
Away  I  never  fearing, 

Ne'er  slacken  your  pace  : 
What  music  so  cheering 

As  that  of  the  chase  ? 

Ill 
The  Rover  still  speeding, 

Still  distant  from  home, 
Spurr'd  flanks  are  bleeding, 

And  cover'd  with  foam  ; 
Fleet  limbs  extended, 

Roan,  chestnut,  or  grey, 
The  burst,  ere  'tis  ended, 

Shall  try  them  to-day  ! 

IV 

Well  known  is  yon  cover, 

And  crajf  hanging  o'er  I 
The  little  Red  Rover 

Shall  reach  it  no  more  I 
The  foremost  hounds  near  him, 

His  strength  'gins  to  droop  ; 
In  pieces  they  tear  him. 

Who- whoop  I     Who- who- whoop  ! 

R.  E.  Kgerton  War  burton,  1833. 

The  Dead  Hunter 

I 

His  sire  from  the  desert,  his  dam  from  the  north, 
The  pride  of  my  stable  stept  gallantly  forth, 
One  slip  in  his  stride  as  the  scurry  he  led, 
And  my  steed,  ere  his  rivals  o'ertook  him,  lay  dead. 

II 
Poor  steed  I  shall  thy  limbs  on  the  hunting  field  lie, 
That  his  beak  in  thy  carcass  the  raven  may  dye  ? 
Is  it  thine  the  sad  doom  of  thy  race  to  fulfil. 
Thy  flesh  to  the  cauldron,  thy  bones  to  the  mill  ? 

Ill 
Ah  !  no. — I  beheld  thee  a  foal  yet  unshod, 
Now  race  round  the  paddock,  now  roll  on  the  sod  ; 
Where  first  thy  young  hoof  the  green  herbage  impress'd, 
There,  the  shoes  on  thy  feet,  will  I  lay  thee  to  rest  I 

R.  K.  K(;i:rton  Warbi'rton^, 


HUNTING  215 

My  Old  Horn 

Though  toil  hath  somewhat  worn  thy  frame, 

And  time  hath  marr'd  thy  beauty, 
Come  forth — lone  relic  of  my  fame — 

Thou  well  hast  done  thy  duty. 

Time  was  when  other  tongues  would  praise 

Thy  wakening  notes  of  pleasure, 
Now,  miser-like,  alone  I  gaze  . 

On  thee,  a  useless  treasure. 

Some  hearts  may  prize  thy  music  still, 

But  ah  I  how  changed  the  story. 
Since  first  Devonia  felt  the  thrill 

That  roused  her  sporting  glory. 

Grace  still  in  every  vale  abounds, 

Yet  one  dear  charm  is  wanting — 
No  more  I  hear  my  gallant  hounds 

In  chorus  blithely  chaunting. 

And  there  my  steed  has  found  a  rest, 

Beneath  the  mountain  heather. 
That  oft,  like  comrades  sworn,  we  prest 

In  pleasure's  train  together. 

And  some,  who  at  thy  call  would  wake. 

Hath  Friendship  long  been  weeping  ; 
A  shriller  note  than  thine,  must  break 

Their  deep  and  dreamless  sleeping. 

I  too  the  fading  wreath  resign, 

(For  friends  and  fame  are  fleeting). 
Around  his  bolder  brow  to  twine, 

Where  younger  blood  is  beating. 

Henceforth  be  mute  my  treasured  horn, 

Since  time  hath  marred  thy  beauty, 
And  I,  like  thee,  by  toil  am  worn  :  - 

We  both  have  done  our  duty. 

The  Sportsman.  1833. 

Oh  won't  you  let  me  go,  papa  ? 

Oh  won't  you  let  me  go,  Papa } 

Oh  won't  you  let  me  go  ? 
You're  too  indulgent  to  refuse 

Your  little  Charles  I  know. 


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2i6  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

I'll  not  attempt  to  leap,  Papa  ; 

I'll  canter  very  slow  : 
I'll  be  so  careful,  dear  Papa— 

Oh  won't  you  let  me  go  ? 

There's  brother  Gilbert,  my  Papa, 
And  he's  not  more  than  eight ; 

And  yet  the  other  day  you  smiled 
To  see  him  charge  a  gate  : 

And  Charley's  not  a  child ^  Papa— 
He's  sixy  or  nearly  so  ; 

He'll  ride  with  Gilbert  any  day — 
Oh  won't  you  let  him  go  ? 


There's  Spencer  hunts  three  times  a  week, 

And  he  is  only  ten  ; 
He  mounts  his  leathers,  boots,  and  pink 

The  same  as  other  men. 
With  either  1  can  run,  Papa, 

Or  swim,  or  skate,  or  row  ; 
'Tis  hard  that  I  should  stay  at  home — 

Oh  won't  you  let  nie  go  ? 

They're  sure  of  sport  to-day.  Papa, 

'Tis  such  a  hunting  mom  ! 
They'll  very  soon  be  here.  Papa — 

Hark  I  there's  the  huntsman's  horn  I 


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HUNTING  217 

Look — look— beyond  the  chestnuts  there, 

Oh  what  a  lovely  show  I 
They'll  find  at  Barkby  Holt,  Papa— 

Oh  won't  you  let  me  go  ? 

A  smile — a  smile— a  happy  sign  I 

Oh  yes,  I  thought  you  would  ; 
You'll  not  regret  it,  dear  Papa, 

I'll  be  so  very  good  I 
Run  Thomas,  bring  my  pony  round. 

My  heart  is  beating  so  I 
Oh  what  a  kind,  a  sweet  Papa — 

I  knew  he'd  let  me  go  I 

Sporting  Magazine ,  January  1835. 

The  Chase  !  The  Chase  ! 

The  Chase  I  the  Chase  !  the  glorious  Chase  I 

O'er"  hill  and  dale  to  speed  the  race  I 

With  sprightly  steed,  with  trusty  hound, 

'Tis  merry  to  range  the  greenwood  round  I 

To  stay  for  no  fence — the  game  afar — 

But  urge  with  shouts  the  flying  war. 

I'm  for  the  Chase  I  I'm  for  the  Chase  I 

With  noble  Mure  the  field  to  grace  I 

With  his  hounds  so  staunch,  and  his  Huntsman  keen 

No  braver  show  has  Hunter  seen  ! 

If  a  check  should  come  as  we  scour  the  plain, 

What  matter — we  must  cast  again. 

I  love  !  oh,  how  I  love  to  speed 

On  the  fleet,  bounding,  generous  steed  ; 

When  rock,  and  stream,  and  forest-bourn 

Ring  merrily  with  the  Hunter's  horn  I 

And  every  hound  with  rapture  springs 

Upon  the  scent  the  south  wind  brings. 

I  never  was  in  the  City's  roar 

But  I  lov'd  the  green  fields  more  and  more  ; 

And  back  I  flew  from,  its  deep  unrest, 

As  the  young  Greek  sprang  to  his  mother's  breast  I 

And  the  mother's  delight  in  that  embrace 

Was  nought  to  mine  in  the  glorious  Chase. 

The  leaves  were  sere  and  grey  the  mom 

In  the  hunting  hour  when  I  was  bom  : 

And  the  hounds  they  gave  tongue  -the  valleys  rang 

As  the  Huntsmen  blithe  in  chorus  sang  I 


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2i8  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

And  never  were  heard  such  shoutings  wild 

As  welcom'd  to  life  the  Forest-child  I 

IVe  lived  since  then  in  pleasures  rife 

Full  fifty  seasons  a  Hunter's  life, 

With  wealth  to  spend  and  a  power  to  range. 

And  never  sought  nor  sigh'd  for  change  : 

And  Death,  when  he  comes  with  cold  embrace, 

Shall  own  that  MY  life  was  a  glorious  Chase  I 

Charles  Feist.  Sporting  Magazine,  April  1836. 


The  Hunters  Legend 

Upon  a  rock  that  high  and  sheer 
Rose  from  the  mountain's  breast, 

A  weary  hunter  of  the  deer 
Had  sat  him  down  to  rest, 

And  bared,  to  the  soft  summer  air. 

His  hot  red  brow  and  sweaty  hair. 

All  dim  in  haze  the  mountains  lay, 
With  dimmer  vales  between. 

And  rivers  glimmered  on  their  way, 
By  forests  faintly  seen  ; 

While  ever  rose  a  murmuring  sound 

From  brooks  below  and  bees  around. 

He  listened,  till  he  seemed  to  hear 

A  voice  so  soft  and  low. 
That  whether  in  the  mind  or  ear, 

The  listener  scarce  might  know  ; 
With  such  a  tone,  so  sweet  and  mild. 
The  watching  mother  lulls  her  child. 

*  Thou  weary  huntsman,'  thus  it  said, 
'  Thou  faint  with  toil  and  heat  I 

The  pleasant  land  of  rest  is  spread 
Before  thy  ver>'  feet. 

And  those  whom  thou  would  gladly  see 

Are  waiting  there  to  welcome  thee.' 

He  looked,  and  'twixt  the  earth  and  sky. 

Amidst  the  noontide  haze, 
A  shadowy  region  met  his  eye, 

And  grew  beneath  his  gaze  ; 
As  if  the  vapours  of  the  air 
Had  gathered  into  shapes  so  fair. 


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HUNTING  219 

Groves  freshened  as  he  looked,  and  flowers 

Showed  bright  on  rocky  bank, 
And  fountains  welled  beneath  the  bowers. 

Where  deer  and  pheasant  drank, 
He  saw  the  glittering  streams  ;  he  heard 
The  rustling  bough,  and  twittering  bird. 

And  friends — the  dead — in  boyhood  dear, 

There  lived,  and  walked  again  ; 
And  there  was  one  who  many  a  year 

Within  her  grave  had  lain, 
A  fair  young  girl,  the  region's  pride— 
His  heart  was  breaking  when  she  died. 

Bounding,  as  was  her  wont,  she  came 

Right  towards  his  resting-place. 
And  stretched  her  hand,  and  called  his  name, 

With  sweet  and  smiling  face, 
Fon\'ard,  with  fixed  and  eager  eyes, 
The  hunter  leaned,  in  act  to  rise. 

Forward  he  leaned,  and  headlong  down 

Plunged  from  the  craggy  wall  ; 
He  saw  the  rocks,  steep,  stem  and  brown. 

An  instant,  in  his  fall — 
A  fearful  instant,  and  no  more — 
The  dream  and  life  at  once  were  o'er. 
William  C\  Bryant,  The  Sportsman  and  Veterinary  Recorder,  May  1836. 

The  Jolly  Old  Squire 

The  Squire,  the  old  Squire,  is  gone  to  his  rest  ; 
His  heart  was  the  bravest,  his  horse  was  the  best. 
His  cheer  was  unequall'd,  his  wine  without  peer. 
And  he  kept  open  house  every  day  in  the  year  ; 
Now  a  narrower  house  holds  his  bosom  of  fire. 
And  cold  is  the  hearth  of  the  Jolly  Old  Squire, 
The  Jolly  Old  Squire, 
The  Jolly  Old  Squire, 
And  cold  is  the  heanh  of  the  Jolly  Old  Squire. 

The  Jolly  Old  Squire  was  as  staunch  as  a  hound, 
And  gayer  he  seem'd,  the  more  broken  the  ground. 
Neither  yawner  nor  rasper  could  make  him  delay, 
As,  mounted  on  Druid  he  roared  *  hark  away  ! ' 
The  first  in  the  field,  and  the  last  man  to  tire. 
His  hunting  is  over — the  Jolly  Old  Squire, 
The  Jolly  Old  Squire, 
The  Jolly  Old  Squire, 
His  hunting  is  over— the  Jolly  Old  Squire. 


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When  the  brush  of  sly  reynard,  the  coveted  prize, 
Was  displayed  at  his  table,  joy  danc'd  in  his  eyes  ; 
He  quaff'd  his  good  wine,  and  he  sang  his  good  song, 
And  the  shouting  that  followed  was  cordial  and  long  ; 
In  chorus  we  join'd,  an  unanimous  choir, 
But  loudest  the  voice  of  the  Jolly  Old  Squire, 

The  Jolly  Old  Squire, 

The  Jolly  Old  Squire, 
But  loudest  of  all  was  the  Jolly  Old  Squire. 

We  were  hunting  the  fox  on  a  lowering  day. 

With  the  Squire  spurring  up  on  his  high-flying  grey  : 

No  surer  foot  bounded  o'er  hillock  and  dell. 

But  the  fates  were  in  league,  and  the  gallant  grey  fell : 

We  knew  that  the  rider  must  shortly  expire, 

And  drew  up  our  reins  round  the  Jolly  Old  Squire, 

The  Jolly  Old  Squire, 

The  Jolly  Old  Squire, 
We  drew  up  our  reins  round  the  Jolly  Old  Squire. 

*  W^hat  the  deuce  do  you  stay  for  ?'  we  heard  him  exclaim  ; 
'  My  sporting  is  spoil'd,  but  should  your's  be  the  same  ? 
They're  o'er-running  the  scent  -Trusty  Will  !  turn  the  pack, 
A  plague  on  the  fall  that  laid  me  on  my  back  I 
Fox-hunting  for  ever  I '  he  shouted  with  fire, 
These  were  the  words  of  the  Jolly  Old  Squire, 

The  Jolly  Old  Squire, 

The  Jolly  Old  Squire, 
The  very  last  words  of  the  Jolly  Old  Squire. 

The  Sportsman,  May  1838. 


Otters 

It  is  a  sylvan  scene  I     A  mountain  lake, 

Strown  with  green  Islets,  far  away  from  man 
And  man's  encroachments.     Day,  that  now  doth  take 

A  farewell  of  the  sky,  hath  just  began 

To  soften  into  shade.  Behold  yon  Swan  I 
With  plumage  proudly  spread  as  on  she  goes, 
Shivering  the  pictures,  which  the  shadows  make 

Upon  the  waters  I     'Midst  those  flags,  where  grows 
Yon  Iris — gilding  with  its  flowers  the  green  — 

A  troop  of  Watkr-RATS  among  the  waves 
Are  splashing  sportively  I  and,  dimly  seen 

In  the  advancing  twilight,  from  those  caves 
That  skirt  the  farther  shore,  two  creatures  creep — 
Ottkrs  !     Quaint  robbers  of  the  mystic  deep  I 

Majok  Caldkr  Campbki.l,  The  Sportsman,  March  1840. 


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HUNTING  221 


Wind  thy  Horn,  my  Hunter  Boy 

Wind  thy  horn,  my  hunter  boy, 

And  leave  thy  lute's  inglorious  sighs  ; 

Hunting  is  the  hero's  joy, 
Till  war  his  nobler  game  supplies. 

Hark  I  the  hound-bells  ringing  sweet, 

While  hunters  shout,  and  the  woods  repeat, 
Hilliho  1     Hilli-ho  ; 

Wind  again  thy  cheerful  horn, 

Till  echo,  faint  with  answering,  dies  : 
Burn,  bright  torches,  burn  till  morn. 

And  lead  us  where  the  wild  boar  lies. 
Hark  I  the  cry,  *  He's  found,  he's  found,' 
WMiile  hill  and  valley  our  shouts  resound. 
Hilli-ho  I     Hilli-ho  : 
Poetical  Works  of  Thomas  Aftwre,  1840. 


The  Song  of  the  Hunter 

We  are  off  once  more  I  -for  the  summer's  o'er. 

And  gaily  we  take  our  stand 
By  the  covert-side,  in  our  might  and  pride, 

A  gallant  and  fearless  band  I 
Again  we  hear  our  Huntsman's  cheer, 

The  thrilling  Tally-ho  ! 
And  the  blast  of  the  horn,  through  the  woodlands  borne, 

As  merrily  onward  we  go  ! 

Tally-ho  ! 

.\s>  merrily  onward  we  go  I 

No  glittering  show  nor  parade  we  know  \ 

Our  course  is  uncontroll'd  ! 
O'er  earth  -through  air     our  lords  we  bear 

In  a  chase  unpaid  by  gold  I 
Let  the  Racer  speed,  and  his  bright  sides  bleed. 

Where  gladd'ning  shouts  resound  ! 
Are  the  cheers  that  greet  his  course  so  sweet 

As  the  musical  cry  of  the  hound  ? 

Of  thk   Houm)  : 

.As  the  musical  cry  of  the  hound  ? 

Oh  I  where  is  the  nag  in  his  course  would  flag. 

As  the  Southern  breezes  play 
On  his  foaming  face  in  the  heat  of  the  chase. 

On  «in  Autumn's  cloudy  day  ! 


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222  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

On  I  on  I  we  go  I  and  the  brush  of  the  foe 

Shall  reward  our  daring  toil ! 
'Tis  the  prize  we  ask,  to  repay  our  task, 

To  be  dcck'd  in  that  glorious  spoil  I 
Who-whoop  ! 

To  be  deck'd  in  that  glorious  spoil  I 

Oh  !  ours  is  the  life  that  makes  no  strife. 

Nor  causes  loss  nor  sorrow  I 
By  deeds  confessed  that  we've  done  our  best  I 

We  are  ready  again  on  the  morrow  / 
Though  our  coat's  less  bright  and  our  limbs  less  light 

Than  our  kindred  *  thorough-bred^^ 
In  stanchness  and  game  our  hearts  are  the  same, 

Till  our  strength  with  our  life  has  sped  I 
To  THE  Grave  : 

Till  our  strength  with  our  life  has  sped  I 

James  Willyam  Grylls,  Sporting  Magazinv,  November  1844. 

Dedicated  (without  permission  again)  to  the  best  and  oldest  Horse  in 
the  Service ! 

{For  further  particulars  inquire  of*  Will  l^ong'  Badminton,) 


Address  to  a  Wild  Deer 

Thy  bold  antlers  call  on  the  hunter  afar 
With  a  haughty  defiance  to  come  to  the  war  I 
No  outrage  is  war  to  a  creature  like  thee  I 
The  bugle-horn  fills  thy  wild  spirit  with  glee. 
As  thou  bearest  thy  neck  on  the  wings  of  the  wind, 
And  the  laggardly  gaze-hound  is  toiling  behind. 
In  the  beams  '  of  thy  forehead  that  glitter  with  death, 
In  feet  that  draw  power  from  the  touch  of  the  heath, — 
In  the  wide-raging  torrent  that  lends  thee  its  roar, — 
In  the  cliff  that  once  trod  must  be  trodden  no  more, — 
Thy  trust— 'mid  the  dangers  that  threaten  thy  reign  I 
— But  what  if  the  stag  on  the  mountain  be  slain  ? 
On  the  brink  of  the  rock — lo  I  he  standeth  at  bay 
Like  a  victor  that  falls  at  the  close  of  the  day- 
While  hunter  and  hound  in  their  terror  retreat 
From  the  death  that  is  spumed  from  his  furious  feet  ; 
And  his  last  cry  of  anger  comes  back  from  the  skies. 
As  nature's  fierce  son  in  the  wilderness  dies. 
Hi^h  life  of  a  hunter  !  he  meets  on  the  hill 
The  new-wakened  daylight,  so  bright  and  so  still : 
And  feels,  as  the  clouds  of  the  morning  unroll, 


>  antlers. 


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HUNTING  223 


\ 

!  The  silence,  the  splendour,  ennoble  his  soul. 

'Tis  his  o'er  the  mountains  to  stalk  like  a  ghost, 

Enshrouded  with  mist,  in  which  nature  is  lost. 

Till  he  lifts  up  his  eyes,  and  flood,  valley,  and  height, 

In  one  moment  all  swim  in  an  ocean  of  light ; 

While  the  sun,  like  a  glorious  banner  unfurled, 

Seems  to  wave  o'er  a  new,  more  magnificent  world. 

Tis  his— by  the  mouth  of  some  cavern  his  seat — 

The  lightning  of  heaven  to  hold  at  his  feet, 

While  the  thunder  below  him  that  growls  from  the  cloud. 

To  him  comes  on  echo  more  awfully  loud. 

When  the  clear  depth  of  noontide,  with  glittering  motion, 

O'erflows  the  lone  glens — an  aerial  ocean — 

When  the  earth  and  the  heavens,  in  union  profound, 

Lie  blended  in  beauty  that  knows  not  a  sound — 

As  his  eyes  in  the  sunshiny  solitude  close 

'Neath  a  rock  of  the  desert  in  dreaming  repose, 

He  sees,  in  his  slumbers,  such  visions  of  old 

As  his  wild  Gaelic  songs  to  his  infancy  told  ; 

O'er  the  mountains  a  thousand  plumed  hunters  are  borne, 

And  he  starts  from  his  dream  at  the  blast  of  the  horn. 

Yes  I  child  of  the  desert !  fit  quarry  wert  thou 

For  the  hunter  that  came  with  a  crown  on  his  brow, — 

By  princes  attended  with  arrow  and  spear, 

In  their  white-tented  camp,  for  the  warfare  of  deer. 

In  splendour  the  tents  on  the  green  summit  stood, 

And  brightly  they  shone  from  the  glade  in  the  wood, 

And,  silently  built  by  a  magical  spell, 

The  pyramid  rose  in  the  depth  of  the  dell. 

All  mute  was  the  palace  of  Lochy  that  day, 

When  the  king  and  his  nobles — a  gallant  array — 

To  Gleno  or  Glen-Etive  came  forth  in  their  pride, 

And  a  hundred  fierce  stags  in  their  solitude  died. 

Not  lonely  and  single  they  passed  o'er  the  height— 

But  thousands  swept  by  in  their  hurricane-flight ; 

And  bowed  to  the  dust  in  their  trampling  tread 

Was  the  plumage  on  many  a  warrior's  head. 

— *  Fall  down  on  your  faces  !— the  herd  is  at  hand  I ' 

— And  onwards  they  came  like  the  sea  o'er  the  sand  ; 

Like  the  snow  from  the  mountain  when  loosened  by  rain. 

And  rolling  along  with  a  crash  to  the  plain  ; 

Like  a  thunder-split  oak-tree,  that  falls  in  one  shock 

With  his  hundred  wide  arms  from  the  top  of  the  rock, 

Like  the  voice  of  the  sky,  when  the  black  cloud  is  near. 

So  sudden,  so  loud,  came  the  tempest  of  Deer. 

Wild  mirth  of  the  desert !  fit  pastime  for  kings  ! 

Which  still  the  rude  Bard  in  his  solitude  sings. 

Oh  reign  of  magnificence  !  vanished  for  ever  ! 

Like  music  dried  up  in  the  bed  of  a  river, 


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224  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

Whose  course  hath  been  changed  I  yet  my  soul  can  survey 
The  clear  cloudless  mom  of  that  glorious  day. 
Yes  !  the  wide  silent  forest  is  loud  as  of  yore, 
And  the  far-ebb^d  grandeur  rolls  back  to  the  shore. 

Poems,  Prof.  Wilson,  1853. 


My  Hunting  Song 

Forward  !     Hark  forward's  the  cry  I 
On.e  more  fence  and  we're  out  on  the  open, 
So  to  us  at  once,  if  you  want  to  live  near  us  I 
Hark  to  them,  ride  to  them,  beauties  I  as  on  they  go, 
Leaping  and  sweeping  away  in  the  vale  below  I 
Cowards  and  bunglers,  whose  heart  or  whose  eye  is  slow, 

Find  themselves  staring  alone. 

So  the  great  cause  flashes  by  ; 
Nearer  and  clearer  its  purposes  open, 
While  louder  and  prouder  the  world-echoes  cheer  us  ; 
Gentlemen  sportsmen,  you  ought  to  live  up  to  us. 
Lead  us,  and  lift  us,  and  hallo  our  game  to  us— 
We  cannot  call  the  hounds  off,  and  no  shame  to  us — 

Don't  be  left  staring  alone  I 

Charles  Kingsley.     From  the  Casket. 


The   Find 

Yon  sound's  neither  sheep-bell  nor  bark. 
They're  running — they're  running.  Go  hark  I 
The  sport  may  be  lost  by  a  moment's  delay  ; 
So  whip  up  the  puppies  and  scurry  away. 

Dash  down  through  the  cover  by  dingle  and  dell. 

There's  a  gate  at  the  bottom — I  know  it  full  well  ; 

And  they're  running     they're  running. 
Go  hark  : 

They're  running — they're  running.  Go  hark  I 
One  fence  and  we're  out  of  the  park  ; 
Sit  dov^Ti  in  your  saddles  and  race  at  the  brook, 
Then  smash  at  the  bullfinch  ;  no  time  for  a  look  : 
Leave  cravens  and  skirters  to  dangle  behind  ; 
He's  away  for  the  moors  in  the  teeth  of  the  wind, 
.And  they're  running— they're  running, 
Go  hark  ! 


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HUNTING  225 

They're  running — the/re  running,  Go  hark  ! 

Let  them  run  on  and  run  till  it's  dark  ! 

Well  with  them  we  are,  and  well  with  them  we'll  be, 

While  there's  wind  in  our  horses  and  daylight  to  see  : 


Then  shog  along  homeward,  chat  over  the  fight, 
And  hear  in  our  dreams  the  sweet  music  all  night 
Of— They're  running — they're  running, 
Go  hark  ! 

Charles  Kingsley,  1856. 


The  Otter  King 

Now  winding,  wandering  pensively, 
The  flowery  meads  among. 

The  Exe  has  left  his  forest  home 
And  trolls  his  summer  song. 

And  downwards  as  he  gently  glides. 

So  dreamily  and  slow, 
The  golden  catkins  stoop  to  kiss 

His  waters  as  they  flow. 


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226  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

But  list,  ye  gods  !  a  sound  is  heard 

That  makes  the  welkin  ring  ; 
Bowhays  is  come  with  hound  and  horn 

To  seek  the  Otter  King. 

In  vain,  in  vain,  the  finny  tribe 

Their  nightly  doom  deplore ; 
Not  harder  fate  the  race  await 

Upon  a  Stygian  shore. 

Ah  !  long  upon  that  blighted  stream 

The  Nereid's  note  is  still ; 
And  patient  anglers  labour  long 

Their  empty  creels  to  fill 

But  now  the  hounds  are  trailing  on, 

The  otter  need  be  bold  ; 
For,  if  he  hear  Bowhays'  cheer, 

'Twill  make  his  blood  run  cold. 

Louder  and  fuller  swells  the  peal 

That  greets  the  felon  grim  ; 
Sweet  music  to  Bowhays'  ears, 

A  mourning  peal  to  him. 

But  down  beneath  a  gnarled- oak  tree, 

A  fathom  deep  or  more  ; 
Above  his  head  the  turf  is  spread, 

And  water  bars  the  door. 

He  scents,  he  hears  the  coming  strife 

That  gathers  o'er  his  head  ; 
The  thunder  seems  to  swell  around 

And  shake  his  old-oak  bed. 

As  Hercules  on  Cacus  closed, 
The  gallant  *  Prince '  goes  in  ; 

The  hero  of  a  hundred  fights. 
That  dog  is  safe  to  win. 

A  muffled,  rumbling,  earthquake  sound 

And  then  a  stifled  cry, 
Down  in  the  roots  a  fathom  deep. 

Quivers  the  oak  hard  by. 

*  Hold  on  !  hold  on  I  thou  true  Black  Prince  I ' 

The  ardent  Owen  cries  ; 
While  close  at  hand  he  takes  his  stand, 

To  view  him  as  he  flies. 

Then  suddenly  Bowhays'  cheer 

The  hollow  valley  fills  ; 
The  wild  dun-deer  the  sound  might  hear 

On  distant  Winscombe  hills. 


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HUNTING  227 

He's  down  the  stream  ;  away,  away  ; 

The  Otter  King  is  gone  ; 
And  on  his  track  the  plunging  pack 

Are  madly  pouring  on. 

Oh  !  'twas  a  glorious  sight  to  see 

Those  mottled  things  in  chase  ; 
The  water  dashed  in  silver  spray, 

And  every  hound  in  place. 

*  Now  steady  all  I '  cried  stem  Bowhays, 

*  Now  steady  hounds  and  men  ; 
Old  Charmer's  nose  was  never  wrong, 
She  winds  him  back  again  I ' 

And  now  the  song-birds  cease  to  sing 

Upon  that  frighted  shore  ; 
The  miller,  too,  has  stopped  his  mill 

To  join  the  sylvan  roar. 

Through  many  a  dark  and  gurgling  pool 

The  deadly  strife  prevails  ; 
And  many  a  drop  of  blood  is  spilled 

Before  that  otter  fails. 

Though  tunefully  he  leads  the  choir 

On  peaceful  sabbath  morn  ; 
Bowhays  has  sworn  a  dreadful  oath 

Upon  his  bugle-horn  : 

*  Good  hounds,'  said  he,  '  be  true  to  me, 

I'll  never  eat  of  bread  ; 
Nor  climb  into  my  couch,  until 
The  Otter  King  is  dead.' 

Then  striding  out  in  rough  mid-stream, 

With  bugle-horn  in  hand ; 
'  No  rest,  I  trow,  the  game  shall  know. 

While  here  I  take  my  stand.' 

Breathless  at  length,  and  pressed  full  sore. 

The  otter  seems  to  fail ; 
And,  as  he  lands,  the  hounds  rush  on 

Just  like  a  storm  of  hail. 

Then,  once  again,  that  mighty  cheer 

Shakes  water,  sky,  and  plain  ; 
And  fishers  on  the  Barle  might  hear 

The  Otter  King  was  slain. 

Bailys  Magazine,  June  1864. 
Q  2 


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228  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

A  Dartmoor  Fox  ^ 

Air :  *  Wait  for  the  Waggon ' 

Come,  jump  into  your  saddles,  boys,  and  never  doubt  the  morn  ; 
The  hounds  are  off  to  Skerraton,  and  Crocker  winds  his  horn  ; 
No  cover  under  heaven's  arch  a  better  fox  can  show  ; 
So  forward  to  the  forest,  boys,  together  let  us  go. 

Haste  to  the  forest, 

Haste  to  the  forest. 

Haste  to  the  forest ; 

Together  let  us  go. 

Now,  cease  your  idle  gossip,  pray,  for  yonder  lies  the  brake  ; 
And  if  the  fox  is  kennelled  there,  I'll  warrant  he's  awake  : 
A  moment, — and  the  spiny  gorse  is  waving  to  and  fro, 
A  whimper,  and  a  crash  are  heard  ;  and  then  a  Tally-ho  I 
Haste  to  the  forest,  &c. 

Away  he  goes,  a  gallant  fox,  his  distant  point  to  gain  ; 
Nor  wilder  is  the  wind  that  sweeps  across  the  moorland  plain  : 
Oh  !  listen  to  the  frantic  cheer  that  marks  his  winged  flight. 
While  echoes  in  the  vale  below  are  bursting  with  delight. 
Haste  to  the  forest,  &c. 

To  Holne's  broad  heath  he  whirls  along,  before  the  din  of  war, 
Nor  tarries  till  he  stands  upon  the  rugged  Banshie  Tor ; 
Far  in  the  rear  the  bristling  pack  is  dashing  on  amain, 
And  horsemen,  too,  like  autumn  leaves,  are  scattered  o'er  the  plain. 
Haste  to  the  forest,  &c. 

But  see  !  the  dark  and  stormy  skies  a  perfect  deluge  pour. 
And  every  hound  has  dropped  his  nose  upon  the  cold  grey  moor  : 
*  Now  pick  along,'  Trelawny  said,  but  said  it  with  a  sigh  ; 
As  if  he  wished  his  hounds  had  wings,  and  longed  to  see  them  fly. 
Haste  to  the  forest,  &c. 

But,  as  a  spider  to  his  line,  the  patient  huntsman  clings, 
Till  suddenly  at  Banshie  Tor,  again  the  welkin  rings  ; 
No  refuge  now  in  Whitewood  rocks  ;  the  pack  is  dashing  on  ; 
For,  madly  to  the  banks  of  Dart  the  flying  fox  is  gone. 
Haste  to  the  forest,  &c. 

And,  on  to  catch  the  burning  scent,  as  every  foxhound  flings. 
The  Squire  now  begins  to  think  the  pack  has  found  its  wings  ; 
As  plovers  o'er  the  moorlands  speed,  o'er  wild-fowl  o'er  the  sea  ; 
The  steed  that  stays  along  with  them  a  right  good  steed  must  be. 
Haste  to  the  forest,  &c. 

1  Found  and  killed  on  Tuesday,  November  22,  1864. 

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HUNTING  229 

Alas  !  of  all  that  gallant  field,  full  sixty  men  or  more, 
Seven  alone  are  seen  alive  upon  the  Dart's  rough  shore  : 
With  one  accord  the  seven  plunge  up  to  the  saddle  bow  ; 
The  angry  flood  may  cool  their  blood,  but  cannot  stop  them  now. 
Haste  to  the  forest,  &c. 

Then  upwards  to  the  heights  of  Yar  the  deadly  struggle  turns, 
And  every  hound  that  heads  the  pack  immortal  glory  earns  ; 
The  horses  sob — the  hounds  are  mute, — and   men   are  heard  to 

cry — 
*  Oh  for  a  steed  of  Coxwell's  breed,  to  view  them  as  they  fly  ! ' 
Haste  to  the  forest,  &c. 

Again  for  Dart  he  bends  his  course  ;  again  he  seeks  the  flood  ; 
And  fiercely  on  his  track  the  hounds  are  running  hard  for  blood  ; 
He  rolls  along,  and  gallops  high,  and  dodges  in  the  rocks  ; 
But  all  his  wiles  are  vain  to  save  this  famous  Dartmoor  fox. 
Haste  to  the  forest,  &c. 

Who-hoop  I   Who-hoop  I   the  huntsman  shouts  ;  and  seven  men 

are  near, 
To  view  the  hound  that  bowled  him  o'er,  the  gallant '  Windermere ' ; 
And  when  Trelawny  rides  to  moor,  over  his  wild  countrie. 
Oh  !  may  he  never  fail  to  find  as  good  a  fox  as  he. 
Haste  to  the  forest,  &c. 
*  RlNG-OuzEL,'  Bailys  Magazine,  January  1865. 

Spring  Hunting 

Back  to  its  icy  cave  again 

Has  sped  the  wintry  blast, 
And  Nature,  with  a  loving  smile, 

Is  waking  up  at  last. 

'Tis  sweet  spring-tide  ;  and  down  the  vale. 

The  flowery  meads  among, 
The  mountain  torrent  gently  glides,  i 

Singing  a  quiet  song. 

Now,  haply  too,  beside  its  brae. 

Some  pensive  fisher  stands  ; 
Landing  his  struggling  speckled  prey 

Upon  its  silver  sands. 

But  hark  !  the  din  of  sylvan  war 
Is  rolling  from  the  woods  afar 

Upon  the  peaceful  plain  ; 
And  hounds  and  men  are  flashing  by, 
Like  meteors  in  a  northern  sky, 

Till  riot  seems  to  reign. 


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230  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

Away,  away,  the  gallant  fox 

In  headlong  haste  to  gain  the  rocks, 

Is  flying  o'er  the  vade  ; 
The  hounds  upon  his  very  brush 
Are  pelting  on  with  mighty  rush, 

Like  a  rattling  storm  of  hail. 

Ah  me  !  what  struggles  now  ensue, 
As  steeds  of  every  form  and  hue 

To  pace  are  forced  to  yield  ; 
And  men,  by  falls  and  other  woes, 
Are  beaten  off  like  scattered  foes 

Upon  a  battle-field. 


But  hark  !  a  distant,  joyous  sound 
That  tells  the  welcome  tale  around, — 

The  whoop  we  love  to  hear ! 
Ay,  blood  and  bone,  whate'er  the  pace. 
Will  triumph  in  the  stoutest  chase. 

It  is  the  Beaufort  cheer  ! 


Not  sated  yet,  a  yeoman  bold. 
Who  values  foxes,  more  than  gold. 
Invites  another  find  ; 


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HUNTING  231 

Again,  the  mottled  beauties  hie 
To  draw  the  woodlands  far  and  nigh, 
And  catch  the  tainted  wind.j 

But  keen  remorse  will  sure  be  thine. 

Thou  yeoman  strong  and  true  I 
The  victim  of  that  luckless  day 

Thy  heart  will  ever  rue. 

For  soon  a  sudden,  piercing  cry 

From  yonder  copse  is  yelled  ; 
The  wailing,  as  of  wounded  hound, 

In  iron  clutches  held. 

'  Accursed  be  the  hand  would  slay 
A  fox  in  such  a  craven  way  ! '  | 

I  hear  the  huntsman  cry. 
Ride  to  the  rescue,  hunters,  ride  I 
Of  all  my  pack  that  hound's  the  pride    \ 

'Tis  my  sweet  Firefly.' 

Then  lightly  o'er  the  fence  he  bounds, 
Ever  the  first  to  aid  his  hounds. 

No  laggard  chief,  I  trow  ; 
But  who  shall  paint  the  mute  surprise 
That  glistened  in  the  huntsman's  eyes. 

At  scene  he  saw  below  ? 

No  trap  was  there  ;  but  near  at  hand 

A  little  vixen  stood. 
Guarding  her  helpless,  infant  cubs 

Just  littered  in  the  wood. 

Close  to  the  mother's  back  they  crouched. 

Beside  an  old  oak  bole  ; 
The  huntsman  said  'twas  piteous  sight, 

And  sorrow  filled  his  soul. 

Alas  !  too  late  his  sounding  lash, 

And  vain  his  angry  rate  : — 
A  score  of  hounds  are  rushing  in 

To  seal  the  litter's  fate. 

And  there  the  little  vixen  fell, 

In  fragments  torn  piecemeal  ; 
The  victim  of  that  wondrous  love 

That  only  mothers  feel. 

'  Ring-Ouzel,'  Baily's  Magazine,  May  i866w 


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232  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

The  Lord  of  the  Valley 

A  STAG-HUNTER'S  SONG 

Hunters  are  fretting,  and  hacks  in  a  lather, 

Sportsmen  arriving  from  left  and  from  right. 
Bridle-roads  bringing  them,  see  how  they  gather  ! 

Dotting  the  meadows  in  scarlet  and  white. 
Foot-people  staring,  and  horsemen  preparing  ; 

Now  there's  a  murmur — a  stir —  and  a  shout  ! 
Fresh  from  his  carriage,  as  bridegroom  in  marriage. 

The  Lord  of  the  Valley  leaps  gallantly  out. 

Time,  the  Avenger,  neglecting,  or  scorning, 

Gazes  about  him  in  beauteous  disdain, 
Lingers  to  toy  with  the  whisper  of  Morning, 

Daintily,  airily,  paces  the  plain. 
Then  in  a  second,  his  course  having  reckoned. 

Line  that  all  Leicestershire  cannot  surpass. 
Fleet  as  a  swallow,  when  summer  winds  follow, 

The  Lord  of  the  Valley  skims  over  the  grass. 

Where  shall  we  take  him  ?    Ah  !  now  for  the  tussle, 

These  are  the  beauties  can  stoop  and  can  fly  ; 
Down  go  their  noses,  together  they  bustle. 

Dashing  and  flinging,  and  scorning  to  cry  ! 
Never  stand  dreaming,  while  yonder  they're  streaming  ; 

If  ever  you  meant  it,  man,  mean  it  to-day  ! 
Bold  ones  are  riding  and  fast  ones  are  striding. 

The  Lord  of  the  Valley  is  Forward  I  Away  ! 

Hard  on  his  track,  o'er  the  open  and  facing. 

The  cream  of  the  country,  the  pick  of  the  chase, 
Mute  as  a  dream,  his  pursuers  are  racing. 

Silence,  you  know,  's  the  criterion  of  pace  I 
Swarming  and  driving,  while  man  and  horse  striving 

By  cramming  and  hugging,  scarce  live  with  them  still ; 
The  fastest  are  failing,  the  truest  are  tailing, 

The  Lord  of  the  Valley  is  over  the  hill  I 

Yonder  a  steed  is  rolled  up  with  his  master  ; 

Here,  in  a  double,  another  lies  cast  ; 
Thicker  and  faster  comes  grief  and  disaster, 

All  but  the  good  ones  are  weeded  at  last. 
Hunters  so  limber,  at  water  and  timber, 

Now  on  the  causeway  are  fain  to  be  led  ; 
Beat,  but  still  going,  a  countryman  sowing 

Has  sighted  the  Lord  of  the  Valley  ahead. 


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HUNTING  233 

There  in  the  bottom,  see,  sluggish  and  idle, 

Steals  the  dark  stream  where  the  willow-tree  grows  ! 
Harden  your  heart,  and  catch  hold  of  your  bridle  ! 

Steady  him — rouse  him — and  over  he  goes  I 
Look  !  in  a  minute  a  dozen  are  in  it ! 

But  Forward  !  Hark  Forward  I  for  draggled  and  blown, 
A  check  though  desiring,  with  courage  untiring 

The  Lord  of  the  Valley  is  holding  his  own. 

Onward  we  struggle  in  sorrow  and  labour. 

Lurching,  and  lobbing,  and  *  bellows  to  mend ' ; 
Each,  while  he  smiles  at  the  plight  of  his  neighbour, 

Only  is  anxious  to  get  to  the  end. 
Horses  are  flagging,  hounds  drooping  and  lagging. 

Yet  gathering  down  yonder,  where,  press  as  they  may, 
Mobbed,  driven,  and  haunted,  but  game  and  undaunted, 

The  Lord  of  the  Valley  stands  proudly  at  bay  I 

Then  here's  to  the  Baron,  and  all  his  supporters — 

The  thrusters — the  skirters — the  whole  of  the  tale  ; 
And  here's  to  the  fairest  of  all  hunting  quarters, 

The  widest  of  pastures — three  cheers  for  the  Vale  ;  * 
For  the  lovely  she-rider,  the  rogue,  who  beside  her. 

Finds  breath  in  a  gallop  his  suit  to  advance  ; 
The  hounds,  for  our  pleasure,  that  time  us  the  measure. 

The  Lord  of  the  Valley  that  leads  us  the  dance  I 

(}.  J.  Whytk  Mf.iaillk,  Baily:  Magazine,  February  1868. 


The  Galloping  Squire 

A   FOXHUNTER'S  SONG 

Come,  ril  show  you  a  country  that  none  can  surpass, 
For  a  flyer  to  cross  like  a  bird  on  the  wing, 

With  its  acres  of  woodland,  its  oceans  of  grass, 
We  have  game  in  the  autumn,  and  cubs  in  the  spring. 

We  have  scores  of  good  fellows  hang  out  in  the  Shire, 

But  the  best  of  them  all  is  the  Galloping  Squire. 

The  Galloping  Squire  in  the  saddle  has  got, 

While  the  dewdrop  is  melting  in  gems  on  the  thorn  ; 

From  the  kennel  he's  drafted  the  pick  of  his  lot, 

How  they  swarm  to  his  cheer  !  how  they  fly  to  his  horn  ! 

Like  harriers  turning,  or  chasing  like  fire, 

*  I  can  trust  every  hound,'  says  the  Galloping  Squire. 


The  Vale  of  Aylesbury. 

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234  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

With  a  wave  of  his  arm  to  the  covert  they  throng. 

*  Yooi  !  wind  him,  and  rouse  him  I '    *  By  Jove,  he's  away  ! ' 
Through  a  gap  in  the  oaks  see  them  speeding  along 

O'er  the  open  like  pigeons.     '  They  mean  it  to-day  I 
You  may  jump  till  you're  sick,  you  may  spur  till  you  tire, 
For  it's  catch  'em  who  can  ! '  says  the  Galloping  Squire. 

So  he  takes  the  old  horse  by  the  head,  and  he  sails 
In  the  wake  of  his  darlings,  all  ear  and  all  eye. 

As  they  come  in  his  line,  o'er  banks,  fences,  and  rails, 
The  cramped  ones  to  creep,  and  the  fair  ones  to  fly — 

It's  a  very  queer  place  that  will  put  in  the  mire 

Such  a  rare  one  to  ride  as  the  Galloping  Squire. 


But  a  fallow  has  brought  to  their  noses,  the  pack, 
And  the  pasture  beyond  is  with  cattle-stains  spread  : 

One  blast  of  his  horn,  and  the  Squire,  in  a  crack, 
Has  lifted  and  thrown  in  the  beauties,  at  head. 

*  On  a  morning  like  this  little  help  you  require, 

And  he's  forward,  I'll  swear,'  says  the  Galloping  Squire. 

So  forty  fair  minutes  they  run  and  they  race  ; 

'Tis  a  heaven  to  some — 'tis  a  lifetime  to  all, 
Though  the  horses  we  ride  are  such  gluttons  for  pace, 

There  are  stout  ones  that  stop — there  are  safe  ones  that  fall. 
But  the  names  of  the  vanquished  need  never  transpire, 
For  the/re  all  in  the  rear  of  the  Galloping  Squire. 


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HUNTING  235 

Till  the  gamest  old  varmint  that  ever  drew  breath, 
All  worried  and  stiffened,  held  high  for  a  throw. 

O'er  the  Squire's  jolly  visage  is  grinning  in  death, 
Ere  he  dashes  him  down  to  be  eaten  below. 

While  the  daws  flutter  out  from  a  neighbouring  spire 

At  the  thrilling  *  Who  whoop  ! '  of  the  Galloping  Squire. 

And  the  labourer  at  work,  and  the  lord  in  his  hall. 
Have  a  smile  and  a  jest  when  they  hear  of  the  sport. 

In  ale  or  in  claret  he's  toasted  by  all. 
For  they  scarce  can  expect  to  see  more  of  the  sort. 

So  long  may  it  be  ere  he's  forced  to  retire, 

For  we  breed  very  few  like  the  Galloping  Squire  ! 

G.  J.  Whyte  Melville,  Daily's  Magazine,  March  1868. 

Otter-Hunting  on  the  Erme, 
South  Devon 

If  haply  thou  to  Lethe's  shore 

In  spirit  sad  would  stray. 
Go,  tarry  by  the  meads  of  Erme, 

Elysian  flelds  are  they. 
From  Dartmoor  Hills  a  thousand 

Come  carolling  along. 
Charming  the  flowery  braes  of  Erme 

With  many  a  summer  song. 

The  song-birds,  too,  the  livelong  day 
In  music  sweet  their  homage  pay, 

The  river-god  to  greet  ; 
While  nodding  willows  stoop  to  lave 
Their  verdure  in  the  placid  wave 

Beneath  the  woods  of  Flete. 

But  if,  unmoved  by  minstrelsy. 
This  fairy  vale  thou  doubt  to  be 

The  true  Elysian  plaiii,  . 
Go,  join  Diana's  gladsome  throng, 
Disporting  on  its  banks  along — 

Thou'lt  never  doubt  again. 

E'en  now,  a  group  of  men  and  hounds, 

And  many  a  maiden  fair. 
Are  mingling  in  those  hunting  grounds, 

The  revelry  to  share. 
Lo  !  down  beneath  yon  antlered  tree, 

O'ershadowing  the  shore, 
The  otter's  holt  is  found  to  be 

A  fathom  deep,  or  more. 


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236  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

Ay,  see  the  hounds  with  frantic  zeal 

The  roots  and  earth  uptear  ; 
liut  the  earth  is  strong,  and  the  roots  are  long, 
.    They  cannot  enter  there. 
Outspeaks  the  Squire  :  *  Give  room,  I  pray, 

And  hie  the  terriers  in  ; 
The  warriors  of  the  fight  are  they, 

And  every  fight  they  win.' 

Then  ever,  where  the  felon  lurked. 

Bravely  they  followed  on  ; 
And  every  yard  those  sappers  worked 

A  goodly  yard  they  won. 
And  underneath  that  gnarled  oak-tree. 

That  quivered  to  its  core, 
The  Naiads  of  the  Erme  could  hear 

The  angry  battle  roar. 

Above,  below,  on  every  side. 

Full  many  a  bright  eye  guards  the  tide. 

To  *  gaze  '  him  as  he  flies  ; 
But  brighter  still  two  blue  eyes  glow. 
As,  mantling  from  the  depths  below. 

The  silver  bubbles  rise. 

*  He's  gone  !  he's  gone  ! '  in  raptured  tone 

Escapes  Belinda's  tongue  ; 
And  straight  amain,  o'er  stream  and  plain, 

A  thousand  echoes  rung. 
Dashed  in  abreast  of  hounds,  I  trow. 

Ten  couple  in  his  wake  ; 
Their  mettle  did  that  otter  know 

His  gallant  heart  would  break. 

Then  holds  the  chase  its  devious  way, 
Through  many  a  dark  unfathomed  bay, 

O'er  sandy  creek  and  shoal  ; 
Up  stream  and  down ;  they  swim,  they  wade, 
'Mid  hidden  stump  and  alder  shade, 

And  many  a  willow  bole. 

Now  frequent,  from  the  depths  below. 

The  bubble-chain  upsprings  ; 
Now,  every  hound  enjoys  the  scent, 

And  all  the  welkin  rings. 
In  vain  he  vents  ;  tries  fore  and  back, 

His  stronghold  seeks  in  vain  ; 
Black  Waterwitch  is  on  his  track, 

And  Lavish  marks  again. 


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HUNTING  237 

Ah  me  !  amid  this  jocund  scene 

Of  innocent  delight  ; 
My  modest  Muse  is  shocked  to  tell 

Belinda's  tattered  plight : 
Her  petticoat  and  silken  hose 

Rent  by  a  cruel  spell, 
The  loveliest  foot  and  limb  disclose 

That  ever  blessed  a  belle. 

Ah  !  fain  would  fair  Belinda  rush 
To  close  the  robe,  and  hide  the  blush 

That  mantles  on  her  face  ; 
But  hark  !  the  transient  pang  is  gone  ! 
She  hears  old  Nestor  throw  his  tongue, 

And  cannot  quit  the  chase. 

That  very  e'en  a  hunter  keen 

Told  her  his  tale  alone  ; 
And  when  he  gave  his  heart  to  her, 

Belinda  lost  her  own. 

An  hour  more,  and  on  that  shore 

The  whispering  winds  are  still  ; 
And  slumbers  every  echo  now 

On  yonder  woodland  hill. 
Scourge  of  the  stream,  he  slumbers  too, 

And  never  more  shall  hear 
Trelawny's  horn  at  dewy  morn. 

Nor  Bulteel's  ringing  cheer. 
June  20,  T871.  '  RiNG-OuzEL,'  Baily's  Magazine,  August  1871. 


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FISHING 

A  Description  of  the  Country's 
Recreations 

Quivering  fears,  Heart- tearing  cares, 
Anxious  sighes.  Untimely  tears, 
Fly,  fly  to  Courts  ; 
Fly  to  fond  worldlings'  sports, 
Where  strained  Sardonick  smiles  are  glosing  still. 
And  Greife  is  forc'd  to  laugh  against  her  wil  ; 
Where  mirth's  but  mummery  ; 
And  sorrows  only  real  be  I 

Fly  from  our  Country  pastimes  !  fly, 
Sad  troop  of  humane  misery  ; 
Come  serene  lookes, 
Cleare  as  the  Christal  brookes. 
Or  the  pure  azur'd  heaven,  that  smiles  to  see 
The  rich  attendance  of  our  poverty. 
Peace  and  a  secure  mind, 
(Which  all  men  seek),  we  only  find. 

Abused  Mortalls  I  did  you  know 
Where  Joy,  Heart*s-ease,  and  comforts  grow  ; 
You'd  scome  proud  towers. 
And  seek  them  in  these  bowers. 
Where  winds  sometimes  our  woods  perhaps  may  shake, 
But  blustring  Care  could  never  tempest  make. 
Nor  murmurs  e'er  come  nigh  us, 
Saving  of  fountaines  that  glide  by  us. 

Here's  no  fantastic  Mask,  nor  dance. 
But  of  our  Kids,  that  frisk  and  prance  : 

Nor  warres  are  seen. 

Unless  upon  the  greene 


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FISHING  239 

Two  harmeless  Lambs  are  butting  one  the  other, 
Which  done,  both  bleating  run,  each  to  his  mother  ; 

And  wounds  are  never  found, 

Save  what  the  Plow-share  gives  the  ground. 

Here  are  no  false  entrapping  baites, 
To  hasten  too  too  hasty  fates  ; 
Unless  it  be 
The  fond  Credulity 
Of  silly  Fish,  which  worldling-like,  still  look 
Upon  the  bait,  but  never  on  the  hook  : 
Nor  envy,  unless  among 
The  Birds,  for  prize  of  their  sweet  song. 

Go  I  let  the  diving  Negro  seek 
For  Gemmes  hid  in  some  forlorne  creek  ; 
We  all  Pearles  scorne. 
Save  what  the  dewy  mome 
Congeals  upon  each  little  spire  of  grass, 
Which  careless  shepeards  beat  down  as  they  pass  ; 
And  gold  ne*re  here  appears, 
Save  what  the  yellow  Ceres  bears. 

Blest  silent  Groves  I     O  may  ye  be 
For  ever  Mirth's  best  Nursery  ! 
May  pure  contents 
For  ever  pitch  their  tents 
Upon  these  Downs,  these  Meads,  these  Rocks,  these  Mountains, 
And  Peace  still  slumber  by  these  purling  Fountains  ! 
Which  we  may  every  yeare 
Find  when  we  come  a-fishing  here  \ 

Sir  Walter  Raleigh.    Reliquiae  WottomantF,  \(i^\. 

The  Passionate  Fisher 

Come  live  with  me,  and  be  my  deere. 
And  we  will  revell  all  the  yeere, 
In  plaines  and  groves,  on  hills  and  dales  : 
Where  fragrant  ayre  breedes  sweetest  gales. 

There  shall  you  have  the  beauteous  Pine, 
The  Cedar,  and  the  spreading  Vine, 
And  all  the  woods  to  be  a  Skreene  : 
Least  Phcebus  kisse  my  Sommer^s  Queene. 

The  seate  for  your  disport  shall  be 
Over  some  River  in  a  tree. 
Where  silver  sands,  and  pebbles  sing, 
Etemall  ditties  with  the  spring. 


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240  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

There  shall  you  see  the  Nimphs  at  play, 
And  how  the  Satires  spend  the  day, 
The  fishes  gliding  on  the  sands  : 
Offering  their  bellies  to  your  hands. 

The  birds  with  heavenly  tuned  throtes, 
Possesse  woods  Ecchoes  with  sweet  notes, 
W^hich  to  your  senses  will  impart 
A  musique  to  enflame  the  hart. 

Upon  the  bare  and  leafe-lesse  Oake, 
The  Ring- Doves  woings  will  provoke 
A  colder  blood  then  you  possesse, 
To  play  with  me  and  doe  no  lesse. 

In  bowers  of  Laurell  trimly  dight, 
We  will  out-weare  the  silent  night, 
While  Flora  busie  is  to  spread  : 
Her  richest  treasure  on  our  bed. 

Ten  thousand  Glow-wormcs  shall  attend, 
And  all  their  sparkling  lights  shall  spend. 
All  to  adorne  and  beautifie  : 
Your  lodging  with  most  maiestie. 

Then  in  mine  armes  will  I  enclose 
Lillies  faire  mixture  with  the  Rose. 
Whose  nice  perfections  in  loves  play  : 
Shall  tune  me  to  the  highest  key. 

Thus  as  we  passe  the  welcome  night. 
In  sportfull  pleasures  and  delight, 
The  nimble  Fairies  on  the  grounds, 
Shall  daunce  and  sing  mellodious  sounds. 

If  these  may  serve  for  to  entice. 
Your  presence  to  Loves  Paradice, 
Then  come  with  me,  and  be  my  deare  : 
And  we  will  strait  begin  the  yeare. 

England's  Helicon,  1614. 

Note.  — This  is  perhaps  the  best  of  some  ten  versions  founded  on  Marlowe's 

•  Passionate  Shepherd,'  and  is  signed  Ignoto,  It  was  probably  written  after 
Marlowe's  death  in  1594,  either  by  Shakspeare«  Raleigh,  or  Wotton,  and  is  in 
many  ways  more  beautiful  than  the  older  poem.     Izaak  Walton  gives  in  his 

•  Complete  Angler'  a  fairly  accurate  reprint  01  the  original,  but  as  neither  it 
nor  Raleigh's  answer  is  on  our  subject,  we  have  not  included  them. 


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FISHING 


241 


A  Worthy  Answer 

O  let  me  rather  on  the  pleasant  Brinke 
Of  Tyne  and  Trent  possesse  some  dwelling  place  ; 
Where  I  may  see  my  Quill  and  Corke  downe  sink 
With  eager  bit  of  Barbell,  Bleike,  or  Dace  : 
And  on  the  world  and  his  creatour  think, 
While  they  proud  Thais  painted  sheet  embrace, 
And  with  the  fume  of  strong  Tobaccc^s  smoke, 
All  quaffing  round  are  ready  for  to  choke. 


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THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

Let  them  that  list  these  pastimes  then  pursue, 
And  on  their  pleasing  fancies  feede  their  fill ; 
So  I  the  Fields  and  Meadovves  greene  may  view, 
And  by  the  Rivers  fresh  may  walke  at  will, 
Among  the  Dixzies  and  the  Violets  blew  : 
Red  Hyacinth^  and  yellow  Daffadill., 

Purple  Narcissus  like  the  morning  rayes, 

Pale  Ganderglas^^  and  azor  Culverkayesr 

1  count  it  better  pleasure  to  behold 
The  goodly  com  passe  of  the  lofty  Skie, 
And  in  the  midst  thereof  like  burning  gold 
The  flaming  chariot  of  the  worlds  great  eye  ; 
The  watry  cloudes  that  in  the  aire  uprold 
With  sundry  kindes  of  painted  colours  flye  ; 

And  faire  Aurora  lifting  up  her  head, 

All  blushing  rise  from  old  Tithonus  bed. 

The  hils  and  Mountaines  raised  from  the  Plaines, 
The  plaines  extended  levell  with  the  ground, 
The  ground  divided  into  sundry  vaihes. 
The  vaines  enclos'd  with  running  rivers  round, 
The  rivers  making  way  through  natures  chaine, 
With  headlong  course  into  the  sea  profound  : 
The  surging  Sea  beneath  the  valleys  low, 
The  valleys  sweet,  and  lakes  that  lovely  flow. 

The  lofty  woods,  the  Forrests  wide  and  long, 
Adorn'd  with  leaves  and  branches  fresh  and  g^een, 
In  whose  cool  brow's  the  birds  with  chanting  song 
Do  welcom  with  their  quire  the  Summers  queen, 
The  meadowes  faire  where  Fiords  guifts  among, 
Are  intermixt  the  verdant  grasse  betweene. 
The  silver  skaled  fish  that  softly  swim  me. 
Within  the  brookes  and  christall  watry  brim. 

All  these  and  many  more  of  his  creation. 
That  made  the  heavens  the  Anjrler  oft  doth  see 
And  takes  therein  no  little  delectation, 
To  thinke  how  strange  and  wonderfull  they  be, 
Framing  thereof  an  inward  contemplation, 
To  set  his  thoughts  on  other  fancies  free. 

And  whiles  he  lookes  on  these  with  joyfull  eie. 

His  minde  is  rapt  above  the  starry  skye. 

OF  THE  GOODGIOX 

Loe  in  a  little  boat  where  one  doth  stand. 
That  to  a  Willow  bough  the  while  is  tide. 
And  with  a  pole  doth  stirre  and  raise  the  sand, 
Whereas  the  gentle  streame  doth  softly  slide, 

1  ragwort?  -  blucljell. 

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FISHLVG 


243 


And  then  with  slender  Line  and  Rod  in  hand, 
The  eager  bit  not  long  he  doth  abide. 

Well  leaded  is  his  Line,  his  Hook  but  small, 

A  good  big  Cork  to  beare  the  streame  withall. 

His  bait  the  least  red  worme  that  may  be  found, 
And  at  the  bottome  it  doth  alwayes  lye  ; 
Whereat  the  greedy  Goodgion  bites  so  sound, 
That  hooke  and  all  he  swalloweth  by  and  by  : 
See  how  he  strikes,  and  puis  them  up  as  round, 
As  if  new  store  the  play  did  still  supply  : 

And  when  the  bit  doth  die,  or  bad  doth  prove, 

Then  to  another  place  he  doth  remove. 

J.  Dkxnys.    The  Secrets  of  a  nglin^i*,   1613. 

Note. — W'e  have  in  the  reproductions  of  this  song  a  good  instance  of  the 
liberties  liikcn  by  some  editors.  We  give  the  first  verse  of  it  from  two  well- 
known  w  orks  : 

Let  me  live  harmlesly,  and  near  the  brink 

Of  Trent  or  Avon  have  a  dwelling  place, 

Where  I  may  see  my  quil  or  rork  down  sink, 

With  eager  bit  of  Pearch,  or  Bleak,  or  Dace  ; 

And  on  the  world  and  my  Creator  think, 

Whilst  some  men  strive,  ill  gcHten  goods  t'embrace ; 

And  others  spend  their  time  in  base  excess 

Of  wine  or  worse,  in  war  and  uuititonness. 

Walton's  version  in  The  Compleat  Atii^ler,  16^3. 

Would  I  might  live  near  Avon  5  flow'ry  brink 

And  on  the  World,  and  my  Creator  think. 

Whilst  others  strive,  ill  gotten  goods  t'embrace. 

Would  I  near  lVe//and  hud  a  dwelling-place. 

Would  I  these  harmless  pa:>linK's  might  pursue 

And  uncontroU'd  might  Ponds  »nd  Rivers  view  ; 

Whilst  others  spend  their  time  in  base  excess, 

In  Drinking,  Gaming,  and  in  Wantonness. 

R.  NOBBES.  in  T/ie  Comphat  Trollcr,  1682. 

Song 

You  that  fish  for  Dace  and  Roches, 
Carpes  or  Tenches,  Bonus  noches, 
Thou  wast  borne  betufcem'  two  dishes, 
When  the  Friday  signe  was  Fishes, 
Anglers  yearcs  are  made  and  spent. 
All  in  Ember  weekes  and  Lent. 

Breake  thy  Rod  about  thy  Noddle, 
Through  thy  wormes  and  flies  by  the  Pottle, 
Keepe  thy  Corke  to  stoppe  thy  Bottle, 
Make  straight  thy  hooke,  and  be  not  afeard, 

To  shave  his  Beard, 
That  in  case  of  started  stitches, 
Hooke  and  Line  may  mend  thy  lireechcs. 

R  2 

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244  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

He  that  searches  Pooles  aud  Dikes, 
Halters  Jackes,  and  strangles  Pikes, 
Let  him  know^  though  he  thinke  he  wise  isy 
Tis  not  a  sport  but  an  Assizes. 
Fish  so  tookCy  were  the  case  disputed^ 
Are  not  tooke,  but  executed. 

Breake  thy  Rod,  &c. 

You  whose  Pastes y5?r  Rivers  throaty 
And  make  I  sis /ay  her  Groat ^ 
Thai  from  May  to  parcht  October, 
Scarce  a  Minew  can  sleeve  sober ^ 
Be  your  Fish  in  Oven  thrust^ 
And  your  owne  Red- Paste  the  crust. 

Breake  thy  Rod,  &c. 

Hookes  and  Lines  of  larger  sizes. 
Such  as  the  Tyrant  that  troules  devises^ 
Fishes  nere,  beleive  his  Fable, 
What  he  cats  a  Line  is  a  Cable. 
Thafs  a  Kna^'e  of  endlesse  Rancor, 
Who  for  a  Hooke  doth  cast  in  an  Anchor. 

Breake  thy  Rod,  &c. 

Butofali  men  he  is  the  Cheater^ 

Who  with  small  fish  takes  up  the  Greater. 

He  makes  Carpes  without  all  dudgen 

Make  a  Jonas  of  a  Gudgen. 

Cruell  man  that  slayes  on  Gravell 

Fish  that  Great  with  Fish  doth  TravcH. 

Breake  thy  Rod,  &c. 

M.  Llewellyn,  Sfen  Miracles .  1646. 


The  Jolly  Angler 

O  the  jolly  angler's  life  is  the  best  of  any. 
It  is  a  fancy,  void  of  strife,  and  will  be  lov'd  by  many  ; 
It  is  no  crime  at  any  time,  but  a  harmless  pleasure. 
It  is  a  bliss  of  lawfulness  ;  it  is  a  joy,  it's  not  a  toy  ; 
It  is  a  skill  that  breeds  no  ill  ;  it  is  sweet  and  complete  ; 
Adomation  to  our  mind  ;  if  s  witty,  pretty,  decent,  pleasant  ; 
Pastime  we  shall  sweetly  find,  if  the  weather  prove  but  kind, 
We  will  have  our  pleasure  : 


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FISHING 


245 


In  the  morning  up  we  start  as  soon  as  day  light's  peeping, 
We  take  a  cup  to  cheer  the  heart,  and  leave  the  sluggard  sleeping, 
Forth  we  walk,  and  merry  talk,  to  some  pleasant  river, 
Near  the  Thames'  silver  streams  ;  there  we  stand,  rod  in  hand. 
Fixing  right,  for  a  bite  ;  but  if  the  bait  the  fish  allure. 
They  come  bobbing,  nipping,  biting,  skipping  ; 
Dangling  at  our  hooks  secure  ;  with  such  pastime  sweet  and  pure. 
We  could  fish  for  ever. 


Hideous  noise,  in  all  their  joys,  not  to  be  admired. 

As  we  walk  the  meadows  green,  where  there  the  fragrant  air  is. 

Various  objects  to  be  seen  :  O  what  pleasure  there  is  : 

Birds  they  sing,  and  flowers  spring,  full  of  delectation  : 

A  whistling  breeze  runs  through  the  trees,  there  we  meet  meadows 

sweet ; 
Flowers  sweet,  the  mind  :  here's  scent  of  sweet  content 
By  those  sweet  refreshing  bowers,  living,  giving,  easing,  pleasing, 
Vitals   from   those  herbs   and  flowers,  rais'd  up  by  those  falling 

showers. 

For  man's  recreation. 


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246  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

As  thro'  the  shady  fgrest,  where  echo  there  is  sounding. 

Hounds  and  huntsmen  roving  there,  in  their  sports  abounding  : 

Hideous  noise  in  all  their  joys,  not  to  be  admired  ; 

Whilst  we  fish,  to  gain  a  dish,  with  a  hook,  in  the  brook 

Watch  our  float,  spare  our  throat,  while  they're  sult'ring  to  and 

fro. 
Twivy,  twiv*y,  twivy,  hark  the  horn  does  sweetly  blow. 
Hounds  and  huntsmen  all  on  a  row. 

With  their  pastime  tired. 

We  have  gentles  in  our  horns,  we  have  worms  and  paste  too  ; 
We  have  line,  and  choice  of  twine,  fitting  for  the  angel  : 
If  it's  so  away  we'll  go,  seeking  out  chub  or  trout. 
Eel  or  pike,  or  the  like,  dace  or  black,  there  we  seek, 
Harblo  jack  and  many  more,  gudgeons,  perches,  tenches,  roaches. 
Here's  the  jolly  angler's  store,  we  have  choice  offish  galore, 
Wc  will  have  our  angle. 

If  the  sun's  excessive  heat  should  our  bodies  suiter. 

To  some  house  or  hedge  retreat  for  some  friendly  shelter. 

But  if  we  spy  a  shower  nigh,  or  the  day  uncertin. 

Then  we  flee  beneath  a  tree,  then  wc  eat  our  victuals  sweet. 

Take  a  coke,  smoke  and  soak,  then  again  to  the  same  ; 

Hut  if  we  can  no  longer  stay,  we  come  laughing,  joking,  quaffing, 

smoking, 
So  delightful  all  the  way,  thus  we  do  conclude  the  day. 
With  a  cup  at  parting. 

Ballad. 


On  a  Banck  as  1  sate  a  Fishing 

A   DESCRIPTION   OF   THE   SPRING 

And  now  all  Nature  seem'd  in  Lcrjc^ 
The  lusty  Sap  began  to  move  ; 

'^e\w  Juice  did  stirre  th'  embracing  Vines  ; 

And  Birds  had  drawne  their  Valentines  : 

The  jealous  Trout^  that  low  did  lie, 

Rose  at  a  wel -dissembled  Flie  : 

There  stood  my  friend,  with  patient  Skill 

Attending  of  his  trembling  ^uill. 

Already  were  the  Ea7Jes  posscst 

With  the  swift  Pilgrims  daubed  nest. 

The  Gro7'es  already  did  rejoyce 

In  Philomels  triumphing  voycc. 

H.WOTTON.  Retiqiihr  Wotdmiancc,   1651. 


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FISHING  247 

The  Angler's  Song 

As  inward  love  breeds  outward  talk, 
The  Hound  some  praise,  and  some  the  Hawk^ 
Some  better  pleas'd  with  private  sport, 
Use  Terns ^  some  a  Mistris  court : 

But  these  delights  I  neither  wish, 

Nor  envy,  while  I  freely  fish. 

I   210) 

r\>e   ANG  LERS    S^ng. 


FacsimHe  of  double  page  in  Walton's  (oniplcat  Angler,  1653,  with  music  so 
•printed  that  the  bass  and  tenor  could  read  from  the  same  copy,  when  thf 
book  lay  between  them. 

\^\\oJiunis^  doth  oft  in  danger  ride  ; 

Who  hauks^  lures  oft  both  far  and  wide  ; 

Who  uses  games^  may  often  prove 

A  loser  ;  but  who  fals  in  lox  e, 
Is  fettered  in  fond  Cupids  snare  : 
My  Angle  breeds  me  no  such  care. 

Of  Recreation  there  is  none 
So  free  as  fishing  is  alone  ; 
All  other  pastimes  do  no  less 
Then  mind  and  body  both  possess  ; 

My  hand  alone  my  work  can  do, 

So  I  can  fish  and  study  too. 


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248  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

I  care  not,  I,  to  fish  in  seas, 
Fresh  rivers  best  my  mind  do  please, 
Whose  sweet  calm  course  I  contemplate, 
And  seek  in  life  to  imitate ; 

In  civil  bounds  I  fain  would  keep. 

And  for  my  past  offences  weep. 

And  when  the  timerous  Trout  I  wait 

To  take,  and  he  devours  my  bait, 

How  poor  a  thing  sometimes  I  find 

Will  captivate  a  greedy  mind  : 
And  when  none  bite,  I  praise  the  wise, 
Whom  vain  alurements  nc're  surprise. 

I5ut  yet  though  while  I  fish,  I  fast. 
I  make  good  fortune  my  repast, 
And  thereunto  my  friend  invite. 
In  whom  I  more  then  that  delight : 

Who  is  more  welcome  to  my  dish, 

Then  to  my  Angle  was  my  fish. 

As  well  content  no  prize  to  take 

.A.S  use  of  taken  prize  to  make  ; 

For  so  our  Lord  was  pleased  when 

He  Fishers  made  Fishers  of  men  ; 
Where  (which  is  in  no  other  game) 
A  man  may  fish  and  praise  his  name. 

The  first  men  that  our  Saviour  dear 
Did  chuse  to  wait  upon  him  here. 
Blest  Fishers  were  ;  and  fish  the  last 
Food  was,  that  he  on  earth  did  taste  : 
I  therefore  strive  to  follow  those. 
Whom  he  to  follow  him  hath  chose, 

IZAAK  Wai.TON,   The  CompUat  Angler,  1653, 


With  a  gift  of  a  Salmon,  sent  to  that 
famous  and  best  of  men,  my  dear 
friend,  Dr.  Thomas  Powell : 

A   TRANSLATION   BY   THE   EDITOR    (DR.  A.  ».  GROSART) 

Accept  the  Salmon  that  with  this  1  send. 
To  you  renown 'd  and  best-belovM  friend  ; 
Caught  'neath  the  Fall,  where  mid  the  whirling  foam 
O'  the  quick-darling  Usk,  he  just  had  come. 


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FISHING 

Twas  thus  in  brief :  the  treach'rous  coloured  fly 

For  a  meal,  guil'd  his  unprophetic  eye, 

So  catching  at  it,  he  himself  was  caught : 

Swallowing  it  down,  this  evil  fate  he  wrought, 

—  His  only  purpose  being  then  to  dine  — 

Lo  !  to  be  swallow'd,  swiftly  he  was  mine  : 

Misled  by  his  gay-painted  fly  astray. 

Of  angler's  rod  he  is  the  welcome  prey. 

Benign  retirement !     (Full  reward  to  me 

For  all  my  life's  thick-coming  misery  :) 

How  safe  this  salmon— and  long  years  have  seen- 

If  he  content  in  the  still  pools  had  been  : 

But  soon  as  for  the  thund'ring  Fall  he  craves, 

To  bound  and  flash  amidst  its  tossing  waves, 


249 


He  leaps  to  seize  what  seems  a  noble  prize, 
And  gulps  the  hidden  hook  whereon  he  dies. 
Often  are  little  things  the  types  of  great  : 
Look  thee  around,  and  with  all  this  thoul't  meet. 
The  foamy  Fall  the  world  is,  man  the  fish  ; 
The  plum'd  hook,  sin  guis'd  in  some  lordly  dish. 

H.  Vaughan,  1660? 


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250  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 


Groping,  or  Tickling,  Trout 

You  see  the  ways  the  Fisher-man  doth  take 
To  catch  the  Fish  ;  what  Engins  doth  he  make  ? 
Behold  I  how  he  ingageth  all  his  Wits, 
Also  his  Snares,  Lines,  Angles,  Hooks,  and  Nets  : 
Yet  Fish  there  be,  thai  neither  Hook,  nor  Line, 
Nor  Snare,  nor  Net,  nor  Engin,  can  make  thine  : 
The\'  must  be  grop't  for,  and  be  tickled  too, 
Or  they  will  not  be  catcht  what  e're  you  do. 

John  Busyas,  Pd/j^rh/i's  Projrrfss.  1678. 


The  Schoolboy 


Or,  when  atop  the  hoary  western  hill 

The  ruddie  Sunne  appears  to  rest  his  chin. 
When  not  a  breeze  disturbs  the  murmuring  rill, 

And  mildlie  warm  the  falling  dewes  begin, 
The  gamesome  Trout  then  shews  her  silverie  skin, 

As  wantonly  beneath  the  wave  she  glides, 
Watching  the  buzzing  flies,  that  never  blin,' 

Then  dropt  with  pearle  and  golde,  displays  her  sides, 
While  she  with' frequent  Icape  the  ruffled  strcame  divides. 

On  the  greene  banck  a  truant  Schoolboy  stands  ; 

Well  has  the  urchin  markt  her  mery  play, 
An  ashen  rod  obeys  his  guileful  1  hands, 

And  leads  the  mimick  fly  across  her  way  ; 
Askaunce,  with  wistly  look  and  coy  delay. 
The  hungrie  Trout  the  glitteraund  treachor  eyes, 

Semblaunt  of  life,  with  speckled  wings  so  gay  ; 
Then,  slylie  nibbling,  prudish  from  it  flies. 

Till  with  a  bouncing  start  she  bites  the  truthless  prize. 

Ah,  then  the  Younker  gives  the  fatefuU  twitch  ; 

Struck  with  amaze  she  feels  the  hook  N'pight 
Deepe  in  her  gills,  and,  plonging  where  the  beech 

Shaddows  the  poole,  she  runs  in  dred  affright  ; 

In  vain  the  deepest  rockc,  her  late  delight. 
In  vain  the  sedgy  nook  for  help  she  tries  ; 

The  laughing  elfe  now  curbs,  now  aids  her  flight. 
The  more  entangled  still  the  more  she  flies, 

And  soon  amid  the  grass  the  panting  captive  lies. 


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Google        ^ 


"  Beneath  this  Oaken  umbrage  let  us  lay." 

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FISHING  251 

Where  now,  ah  pity  1  where  that  sprightly  play, 
That  wanton  bounding,  and  exulting  joy, 

That  lately  welcomd  the  retourning  ray. 

When  by  the  rivletts  bancks,  with  blushes  coy, 
April  walkd  forth — ah  !  never  more  to  toy 

In  purling  streame,  she  pants,  she  gasps  and  dies  I 

William  Julu'S  Micklk,  SirAfartyn,  1777. 

The  Invitation 

Let  us  our  steps  direct  where  Father-Thames 
In  silver  windings  draws  his  humid  train, 
And  pours,  where'er  he  rolls  his  naval-stream, 
Pomp  on  the  city,  plenty  o'er  the  plain. 
Or  by  the  banks  of  Isis  shall  we  stray, 
(Ah  why  so  long  from  Isis  banks  away  I) 
Where  thousand  damsels  dance,  and  thousand  shep- 
herds play, 

Amid  the  pleasaunce  of  Arcadian  scenes. 

Love  steals  his  silent  arrows  on  my  breast ; 

Kor  falls  of  water,  nor  enamel'd  greens, 

Can  sooth  my  anguish,  or  invite  to  rest. 

You,  dear  lanthe,  you  alone  impart 

Halm  to  my  wounds,  and  cordial  to  my  smart  : 

The  apple  of  my  Eye,  the  life-blood  of  my  Heart. 

With  line  of  silk,  with  hook  of  barbed  steel, 

Beneath  this  Oaken  umbrage  let  us  lay. 

And  from  the  waters  crystal-bosom  steal 

Upon  the  grassy  bank  the  finny  prey  : 

The  Perch,  with  purple  speckled  manifold  ; 

The  Eel,  in  silver  labyrinth  self-roll'd, 

And  Cai-p,  all  bumish'd  o'er  with  drops  of  scaly  gold. 

Or  shall  the  meads  invite,  with  Iris-hues 
And  nature's  pencil  gay-diversify'd, 
( For  now  the  sun  has  Irck'd  away  the  dews) 
Fair-flushing  and  bedeck'd  like  virgin-bride  ? 
Thither,  (for  they  invite  us)  we'll  repair, 
Collect  and  weave  (whate'er  is  sweet  and  fair) 
A  posy  for  thy  breast,  a  garland  for  thy  hair. 

William  Thompson.  An  Hymn  to  May,  1740? 

Trout  Hall 

.    Bright  blazed  the  fire  of  crackling  wood. 
And  threw  around  a  cheerful  gleam  ; 
In  front  a  vast  oak  table  stood  — 
A  bacon-rack  hung  from  the  beam  : 


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252  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

Pipes,  mugs,  the  chimney-piece  well  grac'd,- 

In  rows  the  fishing-rods  hung  o'er  ; 
On  each  side  otter-skins  were  placed. — 

Rap  1  Rap  I  Cries  Dame — '  Who's  at  the  door  ?  ' 

Chorus. 

Some  jolly  anglers  loud  they  bawl, 
T'enjoy  the  pastime  of  Trout-Hall. 

Bright  as  her  fire  glow'd  Dame's  plump  face 

As  her  old  friends  she  welcom'd  kind  ; 
*  Here  !  Joan  and  Dolly,  clear  the  place, 

And  tap  the  humming  ale,  d'ye  mind  ? 
First  fetch  my  bottle  of  right  Nantz, 

The  ev'ning  air  is  keen  and  raw  ; 
My  friends  of  cold  shall  run  no  chance  — 

You'll  pledge  me,  gentlemen,  I  know.' 

Chorus. 

Come  jolly  anglers,  one  and  all. 
You're  kindly  welcome  to  Trout- Hall. 

Their  stomachs  fortified,  around 

The  sparkling  fire  the  anglers  spread  ; 
Fill  pipes  ;  crack  jokes  ;  the  walls  resound 

With  laughter  that  might  rouse  the  dead  ; 
The  supper  on  the  table  smokes  I 

Round  the  oak  board  they  take  their  seats  ; 
Now  din  of  knives,  forks,  plates  I  —no  jokes — 

Right  earnest  aldermanic  feats. 

Chorus. 

Much  good  may't  do  each  honest  soul — 
Each  true  bred  brother  of  Trout- Hall. 

The  supper  o'er,  well  fill'd  each  guest, 

Dame  with  her  private  flask  appears  ; 
Hopes  they  are  pleas'd — *  She's  done  her  best ' — 

They  greet  th'  old  worthy  with  three  cheers  : 
Again  fill  tankard,  pipe  and  bowl,- 

Joke,  tale,  and  toast,  and  song  go  round  ; 
Begone  dull  Care  !  shouts  ev'ry  soul, 

To  thee  this  is  forbidden  ground — 

Chorus. 

Begone  !  Thou  never  canst  enthraH, 
The  Jolly  Anglers  at  Trout- Hall. 

The  AngUr:  a  Poem  by  P locator,  1819. 


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**  When  suddenly  the  waters  rushed,  and  swelled, 

and  up   there  sprung  ^  r 

*A  humid  maid'  of  beauty's  mould."     Digitized  by  LjOOglC 


FISHING  253 

The  Angler 

(FROM   THE  (JERMAN  OF  GOETHE) 

Des  Wasser  zauscht ;  des  Wasser  schwoUy  ^c. 

There  was  a  gentle  Anij:ler  who  was  angling  in  the  sea, 
With  heart  as  cool  as  only  heart,  untaught  of  love,  can  be  ; 
When  suddenly  the  waters  rushed,  and   swelled,  and  up  there 

sprung 
A  humid  maid  of  beauty's  mould — and  thus  to  him  she  sung  : 

*  Why  dost  thou  strive  so  artfully  to  lure  my  brood  away. 

And  leave  them  then  to  die  beneath  the  sun's  all-scorching  ray  ? 
Could'st  thou  but  tell  how  happy  are  the  fish  that  swim  below, 
Thou  would'st  with  me,  and  taste  of  joy  which  earth  can  never 
know. 

*  Does  not  bright  Sol,  Diana  too,  more  lovely  far  appear 

When  they  have  dipped  in  ocean's  wave  their  golden,  silvery  hair  ? 
And  is  there  no  attraction  in  this  heaven -expanse  of  blue, 
Nor  in  thine  image  mirrored  in  this  everlastmg  dew  ? ' 

The  water  i-ushed,  the  water  swelled,  and  touched  his  naked  feet, 
And  fancy  whispered  to  his  heart  it  was  a  love-pledge  sweet : 
She  sung  another  siren  lay,  more  'witching  than  before, 
Half-pulled  -half-plunging — down  he  sunk,  and  ne'er  was  heard 
of  more. 

Annals  of  Sporting,  1827. 


The  Angler 


Thou  that  hast  loved  so  long  and  well 
The  vale's  deep  quiet  streams, 

Where  the  pure  water-lilies  dwell, 
Shedding  forth  tender  gleams  ; 

And  o'er  the  pool  the  May-fly's  wrng 

Glances  in  golden  eves  of  spring. 

Oh  I  lone  and  lovely  haunts  are  thine. 

Soft,  soft  the  river  flows, 
Wearing  the  shadow  of  thy  line, 

The  gloom  of  alder-boughs  ; 
And  in  the  midst,  a  richer  hue. 
One  gliding  vein  of  Heaven's  own  blue. 

And  there  but  low  sweet  sounds  are  heard- 

The  whisper  of  the  reed, 
The  plashing  trout,  the  rustling  bird, 

The  scythe  upon  the  mead  ; 
Yet,  through  the  murmuring  osiers  near, 
There  steals  a  step  which  mortals  fear. 


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254  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

Tis  not  the  stag  that  comes  to  lave, 

At  noon,  his  panting  breast  ; 
Tis  not  the  bittern,  by  the  wave 

Seeking  her  sedgy  nest ; 
The  air  is  filled  with  summer's  breath, 
The  young  flowers  laugh — yet  look  I    'tis  Death  ! 

Ikit  if,  where  silvery  currents  rove, 

Thy  heart,  grown  still  and  sage, 
Hath  learned  to  read  the  words  of  love 

That  shine  o'er  nature's  page  ; 
If  holy  thoughts  thy  guests  have  been, 
Under  the  shiide  of  willows  green  ; 

Then,  lover  of  the  silent  hour 

By  deep  lone  waters  past. 
Thence  hast  thou  drawn  a  faith,  a  power. 

To  cheer  thee  through  the  last  : 
And,  wont  on  brighter  worlds  to  dwell, 
Mayst  calmly  bid  thy  streams  farewell. 

J\wiual  Remains  of  the  late  Mrs.  Ilcmans,  1836. 


Trolling 


*  Stand  back,  my  friends,  our  first  attempt  be  here. 

The  wave  is  rippled,  and  the  top  is  clear ; 

liehind  these  flags  I'll  hide  me  as  1  go, 

Lest  jack  or  pike  refuse  the  bait  1  throw.' 

He  lets  the  bait  upon  his  side  recline, 

In  his  left  hand  he  holds  some  slacken'd  line. 

Lowers  the  rod,  and  then  with  gentle  sweep, 

Urges  the  tempting  gudgeon  to  the  deep  ; 

The  tempting  gudgeon  to  the  bottom  flies, 

Hut  right  and  left  the  Troller  bids  it  rise, 

Curling  and  spinning  in  the  watery  way, 

Its  glist'ning  form  attracts  the  watchful  prey  ; 

Lo  I  as  the  bait  is  near  the  surface  led, 

A  mighty  fish  forsakes  his  weedy  bed, 

With  sudden  grasp  obtains  the  yielding  snare, 

Then  backward  darts  to  pouch  it  in  his  lair  ; 

Quick  through  the  rings  the  silken  tackle  rides, 

Far  to  the  left  the  hungry  tyrant  glides, 

A  moment  stops,  then  off  again  doth  steal, 

And  now  the  line  has  nearly  left  the  reel ; 

What  must  the  Troller  do  ?    it  is  not  here 

As  tho'  the  surface  of  the  wave  were  clear, 

And  he  could  follow  as  the  rover  went. 


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FISHING  255 

Collected  weeds  such  anxious  wish  prevent  ; 
Check  but  the  fish  before  he  makes  his  pause, 
He'll  cast  the  treacherous  morsel  from  his  jaws  ; 
But  sec,  the  action  of  the  winch  is  o'er, 
Propitious  sign  I    the  line  retreats  no  more  ; 
Loose  on  the  wave  the  latter  portion  lies  ; 
*  So  let  it  rest  until  we  strike  our  prize.' 

He  waits  with  patience — *  minutes  ten  have  sped 

Since  yonder  pike  first  with  my  gudgeon  fled. 

Now  for  the  strife,  he  doubtless  holds  my  fish 

Within  his  pouch  securely  as  I  wish.' 

Nearer  the  side  the  troller  takes  his  stand, 

Winds  the  slack  tackle  with  a  careful  hand 

Then,  on  a  sudden,  when  he  sees  it  tight, 

He  strikes  his  victim  upward  to  the  right. 

Signal  for  action  ;  urged  by  piercing  pain. 

The  astonished  fish  darts  down  the  liquid  plain, 

The  obedient  line  forsakes  the  quick'ning  brass. 

And  lets  him  freely  through  the  waters  pass  ; 

Crossing  the  pool,  he  rushes  here  and  there, 

And  struggles  hard  to  break  the  stubborn  snare  ; 

The  stubborn  snare,  controlled  with  patient  skill, 

True  to  its  trust,  enchains  the  wand'rer  still, 

Mocks  every  effort,  foils  his  angry  strength. 

And  bids  him  seek  the  upper  wave  at  length  : 

Mark  where  he  rises  I    Ah  I    he  sees  his  /oe, 

Again  he  hurries  to  the  stream  below  ; 

Yon  heavy  weeds  are  now  his  only  chance, 

To  them  he  makes,  but  let  him  not  advance  ; 

The  wary  troller  turns  his  desp'rate  head, 

And  winds  him  in  where  open  waters  spread  ; 

A  second  time  the  lusty  fish  appears. 

Again  he  plunges  with  increasing  fears. 

Again  he  sinks,  again  he  comes  in  sight. 

And  all  the  pool  is  troubled  with  his  might  ; 

He  shakes  his  head,  he  flings  himself  about, 

He  tugs,  he  tries  to  tear  the  weapon  out  ; 

The  harmless  tenants  of  the  water  fly 

In  each  direction  as  he  rushes  by. 

With  horror  seized — what  joy  would  fill  them  all 

Could  they  be  conscious  of  the  tyrant's  thrall, 

But  ev'r>'  effort  calls  his  strength  away, 

And  ev'ry  moment  sees  an  easier  prey  ; 

Borne  to  the  top,  his  jaws  distain'd  with  blood. 

Still  floundering  on  he  beats  the  foamy  flood. 

Like  some  bold  warrior,  tho'  his  doom  be  cast, 

'Mid  wounds  and  death  he  struggles  to  the  last. 

W.  WatTs's  Piscatory  Vvrses  ;  The  S port sui tin,  De'cembcr  1836. 


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256  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 


The  Fishers  Call 

The  moor-cock  is  crowing  o*er  mountain  and  fell, 
And  the  sun  drinks  the  dew  from  the  blue  heather-bell  ; 
Her  song  of  the  morning  the  lark  sings  on  high, 
And  hark,  'tis  the  milk-maid  a-caroUing  by. 

Then  up,  fishers,  up  !  to  the  waters  away  ! 

Where  the  bright  trout  is  leaping  in  search  of  his  prey. 

Oh,  what  can  the  joys  of  the  angler  excel, 
As  he  follows  the  stream  in  its  course  through  the  dell ! 
Where  every  wild  flower  is  blooming  in  pride, 
And  the  blackbird  sings  sweet,  with  his  mate  by  his  side. 
Then  up,  fishers,  up  !  to  the  waters  away  I 
Where  the  bright  trout  is  leaping  in  search  of  his  prey. 

'Tis  pleasant  to  walk  at  the  first  blush  of  morn, 
In  spring  when  the  blossom  is  white  on  the  thorn, 
By  the  clear  mountain  stream  that  rolls  sparkling  and  free, 
O'er  crag  and  through  vale,  its  glad  course  to  the  sea. . 
Then  up,  fishers,  up  I  to  the  waters  away  I 
Where  the  bright  trout  is  leaping  in  search  of  his  prey. 

In  the  pools  deep  and  still,  where  the  yellow  trouts  lie, 
Like  the  fall  of  a  rose-leaf  we'll  throw  the  light  fly  ; 
Where  the  waters  flow  gently,  or  rapidly  foam, 
We'll  load  well  our  creels  and  hie  merrily  home. 

Then  up,  fishers,  up  !  to  the  waters  away  ; 

Where  the  bright  trout  is  leaping  in  search  of  his  prey. 

William  Andrew  Chatto,  Fishers  Garland,  1837. 


Summer  Rambles ;  or,  The 
Fisher's  Delight 

Tune  :  '  And  are  ye  sure  the  news  is  true  ? ' 

'Tis  pleasant  now,  when  sunlight  fills 

The  odour-breathing  air, 
To  murmuring  streams  and  shining  brooks 

In  gladness  to  repair  : 
Tis  sweet  to  see  the  morning  smile 

Of  fishers  as  they  hie 
To  search  the  sparkling  element 

With  taper  rod  and  fly. 


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FISHING  257 

'Tis  sweet  to  see  the  matchless  charms 

That  gem  around  the  scene — 
The  warblings  of  the  air-borne  birds 

On  outstretch'd  wing  serene  : 
To  see  the  *  glory  of  the  grass,' 

The  splendour  of  the  flower, 
As  Nature  puts  her  freshness  on 

To  gild  each  gladsome  hour. 

And  when  the  evening  time  draws  on, 

And  fiU'd's  the  well-form'd  creel, 
And  thoughts  of  home  upon  the  heart 

With  gladdening  ray  will  steal  ; 
'Tis  pleasant  to  the  angler's  soul 

To  raise  his  shining  load. 
And  with  his  taper  rod  and  reel. 

To  take  his  homeward  road. 

'Tis  pleasant,  o'er  the  evening  glass, 

To  hear  the  blythsome  song, 
And  drink  the  healths  of  honest  hearts 

We've  known  both  well  and  long  : 
Who've  haunted  all  the  sweetest  spots 

Of  our  delightful  stream. 
With  zest  as  indescribable 

As  youth's  delicious  dream  ! 

And  still,  as  onward  rolls  the  hour, 

And  recollections,  kind, 
Come  back,  with  soften'd  hues  and  forms. 

And  light  the  thinking  mind, 
'Tis  sweet  to  quaff  a  cup  to  those — 

The  Dead — the  Gone-away — 
With  whom  we've  spent,  in  manhood's  prime. 

Oh,  many  a  happy  day  I 

Then  blessings  on  the  anglers  true  ; 

Contented  may  they  live  ; 
With  every  grace  and  every  good 

That  bounteous  earth  can  give  : 
Success  crown  every  manly  heart, 

And  every  gifted  hand, 
As  by  the  silent  streams  they  take 

Their  joy-inspiring  stand  ! 

William  Gill  Thompson,  Fisher's  Garland,  1838. 


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258  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

Auld  and  Young 

Tune  :  *  Fie  I  gar  rub  her  owre  wi'  strae  I ' 

It's  Mayday  this  ;  the  wale  *  o'  days  ; 

The  westlin'  wind  blaws  saft  an'  free, 
Far  i'  th'  sky,  their  notes  o'  joy 

The  Lav'rock-quire  are  liltin'  hie. 
Hear  them  ye  may,  ye  canna  see  ! 

The  dew-drap  sparkles  on  the  thorn  ; 
And  nature  says  to  ear  and  e'e, 

*  This  is ' — my  boy, — *  a  simmer's  mom.' 

Round  Shillhope-Law,  young  Coquet's  stream- 

A  half-grown  syke  ^ — is  wimplin' '  wild  : 
She  bids  '  guid  mom '  to  Barra  Bum, 

Like  child  forgath'rin'  in  wi'  child. 
'Mang  Rowhope  Craigs  the  winds,  beguiled, 

An  angry  speat  send  down  the  vale. 
And  ower  the  Linn,  wi'  bickerin'  din, 

She's  foamin'  like  the  heady  ale  I 

'Neath  HarbottUs  auld  castle  wa', 

Amang  the  cliffs  she  boils  amain  ; 
Frae  rifted  rock  to  woody  shaw  ; 

Frae  stalwart  craig  to  auld  gray  stane. 
Down,  speedin'  hameward,  she  is  gane 

Past  lanely  Heppl^s  ruin'd  peel ; 
And  wha  begins  aboon  the  whins, 

At  Flotterton  may  load  his  creel. 

I  canna  climb  the  brent  hill-side, 

Where  stripling  Coquet  first  is  seen  ; 
WJiere  'neath  the  Bell-rig^  shadow  wide, 

The  silly  sheep  lie  down  at  e'en  ; 
I  canna  climb  the  knowes,  sae  green. 

Where  round  *  the  bend '  the  river  steals, 
Or  where  she  wars,  amang  the  scaurs. 

Her  weary  way  to  rough  Unn-shiels, 

Still  we  can  toddle,  fit  by  fit. 

To  Brinkburn  where  the  breeze  hits  fine  ; 
The  auld  man's  nae  sae  crazy  yet. 

But  he  can  thraw  a  winsome  line. 
'Gin  there  we  fail,  we'se  no  repine  ; 

When  smelts  are  eydent,*  trouts  are  shy  ; 
And  i'  th'  slack,  by  the  dam-back, 

We'se  maybe  raise  a  grilse  forbye  I 

'  choice.  *  rill.  '  winding.  *  busy. 


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FISHING 

It's  ill  the  mountain  side  to  speel, 

When  ance  the  knees  begin  to  fail ; 
When  ance  the  snaws  o'  age  we  feel, 

It's  ill  to  thole  the  mountain  gale, 
*  Slaw  wark  maks  sicker'  's  an  auld  tale  I 

Where'er  they  loup  we'll  tak  our  stand  ; 
An  thou  shall  say,  Lad,  mony  a  day, 

*  It's  weel  to  ken — the  Maister's  Hand.' 

Thomas  Doubled  ay,  Fisher's  Garland,  1842. 

The  Morning  Airly 

Tune :  '  Com  rigs  are  bonnie ' 

It's  late,  my  Lad,  to  tak'  the  Gad  ; 

All  nature's  now  in  motion  ; 
The  floods  o'  May  hae  swept  away 

The  Sawmon's  fry  to  Ocean  ; 
In  Dewshill,  lang,  the  Throstle's  sang 

He's  been  rehearsin'  cheerly  ; 
Our  only  line's  *  far  aff  an'  fine,' 

And  tak'  the  Momin'  airly  I 

Up  through  the  glens,  amang  the  staens, 

The  bums  wi'  heat  seem  dryin'  ; 
Slaw,  tired  and  still,  by  Little  Mill, 

Wi'  worm  the  Shadesman's  hiein'  ; 
Ahint  the  bush  that  bauds  the  thrush, 

He  now  can  shelter  rarely  ; 
Our  only  line's  *  far  aff  an'  fine,' 

And  tak'  the  momin'  airly  ! 

At  Alwinton,  the  Washin's  on, 

And  loud  the  Lads  are  singin' ; 
To  see  the  sheep  spang,*  soom,'  and  dreep, 

The  Dale  wi'  laughter's  ringin' ; 
Het,  tired,  an'  dry,  the  thirsty  kye 

The  fords  are  taking  fairly  ; 
Our  only  line's  *  far  aff  an'  fine,' 

And  tak'  the  momin'  airly  ! 

Yet,  through  the  trees,  there's  still  a  breeze  ; 

The  pool  the  gale  is  curling  ; 
Beneath  tne  beam,  the  glitterin'  stream 

Is  owre  the  pebbles  purling  ; 
We're  no'  the  sort  to  lose  our  sport, 

Because  the  stream  rins  clearly ; 
But  thraw  the  ^ne  *  far  aff  an'  fine,' 

An'  tak'  the  momin'  airly  I 

1  jump  Id.  '  swim. 


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26o  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

The  gleg-e'ed  trout  we'll  pick  him  out, 

Amang  the  staens  fu'  deftly  ; 
Our  flies  shall  fa',  the  verra  snaw 

Can  come  nae  down  sae  saftly  ; 
We'll  'tice  them  here,  we'll  'tice  thetn  there, 

What  though  they  loup  but  sparely, 
Wi'  a  cast  o'  line  *  far  aff  an'  fine,' 

All  in  the  mornin'  airly  I 

When  floods  come  down,  a  callant  loon 

May  catch  them  wi'  a  tether, 
And  sawmon  roe,  be  a'  '  the  go ' 

For  gowks  in  rainy  weather, 
But  gi'e  to  me  the  light  midge  flee. 

When  streams  are  rinnin'  clearly, 
And  a  cast  o'  line  *  far  aff  an  fine,' 

All  in  the  mornin'  airly  I 

Thomas  Doubleday,  Fishers  Garland,  1845. 

The  South  Wind 

A  Fisherman's  Blessings 

O  blessed  drums  of  Aldershot  ! 

O  blessed  South-west  train  ! 
O  blessed,  blessed  Speaker's  clock, 

All  prophesying  rain  ! 

O  blessed  yaffil,  laughing  loud  ! 

O  blessed  falling  glass  ! 
O  blessed  fan  of  cold  gray  cloud  ! 

O  blessed  smelling  grass  ! 

O  bless'd  South  wind  that  toots  his  horn 
Through  every  hole  and  crack  ! 

I'm  off"  at  eight  to-morrow  mom 
To  bring  such  fishes  back  ! 

Chaklks  Kingsley,  1856. 

AN    ANGLER'S   RAMBLES   AND   ANGLING   SONGS 
BY   THOMAS   TOD    STODDART 

Sonnet 

*  Anglers  I  ye  are  a  heartless,  bloody  race  ; ' 
'Tis  thus  the  half-soul'd  sentimentalist 
Presumes  to  apostrophize  us  to  the  face. 
Weak,  paltry,  miserable  antagonist  ! 
To  deem  by  this  compassionate  grimace 


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FISHING  261 

He  doth  sweet  service  to  humanity  ; 

And  yet,  when  of  his  fellow's  misery — 

Of  wars  and  pestilence,  and  the  woes  that  chase 

Mankind  to  the  interminable  shore, 

He  hears— to  treat  them  with  a  hasty  sneer, 

Nor  let  their  shrill  appeal  disturb  a  tear. 

Or  one  emotion  waken  in  his  core  I 

It  is  too  much  !     Anglers,  your  cruelty 

Is  tenderer  than  this  man's  philanthropy  ! 


The  Taking  of  the  Salmon 


A  birr  !  a  whirr  I  a  salmon's  on, 

A  goodly  fish,  a  thumper  ! 
Bring  up,  bring  up  the  ready  gaff. 
And  when  we  land  him  we  shall  quaff 

Another  glorious  bumper  I 
Hark  !  'tis  the  music  of  the  reel. 

The  strong,  the  quick,  the  steady  : 
The  line  darts  from  the  circling  wheel, 

Have  all  things  right  and  ready. 


A  birr  !  a  whirr  !  the  salmon's  out 

Far  on  the  rushing  river, 
He  storms  the  stream  with  edge  of  might, 
And  like  a  brandish'd  sword  of  light, 
Rolls  flashing  o'er  the  surges  white, 

A  desperate  endeavour  I 
Hark  to  the  music  of  the  reel  I 

The  fitful  and  the  grating  ; 
It  pants  along  the  breathless  wheel, 

Now  hurried,  now  abating. 

Ill 

A  birr  !  a  whirr  !  the  salmon's  off  I 

No,  no,  we  still  have  got  him  ; 
The  wily  fish  has  sullen  grown. 
And,  like  a  bright  embedded  stone, 

Lies  gleaming  at  the  bottom. 
Hark  to  the  music  of  the  reel  I 

'Tis  hush'd,  it  hath  forsaken  ; 
With  care  we'll  guard  the  slumbering  wheel 

Until  its  notes  rewaken. 


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262 


THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 


IV 

A  birr  !  a  whirr  !  the  salmon's  up  I 

Give  line,  give  line  and  measure  ; 
And  now  he  turns,  keep  down  a-head, 
And  lead  him  as  a  child  is  led, 

And  land  him  at  your  leisure. 
Hark  to  the  music  of  the  reel  ! 

'Tis  welcome,  it  is  glorious  ; 
It  wanders  round  the  exultant  wheel, 

Returning  and  victorious. 


Strike  through  his  gill  the  ready  gaff 


A  birr  !  a  whirr  !  the  salmon's  in, 

Upon  the  bank  extended  ; 
The  princely  fish  lies  gasping  slow, 
His  brilliant  colours  come  and  go. 
Silver  alternating  with  snow. 

All  beautifully  blended. 
Hark  to  the  music  of  the  reel ! 

It  murmurs  and  it  closes  ; 
Silence  falls  on  the  conquering  wheel, 

The  wearied  line  reposes. 


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FISHING  263 

VI 

No  birr  !  no  whirr  !  the  sahiion's  ours  : 

The  noble  fish,  the  thumper  ! 
Strike  through  his  gill  the  ready  gaff, 
And  bending  homewards  we  shall  quaff 

The  overflowing  bumper ! 
Hark  to  the  music  of  the  reel  ! 

We  listen  with  devotion  ; 
There's  something  in  that  circling  wheel 

That  stirs  the  heart's  emotion  1 

The  Pirate  of  the  Lakes 


Gaily  rock  the  lily  beds 

On  the  marge  of  Lomond  lake  ; 
There  the  wandering  angler  treads. 
Nature  round  him — all  awake, 
Mountains  ringing. 
Fountains  singing 
Their  sweet  secrets  in  the  brake. 


Swiftly  from  the  water's  edge 

Shoots  the  fierce  pike,  wing'd  with  fear. 
To  his  lair  among  the  sedge, 

As  the  intruding  form  draws  near  ; 
All  elated. 
Primely  baited. 
Seeking  solitary  cheer. 

Ill 

Throbs  aloud  the  eager  heart. 

And  the  hand  in  tremor  moves. 
When  some  monster,  all  alert. 
Round  the  tempting  tackle  roves  ; 
Boldly  darmg. 
Or  bewaring. 
While  the  gleamy  lure  he  proves. 

IV 

Then  at  length  each  doubt  subdued, 
Turns  the  lake-shark  on  his  prey  ; 
Quickly  gulp'd  the  fatal  food. 
Suddenly  he  sheers  away, 
All  enshackled, 
Firmly  tackled. 
Out  into  the  deep'ning  bay. 


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264  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 


But  with  steady  caution  school' d, 
Soon  his  boasted  vigour  fails  ; 
By  the  angler's  sceptre  ruled, 
Maim'd  the  sullen  pirate  sails  ; 
Shoreward  wending, 
Uncontending, 
Him  the  joyous  captor  hails. 

VI 

And  along  the  margin  haul'd, 
All  his  fretful  fins  a- spread. 
Though  by  ruthless  iron  gall'd, 
Still  he  rears  his  cruel  head 
Uncomplaining, 
Death  disdaining   - 
See  him  as  a  trophy  led  I 


Sonnet 

The  fellow-anglers  of  my  youthful  days, 
(Of  past  realities  we  form  our  dream,} 
I  watch  them  re-assembling  by  the  stream, 
And  on  the  group  with  solemn  musings  gaze  : 
For  some  are  lost  in  life's  bewildering  haze, 
And  some  have  left  their  sport  and  taen  to  toil, 
And  some  have  faced  the  ocean's  wild  turmoil, 
And  some — a  very  few — their  olden  ways 
By  shining  lake  and  river  still  pursue  ; 
Ah  I  one  I  gaze  on  'mid  the  fancied  band, 
Unlike  the  rest  in  years,  in  gait,  in  hue  — 
Uprisen  from  a  dim  and  shadowy  land — 
Ask  what  loved  phantom  fixes  my  regard, 
Yarrow's  late  pride,  the  Angler,  Shepherd,  Bard  ! 


Our  Choice 


Where  torrents  foam. 
While  others  roam 

Among  the  Norland  heather, 
Some  river  meek 
W'e'll  forth  and  seek 

And  lay  our  lines  together. 


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FISHING  265 


Some  sylvan  stream 

Where  shade  and  gleam 
Are  blending  with  each  other  ; 

Below  whose  bank 

The  lilies  lank 
All  humbler  flowers  ensmother. 

Ill 

Where  cushats  coo 

And  ring-doves  woo 
The  shining  channelover, 

From  leafy  larch 

Or  birchen  arch — 
Their  unmolested  cover. 

IV 

There  daily  met, 

No  dark  regret 
Shall  cloud  our  noon  of  pleasure  I 

We'll  carr>'  rule 

O'er  stream  and  pool, 
And  heap  the  finny  treasure. 


With  rare  deceits 

And  cunning  treats, 
Minnow  and  creeper  tender, 

We  shall  invite 

The  scaly  wight 
To  eye  them  and  surrender. 


And,  when  sport- worn, 

We'll  seek  some  thorn, 
W^ith  shadow  cool  and  ample  ; 

The  natural  ground. 

Moss-  laid  around. 
An  angler's  resting  temple  I 

My  Fisher  Lad 


I  lo'e  my  ain  wee  fisher-boy, 

He's  bold  and  bonnie  — bonnie  an'  bold  : 
An'  aye  there  is  a  glint  o'  joy 

A'  nestlin'  'mang  his  locks  o'  gold. 


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266  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

II 

His  gad  is  o'  the  rowan-tree, 
That  grows  below  the  castle  wa', 

The  rowan  wi'  its  bleeze  '  o*  beads, 

Sae  braw  and  bonnie — bonnie  and  braw. 

Ill 

His  creel  is  o'  the  rashes  green, 
I  waled  them  wi*  a  carefu'  han'. 

An'  pletted  them,  ae  simmer  e'en. 

An'  croon'd  them  wi'  a  luve-knot  gran'. 

IV 

I  lo'e,  I  lo'e  my  fisher  lad, 

He's  aye  sae  blate,*  and  aye  sae  cheery  ; 
I  lo'e  the  sughing  o'  his  gad, 

An'  nane  but  him  shall  ca'  me  dearie  ! 


I  lo'e  him  for  his  sunny  e'e, 

Sae  blue  an'  sunny — sunny  an'  blue  ; 
There's  glitterin'  starns  'neath  mony  a  bree,'' 

But  nane  sae  tender  or  sae  true. 

VI 

I  lo'e  him  for  his  gentle  airt, 
Wi'  line  and  angle  -angle  and  line  ; 

He's  captive  ta'en  my  silly  heart 
This  bonnie  fisher-lad  o'  mine  I 


A  Peck  o'  Troubles 


Gi'e  me  ma  gaud,  my  guid  auld  gaud, 
The  wan'  I  lo'e  sae  rarely  ; 

But  faith,  guidewife,  its  unco  thraw'd, 
Ye  haena  used  it  fairly  ? 


The  bairns  I  plague  talc  the  thievin'  things  ! 

They  play  the  very  deevil ; 
Wha'd  think,  they've  hash'd  my  lav' rock- wings, 

An  ta'en  my  mennin-sweevil  t 

1  blaze.  *  gentle.  ^  brow. 

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FISHING  267 


III 


They've  made  sair  wark  amang  the  flees, 
There's  neither  huik  nor  hackle  ; 

What's  a'  the  guid  o'  brew  or  breeze 
An'  no  ae  skein  o'  tackle  ? 


IV 


But  hinnie,  whar's  my  muckle  reel  ? 

Gi'e  up  yer  cloots  and  needle — 
I  wudna  lose  my  honest  wheel 

For  a'  the  wives  in  Tweeddale. 


No  to  the  fore  !    I  micht  hae  guess'd 

Some  ill  or  ither  cam'  o't  ; 
It's  gane  the  gate  o'  a'  the  rest, 

And  nane  to  bear  the  blame  o't. 

VI 

Aweel,  aweel  I    mishaps,  we  ken, 
Are  coupled  aye  thegither, 

Sae,  gudewife,  rax  us  yonner  hen- 
She's  dainty  in  the  feather. 

VII 

A  mawkin  lug  ^  and  tinsey  braw,'^ 
Ben  in  the  kist  ye'll  find  them, 

Auld  reel  and  tippets,*  aims  and  a' — 
The  aims  be  shure  and  mind  them  I 

VIII 

It  gangs  a  wee  agen  the  grain 
To  thole  sae  mony  troubles  I 

And  yet,  gudewife,  to  ilka  ane 
There's  graith  amang  the  stubbles. 

IX 

It's  neither  dole  nor  deep  lament 
Will  mend  a  bodie's  grievance  ; 

Sae  e'en  we'll  haud  ourselves  content 
Wi'  thae  wee  bits  o'  leavins  ; 


An'  gin  a  sawmont  soom  the  Tweed 
(The  thing's  no  that  unchancy). 

We'll  gar  the  ilka  tooth  o't  bleed. 
May  fortune  fa  the  fancy  I 

1  hare's  ear.  *  water  can.  ^  lengths  of  gut. 


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268  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

The  Heron-Lake 


The  breeze  is  on  the  Heron-lake, 
The  May-sun  shineth  clear  ; 

Away  we  bound  through  the  ferny  brake, 
With  our  wands  and  angling  gear. 


The  birch-wreath  o'er  the  water  edge 

Scatters  sweet  flies  about ; 
And  around  his  haunt  of  whisp'ring  sedge, 

Bells  up  the  yellow  trout. 

Ill 

Take  heed  I  take  heed  I  his  eye  is  bright 

As  falcon's  in  the  sky  ; 
But  artful  feather  hove  aright, 

Will  hood  a  keener  eye. 

IV 

Beware,  beware  the  water-weed. 
And  the  birch  that  weeps  behind, 

And  gently  let  the  true  line  speed 
Before  thee  on  the  wind. 


Oh  !  gently  let  the  good  line  flow 
And  gently  wile  it  home  : 

There's  many  a  gallant  fin  I  trow 
Under  the  ribbM  foam. 


A  merry  fish  on  a  stallion-hair, 

'Tis  a  pleasant  thmg  to  lead 
On  May-days,  when  the  cowslip  fair 

Is  yellowing  on  the  mead. 

VII 

When  the  breeze  starts  up,  and  the  sun  peeps  out. 

And  grey  flies  two  or  three 
Hold  merry  frolic  round  about. 

Under  the  green- wood  tree. 

VIII 

Oh  I  then  the  heart  bounds  pleasantly, 
And  its  thoughts  are  pleasant  things. 

Gushing  in  joyous  purity, 
Like  mirthful  water-springs. 


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FISHING  269 

Sonnet — The  Eden 

Thomson  I  this  quiet  stream,  the  song  of  thought 

Oft  in  thy  bosom  rear'd  ;  and  as  I  steal 

Along  its  banks,  they  to  my  gaze  reveal 

The  pictures  by  thy  truthful  pencil  wrought. 

No  rash  intruder  on  the  rural  spot 

I  feel,  but  in  that  glowing  fervour  share, 

Which  on  their  page  thy  far-famed  Seasons  bear  ; 

Nor  honoured  less  is  nature,  nor  less  sought 

Her  still  retreats,  while  with  my  wand  I  fling 

O'er  Eden's  pools  the  well-dissembling  fly. 

Creating  in  the  mind's  fantastic  eye 

Castles  of  Indolence.     The  sudden  spring 

Of  a  huge  trout  assails  their  air-built  walls. 

And  to  the  untrench'd  earth  each  hollow  fabric  falls. 


The  Angler's  Grave 


I 

Sorrow,  sorrow,  bring  it  green  ! 

True  tears  make  the  grass  to  grow, 
And  the  grief  of  a  friend,  I  ween. 

Is  grateful  to  him  that  sleeps  below. 
Strew  sweet  flowers,  free  of  blight — 

Blossoms  gather*!!  in  the  dew  ; 
Should  they  wither  before  night, 

Flowers  and  blossoms  bring  anew. 

II 
Sorrow,  sorrow,  speed  away 

To  our  angler's  quiet  mound  ; 
With  the  old  pilgrim  twilight  grey 

Enter  thou  on  the  holy  ground. 
There  he  sleeps  whose  heart  was  twined 

With  wild  stream  and  wandering  burn, 
Wooer  of  the  western  wind  ! 

Watcher  of  the  April  mom  I 

III 
Sorrow  at  the  poor  man's  hearth  I 

Sorrow  in  the  hall  of  pride  ! 
Honour  waits  at  the  grave  of  worth. 

And  high  and  low  stand  side  by  side. 
Brother  angler  !  slumber  on, 

Haply  thou  shalt  wave  the  wand, 
W^hen  the  tide  of  Time  is  gone. 

In  some  far  and  happier  land. 

Thomas  Tod  Stoddart,  Angler's  Rambles,  1866. 


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SHOOTING 

The  Death  of  Robert,  Earle  of  Huntington 

otherwise  called  Robin  Hood  of  Merrie 

Sherwodde :  etc. 

SONG 

Weepe,  weepe,  ye  wod-men  waile, 

Your  hands  with  sorrow  wring  : 

Your  master  Robin  Hood  lies  deade, 

Therefore  sigh  as  you  sing. 
Here  lies  his  Primer  and  his  beades, 
His  bent  bowe  and  his  arrowes  keene, 
His  goode  sworde  and  his  holy  crosse, 
Now  cast  on  flowers  fresh  and  greene  : 
*  And  as  they  fall,  shed  teares  and  say, 

Wella,  wella  day,  wella,  wella  day  : 

Thus  cast  yee  flowers  and  sing. 

And  on  to  Wakefield  take  your  way. 

Anthony  Munday  and  Henry  Chettle,  i6oi. 

The  Song  of  Robin  Hood  and  his 
Huntes-men. 

Now  wend  we  together,  my  merry  men  all, 

Unto  the  Forrest  side-a  : 
And  there  to  strike  a  Buck  or  a  Doae, 

Let  our  cunning  all  be  tride-a. 

Then  goe  we  merrily,  merrily  on. 
To  the  Green- wood  to  take  up  our  stand. 

Where  we  will  lye  in  waite  for  our  Game, 
With  our  bent  Bowes  all  in  our  hand. 


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SHOOTING 

What  life  is  there  like  to  Robin  Hood, 

It  is  so  pleasant  a  thing  a  : 
In  merry  Shirwood  he  spends  his  dayes, 

As  pleasantly  as  a  King  a. 

No  man  may  compare  with  Robin  Hood, 
With  Robin  Hood,  Scathlocke,  and  John  : 

Their  like  was  never,  nor  never  will  be, 
If  in  case  that  they  were  gone. 


271 


%. 


X. 


Where  we  will  lye  in  waite  for  our  Game 

They  will  not  away  from  merry  Shirwood, 

In  any  place  else  to  dwell : 
For  there  is  neither  City  nor  Towne, 

That  likes  them  halfe  so  well. 

Our  lives  are  wholly  given  to  hunt. 
And  haunt  the  merrie  Greene-wood  : 

Where  our  best  service  is  daily  spent, 
For  our  master,  Robin  Hood 

Anthony  Munday,  Metropolis  Coronata,  1615. 


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272  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

On   the   Royal   Company  of  Archers, 
shooting  for  the  Bowl,  July  6,  1724 

On  which  Day  his  Grace  James  Duke  of  Hamilton  was  chosen 
their  Captain  General ;  and  Mr.  David  Drummond  their 
Prases  won  the  Prize, 

Again  the  Year  returns  the  Day, 
That's  dedicate  to  Joy  and  Play, 

To  Bonnets^  Bows^  and  Wine. 
Let  all  who  wear  a  sullen  Face, 
This  Day  meet  with  a  due  Disgrace, 

And  in  their  sowrness  pine  ; 
Be  shun'd  as  Serpents,  that  wad  stang 

The  Hand  that  gi'es  them  Food  : 
Sic  we  debar  frae  lasting  Sang, 

And  all  their  grumbling  Brood. 

While,  to  gain  Sport  and  halesome  Air, 
The  blythsome  Spirit  draps  dull  Care, 

And  starts  frae  Bus'ness  free. 
Now  to  the  Fields  the  Archers  bend. 
With  friendly  Minds  the  Day  to  spend. 

In  manly  Game  and  Glee  ; 
First  striving  wha  shall  win  the  Bowl, 

And  then  gar't  flow  with  Wine  : 
Sic  manly  Sport  refresh'd  the  Soul 

Of  stalwart  Men  lang  syne. 

E'er  Parties  thrawn,  and  Int'rest  vile 
Debauch'd  the  Grandeur  of  our  Isle, 

And  made  ev'n  Brethren  Faes  ; 
Syne  Truth  frae  Friendship  was  exil'd, 
And  fause  the  honest  Hearts  beguil'd, 

And  led  them  in  a  Maze 
Of  Politicks  ; with  cunning  craft. 

The  Issachars  of  State, 
Frae  haly  Drums  first  dang  us  daft, 

Then  drown'd  us  in  Debate. 

Drap  this  unpleasing  Thought,  dear  Muse  ; 
Come,  view  the  Men  thou  likes  to  roose  ; 

To  Bruntsfield  Green  let's  hy. 
And  see  the  Royal  Bowmen  strive, 
Wha  far  the  feather'd  Arrows  drive, 

All  soughing  thro'  the  Sky  ; 
Ilk  ettling  with  his  utmost  Skill, 

With  artfu'  Draught  and  stark, 
Extending  Nerves  with  hearty  Will, 

In  hopes  to  hit  the  Mark. 


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"And  see  the  Royal  Bowmen  strive 
Wha  far  the  feather'd  Arrows  drive."jigitizedbyCiOOgiC 


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SHOOTING  273 

See  Hamilton,  wha'  moves  with  Grace, 
Chief  of  the  Caledonian  Race 

Of  Peers  ;  to  whom  is  due 
All  Honours,  and  a'  fair  Renown  ; 
Wha  lays  aside  his  Ducal  Crown, 

Sometime  to  shade  his  Brow 
Beneath  St.  Andrew's  Bonnet  blew, 

And  joins  to  gain  the  Prize  : 
Which  shaws  true  Merit  match'd  by  few, 

Great,  affable  and  wise. 
This  Day,  with  universal  Voice, 
The  Archers  Him  their  Chiftain  chose  ; 

Consenting  Powers  divine, 
They  blest  the  Day  with  general  Joy, 
By  giving  him  a  princely  Boy, 

To  beautify  his  Line  ; 
Whose  Birth-day,  in  immortal  Sang 

Shall  stand  in  fair  Record, 
While  bended  Strings  the  Archers  twang, 

And  Beauty  is  ador'd. 
Next  Drummond  view,  who  gives  their  Law  ; 
It  glads  our  Hearts  to  see  him  draw 

The  Bow,  and  guide  the  Band ; 
He,  like  the  Saul  of  a'  the  lave. 
Does  with  sic  Honour  still  behave, 

As  merits  to  command. 
Blyth  be  his  Hours,  heal  be  his  Heart, 

And  lang  may  he  preside  : 
Lang  the  just  Fame  of  his  Desert 

Shall  unborn  Archers  read. 

How  on  this  fair  propitious  Day, 
With  Conquest  leal  he  bore  away 

The  Bowl  victoriously  ; 
With  following  Shafts  in  Number  four, 
Success  the  like  ne'er  kend  before, 

The  Prize  to  dignify. 
Haste  to  the  Garden  then  bedeen,' 

The  Rose  and  Laurel  pow,* 
And  plet  a  Wreath  of  white  and  green. 

To  busk  the  Victor's  Brow. 

The  Victor  crown,  who  with  his  Bow, 
In  spring  of  Youth  and  amorous  Glow, 

Just  fifty  Years  sinsyne. 
The  Silver  Arrow  made  his  Prize, 
Yet  ceases  not  in  Fame  to  rise. 

And  with  new  Feats  to  shine. 

1  forthwith.  *  pluck. 

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274 


THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 


May  ever>-  Archer  strive  to  fill, 

His  Bonnet,  and  observe, 
The  Pattern  he  has  set  with  skill, 

And  Praise  like  him  deserve. 

Allan  Ramsay.  Poems,  1728. 


Away  to  the  Stubbles,  away 

Hurrah  !  once  again  for  September  ! 

Get  ready  the  dogs  and  the  gun  I 
And  be  sure  you  don't  fail  to  remember 

The  whiskey-flask  marked  No   i. 
And  boy,  above  all,  don't  be  sleeping 

When  rises  the  bright  star  of  day. 
For  soon  as  gray  morning  is  peepmg 

We'll  haste  to  the  stubbles,  away  I 


Away  to  the  stubbles,  away  ! 

With  Pero,  you'll  bring  the  black  setter, 

Nor  leave  old  friend  Ponto  behind  ; 
The  sportsman  who'd  wish  for  a  better, 

I  wish  he  a  better  may  find. 
When  the  first  breeze  of  morning  is  shaking 

The  dew  from  the  hawthorn's  light  spray, 
Our  course  to  the  fields  we'll  be  taking — 

Away  to  the  stubbles,  away ! 


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SHOOTING 

And  when  we  are  homeward  returning, 

Fatigu'd  with  the  sports  of  the  field, 
Who's  he  that  once  knows  would  be  spuming 

The  health  and  the  pleasure  they  yield  ? 
If  sickness  or  sorrow  come  o'er  us, 

A  fee  to  no  doctor  we  pay, 
But,  shouting  *To  ho  there'  in  chorus 

We  speed  through  the  stubbles  away. 

And  when  not  forgetting  the  duty 

That  each  to  his  lady-love  owes 
We  drain  the  red  wine-cup  to  beauty, 

And  turn  to  our  couch  of  repose  ; 
While  others  are  dreaming  of  danger, 

We  dream  of  the  feats  of  the  day. 
And  whistling  to  Pero  or  Ranger, 

Still  hie  through  the  stubbles  away. 


275 


Elegy 


Written  on  the  first  of  September^  1763 

When  the  still  night  withdrew  her  sable  shroud. 
And  left  these  climes  with  step  sedate  and  slow ; 
WTiile  sad  Aurora  kerchief'd  in  a  cloud. 
With  drizzly  vapours  hung  the  mountain's  brow  ; 

The  wretched  bird  from  hapless  Perdix  sprung 
With  trembling  wing  forsook  the  furrow'd  plain 
And  calling  round  her  all  her  listening  young, 
In  faltering  accents  sung  this  plaintive  strain  : 

'  Unwelcome  morn  !  too  well  thy  lowering  mien 
Foretells  the  slaughter  of  the  approaching  day  ; 
The  gloomy  sky  laments  with  tears  the  scene 
Where  crimson  slaughter  reassumes  her  sway. 

*  Ah  luckless  train  !  Ah  fate  devoted  race  I 
The  dreadful  tale  experience  tells  believe  ; 
Dark  heavy  mists  obscure  the  morning's  face. 
But  blood  and  death  shall  close  the  dreary  eve. 

*  This  day  fell  man,  whose  unrelenting  hate 
No  grief  can  soften,  and  no  tears  assuage, 
Pours  dire  destruction  on  the  feather'd  state  ; 
While  pride  and  rapine  urge  his  savage  rage. 

*  I  who  so  oft  have  scaped  the  impending  snare. 
Ere  night  arrives,  may  feel  the  fiery  wound. 

In  giddy  circles  quit  the  realms  of  air, 

And  stain  with  streaming  gore  the  dewy  ground.' 


Ballad. 


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276 


THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 


She  said,  when  lo  !  the  pointer  winds  his  prey, 
The  rustling  stubble  gives  the  feared  alarm, 
The  gunner  views  the  covy  fleet  away, 
And  rears  the  unerring  tube  with  skilful  arm. 


In  vain  the  mother  wings  her  whirring  flight. 
The  leaden  deaths  arrest  her  as  she  flies  ; 
Her  scattered  offspring  swim  before  her  sight, 
And,  bathed  in  blood,  she  flutters,  pants,  and  dies. 

Henry  Jamks  P\e,  Farhngdon  Hill  .  .  .  with  Odes,  Elegies,  etc, 


1778. 


On  seeing  a  wounded  Hare  limp  by  me, 
which  a  Fellow  had  just  shot  at,  out  of 
season  &  when  all  of  them  have  young 
ones 

Inhuman  man  I  curse  on  thy  barb'rous  art, 
And  blasted  be  thy  murder-aiming  eye  ; 
May  never  pity  soothe  thee  with  a  sigh. 

Nor  ever  pleasure  glad  thy  cruel  heart  ! 

(jO  live,  poor  wanderer  of  the  wood  and  field. 
The  bitter  little  that  of  life  remains  : 
No  more  the  thickening  brakes  and  verdant  plains 

To  thee  shall  home,  or  food,  or  pastime  yield. 


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SHOOTING  277 

Seek,  mangled  wretch,  some  place  of  wonted  rest. 
No  more  of  rest,  but  now  thy  dying  bed  I 
The  sheltering  rushes  whistling  o'er  thy  head. 

The  cold  earth  with  thy  bloody  bosom  prest. 

Oft  as  by  winding  Nith  1,  musing,  wait 
The  sober  eve,  or  hail  the  chearful  dawn, 
I'll  miss  thee  sporting  o'er  the  dewy  lawn, 

And  curse  the  ruffian's  aim,  and  mourn  thy  hapless  fate. 

R.  Bi'RNS,  Poems,  1793. 


An     Epitaph 


[1792] 

Here  lies  one,  who  never  drew 
Blood  himself,  yet  many  slew  ; 
Gave  the  gun  its  aim,  and  figure 
Made  in  field,  yet  ne'er  pulled  trigger. 


Armed  men  have  gladly  made 
Him  their  guide,  and  him  obey'd. 
At  his  signified  desire, 
Would  advance,  present,  and  Fire  .  . 


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278  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

Stout  he  was,  and  large  of  limb, 
Scores  have  fled  at  sight  of  him  ; 
And  to  all  this  fame  he  rose 
Only  following  his  Nose. 
Neptune  was  he  caird,  not  He 
Who  controls  the  boist'rous  sea, 
But  of  happier  command, 
Neptune  of  the  furrow'd  land  ; 
And,  your  wonder  vain  to  shorten, 
Pointer  to  Sir  John  Throcktnorton. 

W.  Cow  PER,  Poems,  1815. 

Epigram   on   Archery 

While  fair  Thalestris  pois'd  the  shaft. 

How  keen  the  point,  she  said  ; 
And  when  she  saw  it  lodged,  she  laugh'd. 

To  think  the  wound  it  made. 

The  arrow's  point  bites  deep,  fair  maid. 

Replied  a  friend  ;  but  who. 
Without  the  softer  feather's  aid, 

Could  aim  that  arrow  true  ? 

Thus  in  your  lovely  sex  we  find 

Each  charm  a  pointed  dart ; 
But  'tis  the  softness  of  the  mind 

Must  guide  it  to  the  heart. 

Sporting  Maga  zinc ,  1 793. 


Snipe  Shooting 


When  gelid  frosts  encrust  the  faded  ground, 

And  dreary  winter  clouds  the  scene  around  ; 

The  timid  snipes  fly  to  the  sedgy  rills, 

Or  seek  the  plashes  on  the  upland  hills. 

The  sportsman,  now,  wakes  with  the  gleaming  mom, 

His  gun  makes  fit,  refills  his  pouch  and  horn, 

And  to  the  swampy  meadow  takes  his  way, 

With  sport  and  exercise  to  crown  the  day. 

See  first  how  curiously  he  scans  the  sedge. 

Then  warily  proceeds  along  the  edge  : 

His  piece  is  cock'd,  and  in  position  right. 

To  meet  his  shoulder  readily  and  light. 

But  yet  more  cautiously  he  treads  beside 

The  well-known  plash,  where  most  he  thinks  to  hide 

The  dappled  bird — and  from  the  rushy  stream 

F'righten'd  she  rises,  with  a  piercing  scream. 


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SHOOTING  279 

His  tube  the  fowler  points  with  steady  sight, 
And  seeks  to  trace  her  thro'  her  rapid  flight  ; 
Whilst  o'er  the  field  she  tries  each  artful  wile, 
And  crooked  turn,  his  level  to  beguile. 
Her  slender  wings  swift  cut  the  buoyant  air, 
'Till  distance  gives  her  as  a  nmrk  more  fair  : 
Now  glancing,  just  the  marksman  gets  his  aim, 
His  ready  finger  doth  the  trigger  strain. 
He  fires— the  fatal  shot  unerring  flies. 
The  Snipe  is  struck,  she  flutters,  bleeds,  and  dies. 

sporting  A/abating,  1798, 


Different  Kinds   of  Birds  which 
abound  in  Scotland 

The  lakes  and  mountains  swarm  with  copious  game  ; 

The  wildgoose  gray,  and  heathcock  hairy-legg'd. 

White  soland,  that  on  Bass  and  Ailsa  build  ; 

The  woodcock  slender  billed,  and  marshy  snipe, 

The  free-bred  duck,  that  scorns  the  wiles  of  men. 

Soaring  beyond  the  thunder  of  the  gun  ; 

Yet  oft  her  crafty  fellow,  trained  to  guile, 

And  forging  love,  decoys  her  to  the  snare, 

There  witnesses  her  fate,  with  shameless  brow. 

Why  should  I  here  the  fruitful  pigeon  name. 

Or  long-necked  heron,  dread  of  nimble  eels. 

The  glossy  swan,  that  loaths  to  look  a-down. 

Or  the  close  covey  vexed  with  various  woes  ? 

While  sad,  they  sit  their  anxious  mother  round. 

With  dismal  shade  the  closing  net  descends  ; 

Or,  by  the  sudden  gun,  they  fluttering  fall. 

And  vile  with  blood,  is  stained  their  freckled  down. 

J.  Leyden,  Scottish  Descriptive  Poems,  1803. 


The  Bowman's  Song 

Gay  companions  of  the  bower, 

Where  inshrined  Apollo  reigns  ; 
Cherish  long  the  social  hour, 
That  recalls  us  to  these  plains  ; 
Where  unbending 
Cares,  and  blending 
Honest  pastime,  dance,  and  song, 

Ever  the  golden  round  extending, 
Smoothly  fly  the  hours  along. 


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O'er  the  heath  in  mellow  winding, 

Hark  I  how  clear  the  bugles  ring  ; 
Ev'ry  bowman  now  reminding 
Sportive  morn  is  on  the  wing. 
Come,  unbending 
Cares,  and  blending 
Honest  pastime,  dance,  and  song. 

Ever  the  golden  round  extending, 
Smoothly  fly  the  hours  along. 

Twang  the  bow  with  lusty  sinew, 

Firm  and  steady  to  the  last ; 
Let  each  shaft  its  flight  continue, 
In  defiance  of  the  blast. 
Thus  unbending 
Cares,  and  blending 
Honest  pastime,  dance,  and  song, 

Ever  the  golden  round  extending, 
Smoothly  fly  the  hours  along. 

\'iew  those  lovely  forms,  all  glowing 

Bright,  and  vested  like  their  queen  : 
Wood  nymphs,  who  the  prize  bestowing 
Make  the  contest  still  more  keen. 
Thus  unbending 
Cares,  and  blending 
Honest  pastime,  dance,  and  song, 

Ever  the  golden  round  extending. 
Smoothly  fly  the  hours  along. 

See  them  grace  the  victor's  merit. 
With  the  golden  badge  of  fame  ; 
'Tis  a  bowman's  pride  to  wear  it, 
W^hile  the  arrow  bears  his  name. 
Still  unbending 
Cares,  and  blending 
Honest  pastime,  dance,  and  song, 

Ever  the  golden  round  extending. 
Smoothly  fly  the  hours  along. 

Crown  the  goblet,  freely  quafiing. 

Let  the  purple  nectar  flow  ; 
Bacchus  enters,  fills,  and,  laughing, 
Toasts  around  his  brother's  bow. 
Thus  unbending 
Cares,  and  blending 
Honest  pastime,  dance,  and  song. 

Ever  the  golden  round  extending. 
Smoothly  fly  the  hours  along. 

The  S/torisman's  IWai  Cabinet,  1830. 


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The  Forester's  Carol 

Lusty  Hearts  !  to  the  wood,  to  the  merry  green  wood, 
While  the  dew  with  strung  pearls  loads  each  blade, 

And  the  first  blush  of  dawn  brightly  streams  o'er  the  lawn, 
Like  the  smile  of  a  rosy-cheeked  maid. 

Our  horns  with  wild  music  ring  glad  through  each  shaw, 

And  our  broad  arrows  rattle  amain  ; 
For  the  stout  bows  we  draw,  to  the  green  woods  give  law. 

And  the  Might  is  the  Right  once  again  ! 

Mark  yon  herds,  as  they  brattle  and  brush  down  the  glade  j 

Pick  the  fat,  let  the  lean  rascals  go, 
Under  favor  His  meet  that  we  tall  men  should  eat, — 

Nock  a  shaft  and  strike  down  that  proud  doe  ! 

Well  delivered,  parfay  !    convulsive  she  leaps, — 
One  bound  more, — then  she  drops  on  her  side  ; 

Our  steel  hath  bit  smart  the  life-strings  of  her  heart, 
And  cold  now  lies  the  green  forest's  pride. 

Heave  her  up,  and  away  I — should  any  base  churl 

Dare  to  ask  why  we  range  in  this  wood. 
There's  a  keen  arrow  yare,  in  each  broad  belt  to  spare. 

That  will  answer  the  knave  in  his  blood  I 

Then  forward,  my  Hearts  I  like  the  bold  reckless  breeze 

Our  life  shall  whirl  on  in  mad  glee  ; 
The  long  bows  we  bend,  to  the  world's  latter  end. 

Shall  be  borne  by  the  hands  of  the  Free  ! 

William  Motherwell,  Poetical  Works,  1847. 


Away!    to   the   Woodlands   Away! 

Tune  :  *  Away  to  the  Stubbles  I ' 

The  leaves  o'er  the  lea  are  careering, 

The  last  rose  of  summer  is  dead  ; 
And  jocund  October  is  cheering 

His  friends  with  the  ale-cup  instead. 
Our  efforts  in  vain  we  redouble. 

The  partridge  gets  wilder  each  day  ; 
The  farmer  upgathers  the  stubble — 

Then,  let's  to  the  woodlands  away. 


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282  THE  POETRY  QF  SPORT 

No  sound,  but  the  cry  of  the  plover, 

Is  heard,  or  the  wild  duck's  afar, 
As  early  we  on  to  the  cover, 

The  pheasant's  gay  plumage  to  mar. 
Let  Sloth  on  his  down -bed  be  rolling, 

Be  ours  through  the  meadows  to  stray, 
All  blithe  as  the  carol  were  trolling — 

*  Away  !  to  the  woodlands  away  I ' 

By  the  old-holly-bush,  where,  up-gushing. 

The  bum  of  the  valley  breaks  forth. 
The  woodcock,  ere  long,  we'll  be  flushing, 

The  stranger  that  comes  from  the  North. 
The  sports  of  each  season  delight  us. 

Not  less  of  July  than  of  May  ; 
Then  why,  when  October  invites  us. 

Why  not  to  the  woodlands  away  ? 

At  eve,  Dash  and  Rover  beside  us,    . 

What  mortals  more  happy  than  we  ? 
The  sorrov/s  that  yet  may  betide  us, 

Why  seek  in  the  distance  to  see  ? 
Enough  for  the  steady  and  sober 

To  antedate  winter^s  cold  ray  I 
We'll  bumper  the  glass  to  October, 

And  shout  *  To  the  woodlands  away  1 ' 

Hknry  Brandrkth,  The  Sportsman,  1833. 

The   First  of  September 

Loiterer,  rise  I    the  mom  hath  kept 
For  thee  her  orient  pearls  unwept  : 
Haste,  and  take  them,  while  the  light 
Hangs  on  the  dew- locks  of  the  night. 
See  !  Aurora  throws  her  fair 
Fresh  tinted  colours  through  the  air  : 
Come  forth  !  come  forth  !  'tis  very  sin 
And  profanation  to  keep  in  I 
There's  joy  and  gladness  in  the  skies, 
Loiterer,  from  thy  couch  arise  ! 

Our  life  is  short,  our  moments  run 

Swift  as  the  coursers  of  the  Sun  ; 

And,  like  the  vapour  or  the  rain, 

Once  lost,  can  ne'er  be  traced  again  : 

Each  flower  hath  wept,  and  eastward  bow'd  : 

The  skylark,  far  above  the  cloud 

To  hymn  his  song  of  praise  is  fled, 

And  all  the  birds  their  matins  said  ; 

There's  joy  and  gladness  in  the  skies, 

Loiterer,  from  thy  couch  arise  ! 


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Haste  ere  the  sun  hath  drunk  the  dews 
Boon  Nature  to  her  banquet  woos  : 
Around  the  smiling  field  no  more 
Are  waving  with  their  yellow  store, 
Homeward  bears  the  loaded  wain 
The  golden  glories  of  the  plain  ! 
And  nut-brown  partridges  are  seen 
Gliding  among  the  stubble  screen  : 
There's  joy  and  gladness  in  the  skies, 
Loiterer,  from  thy  couch  arise  I 

J.  W.  C,  Sporting  Magazine,  1834. 

The   Grouse-Shooter's   Call 

Come  !  where  the  heather  bell, 

Child  of  the  Highland  dell, 
Breathes  its  coy  fragrance  o'er  moorland  and  lea  : 

Gaily  the  fountain  sheen 

Leaps  from  the  mountain  green  — 
Come  to  our  Highland  home,  blithsome  and  free  I 

See  !  through  the  gloaming 

The  young  Morn  is  coming. 
Like  a  bridal  veil  round  her  the  silver  mist  curl'd, 

Deep  as  the  ruby's  rays. 

Bright  as  the  sapphire's  blaze. 
The  banner  of  day  in  the  East  is  unfurl'd. 

The  red  grouse  is  scattering 

Dews  from  his  golden  wing 
Gemm'd  with  the  radiance  that  heralds  the  day  ; 

Peace  in  our  Highland  vales, 

Health  on  our  mountain  gales — 
Who  would  not  hie  to  the  Moorlands  away  I 

Far  from  the  haunts  of  man 

Mark  the  grey  Ptarmigan, 
Seek  the  lone  Moorcock,  the  pride  of  our  dells. 

Birds  of  the  wilderness  ! 

Here  is  their  resting  place, 
Mid  the  brown  heath  where  the  mountain-roe  dwells. 

Come  then  I  the  heather  bloom 

Woos  with  its  wild  perfume. 
Fragrant  and  blithsome  thy  welcome  shall  be  ; 

Gaily  the  fountain  sheen 

Leaps  from  the  mountain  green — 
Come  to  our  home  of  the  Moorland  and  lea  ! 

J.  W.  Cy  Sporting  Magazine,  1834. 


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284  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 


Hawkstone  Bow-Meeting 

'  Celeri  certare  sagittA 
Invitat  qui  forte  velint,  et  praemia  ponit' 

./En,  lib.  V. 

I 

Farewell  to  the  Dane  and  the  Weaver  ! 

Farewell  to  the  horn  and  the  hound  I 
The  Tarporley  Swan,  I  must  leave  her 

Unsung  till  the  season  come  round  ; 
My  hunting  whip  hung  in  a  comer, 

My  bridle  and  saddle  below, 
I  call  on  the  Muse  and  adorn  her 

With  bald  rick,  and  quiver,  and  bow. 


Bright  Goddess  !  assist  me,  recounting 

The  names  of  toxophilites  here, 
How  Watkin  came  down  from  the  mountain, 

And  Mainwaring  up  from  the  Mere  ; 
Assist  me  to  fly  with  as  many  on 

As  the  steed  of  Parnassus  can  take. 
Price,  Parker,  Lloyd,  Kynaston,  Kenyon, 

Dod,  Cunliffe,  Brooke,  Owen  and  Drake. 

Ill 

To  witness  the  feats  of  the  Bowmen, 

To  stare  at  the  tent  of  the  Bey, 
Merrie  Maidens  and  ale-drinking  Yeomen 

At  Hawkstone  assemble  to-day. 
From  the  lord  to  the  lowest  in  station, 

From  the  east  of  the  shire  to  the  west, 
Salopia's  whole  population 

Within  the  green  valley  compresl. 

IV 

In  the  hues  of  the  target  appearing. 

Now  the  bent  of  each  archer  is  seen  ; 
The  widow  to  sable  adhering. 

The  lover  forsaken  to  green  ; 
For  gold  its  affection  displaying, 

One  shaft  at  the  centre  is  sped  ; 
Another  a  love  tale  betraying. 

Is  aim'd  with  a  blush  at  the  red. 


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Pride  pointing  profanely  at  heaven, 

Humility  sweeping  the  ground, 
The  arrow  of  gluttony  driven 

Where  ven'son  and  sherry  abound  ! 
At  white  see  the  maiden  un mated 

The  arrow  of  innocence  draw, 
While  the  shaft  of  the  matron  is  fated 

To  fasten  its  point  in  the  straw, 

VI 

Tell,  fated  with  Gessler  to  grapple 

Till  the  tyrannous  bailiff  was  slain, 
Let  Switzerland  boast  of  the  apple 

His  arrow  once  sever'd  in  twain  ; 
WeVe  an  Eyton  could  prove  to  the  Switzer, 

Such  a  feat  were  agam  to  be  done, 
Should  our  host  and  his  lady  think  fit,  Sir, 

To  lend  us  the  head  of  their  son  ! 

VII 

The  ash  may  be  graceful  and  limber. 

The  oak  may  be  sturdy  and  true  ; 
You  may  search,  but  in  vain,  for  a  timber 

To  rival  the  old  British  yew  ! 
You  may  roam  through  all  lands,  but  there's  no  land 

Can  sport  such  as  Salop's  afford, 
And  the  Hill  of  all  Hills  is  Sir  Rowland  ! 

The  hero  of  heroes  my  Lord  I 

R.  E.  Egkrton  War  burton.  1835. 

The  Highland  Moors 

The  Highland  Moors  !  the  Highland  Moors  ! 
How  blithe  on  merry  Scotland's  shores, 

'Mid  the  heather's  perfume 

Wave  the  banners  of  bloom 
Of  her  bonnie  purple  Moors  I 

On  the  eve  of  a  golden  August  day. 
When  incense  distils  from  the  breath  of  the  brae  - 
The  Eve  of  the  morrow,  whose  earliest  sun 
Shall  dawn  to  the  crash  of  the  clanging  gun. 
While  the  startled  Grouse  and  Black-cock  spring 
From  their  dewy  couch  on  whirring  wing  I  - 
How  sweet  to  sit  in  the  snow-white  tent. 
Rife  with  its  revel  and  merriment : 


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The  voice  of  the  City  -the  tumult  of  men  — 

Lost  to  the  ear,  and  far  from  the  ken  I 

The  spaniels  around  have  made  their  bed 

On  the  fragrant  heath,  where  the  dew  pearls  are  sped 

Sparkles  and  leaps  the  diamond  rill 

In  melody  from  the  far  blue  hill, 

Till  its  music  is  lost  in  the  torrent's  din 

That  gushes  and  foams  through  the  rocky  linn  ! 

Sunset  gleams  faint  in  the  saffron  West, 

The  Moor-cock  is  heard  on  the  wild  hill's  crest : 

The  Curlew  pipes  shrill  from  her  lone  bleak  nest 

Away  in  the  misty  mountain's  breast  ; 

As  the  last  warm  hues  of  declining  day 
Are  mingled  and  lost  in  the  twilight  grey. 
The  ray  of  the  sapphire  is  dim  to  the  star 
That  lights  with  her  loveliness  sylvan  Braemar- 
And  listen  .  .  .  the  voice  of  the  minstrel  is  there 
In  the  halls  of  the  Mighty  can  music  compare 
With  the  melody  borne  on  the  mountain  air. 
Warbled  by  night  on  the  moorland  bare  ! 


The  purple  Moors  I  the  purple  Moors  ! 
The  Mom  is  up  again,  and  pours 

With  cheek  of  bloom 

Her  fresh  perfume 
O'er  the  bonnie  Highland  Moors  I 

The  mountain  peaks  have  caught  the  Sun, 
The  sylvan  warfare  is  begun— 
See,  o'er  the  heath  the  spaniels  range 
With  speed  of  light :  anon  they  change 


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The  track,  but  still  *  up  wind '  they  go, 
They  road — they  stop — to  ho  !  to  ho  !  .  .  . 
In  vain  the  red  brood  ply  the  wing 
As  right  and  left  the  barrels  ring, 
With  aim  so  steady,  sight  so  clear, 
Wo  to  the  firstlings  of  the  year  ! 
And  ere  the  noon,  with  burning  ray. 
Shall  warn  us  to  a  brief  delay. 
Full  many  a  mother,  red  and  grey 
Shall  rue  the  shooting  of  that  day. 

Ends  not  our  Highland  sporting  here — 
Northward  we  seek  the  wild  dun  deer, 
Nor  toilsome  deem  the  longest  day 
Whose  pains  the  antlered  Chief  repay. 

Here  finishes  my  sketch.  .  .  .  You  ask 
Perchance  what  lured  me  to  my  task  ? — 
I've  lived  for  Fashion — found  her  hour 
More  brief  than  Summer's  frailest  flower  : 
I've  lived  for  Love,  and  known  her  smile 
Less  apt  to  bless  than  to  beguile  : 
I  paused  and  pondered,  looked  around 
On  my  past  life — and  there  I  found 
The  happiest  days  I  ever  spent 
Were  pass'd  beneath  a  Highland  tent. 

J.  W.  C,  Sporting  Magazine,  August  1835. 


Cephalus  and  Procris 

A  hunter  once  in  that  grove  reclined, 

To  shun  the  noon's  bright  eye. 
And  oft  he  wooed  the  wandering  wind, 

To  cool  his  brow  with  its  sigh. 
While  mute  lay  even  the  wild  bee's  hum, 

Nor  breath  could  stir  the  aspen's  hair. 
His  song  was  still  *  Sweet  air,  oh  come  ! ' 

While  Echo  answered,  *  Come,  sweet  Air  ! ' 

But,  hark,  what  sounds  from  the  thicket  rise  ! 
What  meaneth  that  rustling  spray  } 

*  'Tis  the  white-hom'd  doe,'  the  Hunter  cries, 

*  I  have  sought  since  break  of  day.' 
Quick  o'er  the  sunny  glade  he  springs. 
The  arrow  flies  from  his  sounding  bow, 

*  Hilliho — hilliho  I '  he  gaily  sings, 

While  Echo  sighs  forth  *  Hilliho  ! ' 


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Alas,  'twas  not  the  white-hom'd  doe 

He  saw  in  the  rustling  grove, 
But  the  bridal  veil,  as  pure  as  snow, 

Of  his  own  young  wedded  love. 
And,  ah,  too  sure  that  arrow  sped. 

For  pale  at  his  feet  he  sees  her  lie  ; — 
*  I  die,  I  die,'  was  all  she  said. 

While  Echo  murmur'd,  *  I  die,  I  die  I ' 

Poetical   Works  of  Thomas  Moore,  1840. 


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CRICKET 


Cricketing's  All  the  Rage 

Durham  City  has  been  dull  so  long, 

No  bustle  at  all  to  show  : 
But  now  the  rage  of  all  the  throng, 

Is  at  cricketing  to  go. 


^^^^^m^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^S^^^^^S^^^^tS^ 

0^^   

Long- Field,  Long-Stop,  Bowl  or  Bat, 

All  different  posts  engage  ; 
Ball  struck— not  caught— a  notch  for  that, 

O  cricketing's  all  the  rage  ! 


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290  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

Down  to  the  sands  then  let  us  hie 

To  see  the  youths  at  play  : 
Perhaps  they'll  tell  the  reason  why 

There's  not  a  match  to-day. 
The  noble  youths  pursue  the  game 

Through  every  varied  stage  ; 
Each  breast  is  panting  for  its  fame, — 

O  cricketing's  all*  the  rage  I 

Huzza,  then,  for  the  Durham  lads, 

They've  cast  their  dull  array  : 
They'd  not  be  known  by  their  own  dads,      • 

They're  now  so  blithe  and  gay. 
Bold  and  fearless  -  there's  the  rub 

With  challenges  to  assuage  : 
And  conquer  every  rival  club, — 

O  cricketing's  all  the  rage  ! 

Cupid,  arch  rogue  I  is  also  there, 

Amongst  the  varied  throng, 
Pointing  to  each  blushing  fair 

Whose  lover  bowls  so  long. 
For  every  blooming  nymph  stands  by 

Her  lover's  heat  to  engage  ; 
Commends  his  skill— the  reason  why, 

O  cricketing's  all  the  rage  I 

The  Game  of  Cricket 

To  live  a  life,  free  from  gout,  pain,  and  phthisic, 
Athletic  employment  is  found  the  best  physic  ; 
The  nerves  are  by  exercise  hardened  and  strengthened, 
And  vigour  attends  it  by  which  life  is  lengthened. 

Derry  down,  &c. 

What  conducts  to  health  deserves  recommendation, 
'Twill  entail  a  strong  race  on  the  next  generation  ; 
And  of  all  the  field  games  ever  practised  or  known, 
The  cricket  stands  foremost  each  Briton  must  own. 

Derry  down,  &c. 

Let  dull  pensive  souls  boast  the  pleasures  of  angling, 
And  o'er  ponds  and  brooks  be  eternally  dangling  ; 
Such  drowsy  worm-killers  are  fraught  with  delight. 
If  but  once  a  week  they  obtain  a  fair  bite. 

Derry  down,  &c. 


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CRICKET  291 

The  cricketer,  noble  in  mind  as  in  merit, 

A  taste  for  oppression  can  never  inherit, 

A  stranger  to  swindling,  he  never  would  wish 

To  seduce  by  false  baits,  and  betray  a  poor  fish. 

Derry  down,  &c. 

No  stings  of  remorse  hurt  the  cricketer's  mind, 
To  innocent  animals  never  unkind, 
The  guiltless  his  doctrine  is  ever  to  spare. 
Averse  to  the  hunting  or  killing  the  hare. 

Derry  down,  &c. 

We  knights  of  the  bat  the  pure  ether  respire, 
Which,  heightened  by  toil,  keeps  cilive  Nature's  fire  ; 
No  suits  of  crim.  con.  or  divorce  can  assail  us. 
For  in  love,  as  in  cricket,  our  powers  never  fail  us. 

Derry  down,  &c. 

To  ever>'  great  duke  and  to  each  noble  lord. 
Let  each  fill  his  glass  with  most  hearty  accord  ; 
And  to  all  brother  knights,  whether  absent  or  present. 
Drink  health  and  success  from  the  peer  to  the  peasant. 

Ballad, 


Cricket 

BOOK  I 

The  Argument  of  the  First  Book, — The  Subject.  Address  to  the  Patron  of 
Cricket.  A  Description  of  the  Pleasures  felt  at  the  Approach  of  the  proper 
Season  for  Cricket,  and  the  Preparations  for  it.  A  Comparison  Ijetween 
this  game  and  others,  particularly  Billiards,  Bowls,  and  Tennis.  Exhorta- 
tion to  Britain  to  leave  all  meaner  Sports,  and  cultivate  Cricket  only,  as 
most  adapted  to  the  Freedom  and  Hardiness  of  its  Constitution.  The 
Counties  most  famous  for  Cricket  are  dcscrib'd,  as  vying  with  one  another 
for  Excellency. 

While  others  soaring  on  a  lofty  Wing, 
Of  dire  Bellonc^s  cruel  Triumphs  sing  ; 
Sound  the  shrill  Clarion,  mount  the  rapid  Car, 
And  rush  delighted  thro'  the  Ranks  of  War  ; 
My  lender  Muse,  in  humbler,  milder  Strains,' 
Presents  a  bloodless  Conquest  on  the  Plains  ; 
Where  vigorous  Youth,  in  Life's  fresh  Bloom  resort, 
For  pleasing  Exercise  and  healthful  Sport. 
Where  Emulation  fires,  where  Glory  draws, 
And  active  Sportsmen  struggle  for  Applause  ; 
Expert  to  Bowly  to  Run,  to  Stop,  to  Throw, 
Each  Nerve  collected  at  each  mighty  Blow. 

V  2 


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292  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

Hail  Cricket  I  glorious,  manly,  British  game  ! 
First  of  all  Sports  !  be  first  alike  in  Fame  I 
To  my  fii-'d  Soul  thy  busy  Transports  bring, 
That  I  may  feel  thy  Raptures,  while  I  sing  I 
And  thou,  kind  Patron  of  the  mirthful  Fray, 
Sandwich,  thy  Country's  Friend,  accept  the  Lay  I 
Tho'  mean  my  Verse,  my  Subject  yet  approve, 
And  look  propitious  on  the  Game  you  love  ! 

When  the  returning  Sun  begins  to  smile, 
And  shed  its  Glories  round  this  sea  girt  Isle  ; 
When  new-born  Nature  deck'd  in  vivid  (ireen, 
Chaces  dull  Winter  from  the  charming  Scene  : 
High  panting  with  Delight,  the  jovial  Swain 
Trips  it  exulting  o'er  the  Flow'r-strew'd  Plain  ; 
Thy  Pleasures,  Cricket  1  all  his  Heart  controul ; 
Thy  eager  Transports  dwell  upon  his  Soul : 
He  weighs  the  well-turn'd  Bafs  experienc'd  Force, 
And  guides  the  rapid  BalPs  impetuous  Course, 
His  supple  Limbs  with  nimble  Labour  plies, 
Nor  bends  the  Grass  beneath  him  as  he  flies. 
The  joyous  Conquests  of  the  late  flown  Year,  ^ 

In  Fancy's  Paint,  with  all  their  Charms  appear,  r 

And  now  again  he  views  the  long  wish'd  Season  near, 
O  thou,  sublime  Inspirer  of  my  Song  ! 
What  matchless  Trophies  to  thy  W^orth  belong  ! 
Look  round  the  Globe,  inclin'd  to  Mirth,  and  see 
What  daring  Sport  can  claim  the  Prize  ifrom  thee  ! 

Not  puny  Billiards,  where,  with  sluggish  Pace, 
The  dull  Ball  trails  before  the  feeble  Mace. 
Where  no  triumphant  Shouts,  no  Clamours  dare 
Pierce  thro'  the  vaulted  Roof  and  wound  the  Air  ; 
But  stiff  Spectators  quite  inactive  stand, 
Speechless  attending  to  the  Striker's  Hand  : 
Where  nothing  can  your  languid  Spirits  move, 
Save  when  the  Marker  bellows  out.  Six  Love  ! 
Or  when  the  Ball,  dose  cushioned,  slides  askew. 
And  to  the  op'ning  Pocket  runs,  a  Cou. 

Nor  yet  that  happier  Game,  where  the  smooth  Bowl, 
In  circling  Mazes,  wanders  to  the  Goal  ; 
Where,  much  divided  between  Fear  and  Glee, 
The  Youth  cries  Rtfb ;  O  Flee,  you  IJn^rcr,  Flee  / 

Not  Tennis  self,  thy  sister  Sport,  can  charm. 
Or  with  thy  fierce  Delights  our  Bosoms  warm. 
Tho'  full  of  Life,  at  Ease  alone  dismay'd, 
She  calls  each  swelling  Sinew  to  her  Aid  ; 
Her  ecchoing  Courts  confess  the  sprightly  Sound, 
While  from  the  Racket  the  brisk  Balls  rebound. 
Yet,  to  small  Space  confin'd,  ev'n  she  must  yield 
To  nobler  Cricket,  the  disputed  Field. 

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CRICKET  293 

O  Parent  Britain  I  Minion  of  Renown  I 
Whose  far-extended  Fame  all  Nations  own  ; 
Of  Sloth-promoting  Sports,  forewarn'd  beware  I 
Nor  think  thy  Pleasures  are  thy  meanest  Care  ; 
Shun  with  Disdain  the  squeaking  Masquerade, 
Where  fainting  Vice  calls  Folly  to  her  Aid. 
Leave  the  dissolving  Song,  the  baby  Dance, 
To  soothe  the  Slaves  of  Italy  and  France  : 
While  the  finn  Limb,  and  strong  brac'd  Nerve  are  thine. 
Scorn  Eunuch  Sports  ;  10  manlier  Games  incline ; 
Feed  on  the  Joys  that  Health  and  Vigour  give  ; 
Where  Freedom  reigns,  'tis  worth  the  while  to  live. 

Nurs'd  on  thy  Plains,  first  Cricket  learnt  to  please, 
And  taught  thy  Sons  to  slight  inglorious  Ease : 
And  see  where  busy  Counties  strive  for  Fame, 
Each  greatly  potent  at  this  mighty  Game  I 
Fierce  Kent^  ambitious  of  the  first  Applause, 
Against  the  World  combin'd  asserts  her  Cause  ; 
Gay  Sussex  sometimes  triumphs  o'er  the  Field, 
And  fruitful  Surry  cannot  brook  to  yield. 
While  London^  Queen  of  Cities  I  proudly  vies, 
And  often  grasps  the  well- disputed  Prize. 

Thus  while  Greece  triumph'd  o'er  the  barbarous  Earth, 
Seven  Cities  struggl'd  which  gave  Homer  birth. 

BOOK  II 

The  Argument  of  the  Second  Ik.ok. — Kent  challenges  all  the  other  Counties. 
The  Match  determined.  A  Description  of  the  Place  of  Contest.  The 
particular  Qualifications  and  Kxcellencies  of  each  Player.  The  Counties 
go  in. 

And  now  the  sons  of  Kent  immortal  grown, 
By  a  long  Series  of  acquird  Renown, 
Smile  at  each  weak  Attempt  to  shake  their  Fame  ; 
And  thus  with  vaunting  I'ride,  their  Might  proclaim. 
Long  have  we  bore  the  Palm,  triumphant  still. 
No  County  fit  to  match  our  wond'rous  Skill  : 
But  that  all  tamely  may  confess  our  Sway, 
And  own  us  Masters  of  the  glorious  Day  ; 
Pick  the  best  Sportsmen  from  each  several  Shire^ 
And  let  them,  if  they  dare,  'gainst  Us  appear  : 
Soon  will  we  prove  the  Mightiness  we  boast, 
And  make  them  feel  their  Error,  to  their  Cost. 

Fame  quickly  gave  the  bold  Defiance  vent. 
And  magnify'd  th'  undaunted  Sons  of  Kent, 
The  boastful  Challenge  sounded  far  and  near  ; 
And  spreading,  reach'd  at  length  Cireat  N 's  Ear: 


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294  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

Where,  with  his  Friend,  all  negligent  he  laugh'd, 
And  threatened  future  (ilories,  as  they  quaff'd. 
Struck  with  the  daring  Phrase,  a  piercing  Look 
On  B n  first  he  cast,  and  thus  he  spoke. 

And  dare  the  Slaves  this  paltry  Message  own  1 

What  then  is  N  ^s  Arm  no  better  known  ? 

Have  I  for  this  the  Ring's  wide  Ramparts  broke  ? 

Whilst  R y  shudder'd  at  the  mighty  Stroke. 

Now  by  Alcmemis  sinew'd  Son,  I  swear, 

Whose  dreadful  Blow  no  mortal  Strength  can  bear  I 

By  Hermes^  Offspring  too  of  thund'ringy^^v  I 

Whose  winged  Feet  like  nimble  Lightning  move  I 

By  ev'ry  Patron  of  the  pleasing  War, 

My  chief  Delight,  my  Glory  and  my  Care  I 

This  Arm  shall  cease  the  far-driv'n  Ball  to  throw, 

Shrink  from  the  Bat  and  feebly  shun  the  Blow  ; 

The  Trophies,  from  this  conq'ring  Forehead  torn, 

By  Boys  and  Women  shall  in  Scorn  "be  worn  ; 

E'er  I  neglect  to  let  these  Blust'rers  know. 

There  live  who  dare  oppose,  and  beat  them  too. 

Illustrious  B n  I     Now's  the  Time  to  prove 

To  Cricket's  Charms  thy  much  experienc'd  Love. 
Let  us  with  Care,  each  hardy  Friend  inspire  I 
And  fill  their  Souls  with  emulating  Fire  ! 
Come  on.  .  .  .  True  Courage  never  is  dismay'd. 
He  spoke.  .  .  .  The  Hero  listcn'd,  and  obey'd. 

Urg'd  by  their  Chiefs,  the  Friends  of  Cricket  hear, 
And  joyous  in  the  fated  Lists  appear. 
The  Day  approach'd.     To  view  the  charming  Scene, 
Exulting  Thousands  croud  the  Icvell'd  Green. 

A  place  there  is,  where  City- Warriors  meet, 
Wisely  determin'd,  not  to  fight,  but  eat. 
Where  harmless  Thunder  rattles  to  the  Skies, 
While  the  plump  Buff-coat  fires,  and  shuts  his  Eyes. 
To  the  plcas'd  Mob  the  bursting  Cannons  tell 
At  ev'ry  circ'ling  Glass,  how  much  they  swill. 
Here,  in  the  Intervals  of  Bloodless  War, 
The  Swains  with  milder  Pomp  their  Arms  prepare. 
Wide  o'er  th'  extended  Plain,  the  circling  String 
Restrains  th'  impatient  Throng,  and  marks  a  Ring. 
But  if  encroaching  on  forbidden  Ground, 
The  heedless  Croud  o'erleaps  the  proper  Bound  ; 

.S' ///  plies,  with  strenuous  Arm,  the  smacking  Whip, 

Back  to  the  Line  th'  affrighted  Rebels  skip. 

The  Stumps  arc  pitchd.     Each  Heroe  now  is  seen, 
Springs  o'er  the  Fence,  and  bounds  along  the  Green 


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CRICKET  29S 

In  decent  White,  most  gracefully  array'd, 
Each  strong-built  Limb  in  all  its  Pride  display'd. 

Now  Muse,  exert  thy  Vigour,  and  describe 
The  mighty  Chieftains  of  each  glorious  Tribe  I 

Bold  R y  first,  before  the  Kentish  Hand 

God-like  appeared,  and  seiz'd  the  chief  Command. 
Judicious  Swain  !  whose  quick- discerning  Soul 
Observes  the  various  Seasons  as  they  roll. 
Well-skill'd  to  spread  the  thriving  Plant  around  ; 
And  paint  with  ifragrant  Flow'rs  th'  enamell'd  Ground. 
Conscious  of  Worth,  with  Front  erect  he  moves, 
And  poises  in  his  Hand  the  Bat  he  loves. 
Him  Dorset^ s  Prince  protects,  whose  youthful  Heir 
Attends  with  ardent  Glee  the  mighty  Pla/r. 
He,  at  Mid-wicket,  disappoints  the  Foe  ; 
Spnngs  at  the  coming  Ball  and  mocks  the  Blow. 
Ev'n  thus  the  Rattle-Snake,  as  Travlers  say. 
With  stedfast  Eye  observes  it's  destin'd  Prey  ; 
Till  fondly  gazing  on  the  glitt'ring  Balls, 
Into  her  Mouth  th'  unhappy  Victim  falls. 
The  baffled  Hero  quits  his  Bat  with  Pain, 
And  mutt'ring  lags  across  the  shouting  Plain. 

Brisk  H /next  strides  on  with  comely  Pride, 

Tough  as  the  subject  of  his  Trade,  the  Hide. 
In  his  firm  Palm,  the  hard-bound  Ball  he  bears. 
And  mixes  joyous  with  his  pleas'd  Compeers. 

Bromlean  M s  attends  the  Kentish  Throng  ; 

And  R  ~-n  from  his  Size,  sumam'd  the  Long, 
Six  more,  as  ancient  Custom  has  thought  meet, 
With  willing  Steps,  th'  intrepid  Band  compleat. 
On  th'  adverse  Party,  tow'ring  o'er  the  rest. 

Left-handed  N- d  fires  each  arduous  Breast. 

From  many  a  bounteous  Crop,  the  foodful  Grain 
With  swelling  Stores  rewards  his  useful  Pain  : 
WTiile  the  glad  Farmer,  with  delighted  Eyes, 
Smiles  to  behold  his  close-cram'd  Gran'ries  rise. 

Next  B n  came,  whose  cautious  Hand  could  fix 

In  neat  disposed  Array  the  well-pil'd  Bricks  : 
With  him,  alone,  scarce  any  Youth  wou'd  dare 
At  single  Wicket,  try  the  doubtful  War. 
For  fe^v,  save  him,  th'  exalted  Honour  claim 
To  play  with  Judgment,  all  the  various  Game. 

Next,  his  accomplish'd  Vigour,  C -y  tries  ; 

W^hose  shelt'ring  Hand  the  neat-form'd  Garb  supplies. 

To  the  dread  Plain  her  D e  Surry  sends. 

And  W k  on  the  jovial  Train  attends. 

Equal  in  Numbers,  bravely  they  begin 
The  dire  Dispute. — The  Foes  of  Kent  go  in. 


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296  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

BOOK    III 

The  Argument  of  tke  Third  Book. — The  Game.  Five  on  the  Side  of  the 
Counties  are  out  for  three  Notches.  The  Odds  run  high  on  the  Side  of 
Kent.  Bryan  and  Newiand  go  in  ;  they  help  the  Game  gready.  Bryan  is 
unfortunately  put  out  by  Kips.  Kent,  the  first  Innings,  is  Thirteen 
a-head.  The  Counties  go  in  again,  and  get  Fifty-seven  a-head.  Kent,  in 
the  Second  Innings,  is  very  near  losing,  the  two  last  men  being  in.  Wey- 
mark  unhappily  misses  a  Catch,  and  by  that  means  Kent  is  victorious. 

With  wary  Judgment,  scatter'd  o'er  the  (ireen, 
Th'  ambitious  Chiefs  of  fruitful  Kent  are  seen. 
Some,  at  a  Distance,  for  the  Long  Ball  wait, 
Some,  nearer  planted,  seize  it  from  the  Bat. 

H /and  M s  behind  the  Wickets  stand, 

And  each  by  Turns,  the  flying  Ball  command  : 

Four  times  from  H Ps  Arm  it  skims  the  Grass  ; 

Then  M s  succeeds.     The  Seekers-out  change  Place. 

Observe,  cries  H-     /,  to  the  wond'ring  Throng, 
Be  Judges  now,  whose  Arms  are  better  strung  I 
He  said — then  pois'd,  and  rising  as  he  threw, 
Swift  from  his  Arm  the  fatal  Missive  flew. 
Nor  with  more  Force  the  Death  conveying  Ball, 
Springs  from  the  Cannon  to  the  batter'd  Wall  ; 
Nor  swifter  yet  the  pointed  Arrows  go, 
Launch'd  from  the  Vigour  of  the  Parthian  Bow. 
It  whizz'd  along,  with  unimagin'd  Force, 
And  bore  down  all,  resistless  in  its  Course. 
To  such  impetuous  Might  compell'd  to  yield 
The  Bail^  and  mangled  Stumps  bestrew  the  Field. 

Now  glows  with  ardent  Heat  th'  unequal  Fray, 
While  Kent  usurps  the  Honours  of  the  Day  ; 
Loud  from  the  Ring  resounds  the  piercing  Shout, 
Three  Notches  only  gain'd,  five  Leaders  out. 

But  while  the  drooping  Playr  invokes  the  Gods, 
The  busy  Better  calculates  his  Odds^ 
Swift  round  the  Plain,  in  buzzing  Murmurs  run. 
Til  hold  you  Ten  to  F'our^  KenL- -Done  Sir.     Done, 

What  Numbers  can  with  equal  Force,  describe 
Th'  increasing  Terrors  of  the  losing  Tribe  I 
When,  vainly  striving  'gainst  the  conq'ring  Ball, 
They  see  their  boasted  Chiefs,  dejected  fall  ! 
Now  the  two  mightiest  of  the  fainting  Host 
Pant  to  redeem  the  Fame  their  Fellows  lost. 
Eager  for  (ilory  ; — For  the  worst  prepared  ; 
With  pow'rful  Skill,  their  threat'ned  Wickets  guard. 

B /;,  collected  for  the  deadly  Stroke, 

First  cast  to  Heaven  a  supplicating  Look  ; 


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CRICKET  297 

Then  pra/d.  —Propitious  PowVs  !  Assist  my  BlaWy 
And  grant  the  flying  Orb  may  shock  the  Foe  I 
This  said  ;  he  wav'd  his  Bat  with  forceful  Swing, 
And  drove  the  batter'd  Pellet  o'er  the  Ring. 
Then  rapidyfz/^  titties  cross'd  the  shining  Plain, 
E'er  the  departed  Ball  return'd  again. 

Nor  was  thy  Prowess  valiant  N //,  mean, 

Whose  strenuous  Arm  increas'd  the  Game  eighteen  ; 
While  from  thy  Stroke,  the  Ball  retiring  hies, 
Uninterrupted  Clamours  rend  the  Skies. 
But  oh,  what  horrid  Changes  oft'  are  seen, 
When  faithless  Fortune  seems  the  most  serene  ! 

Beware,  unhappy  B n  /  oh  beware  ! 

Too  heedless  Swain,  when  such  a  Foe  is  near. 
Fir'd  with  Success,  elated  with  his  Luck, 
He  glow'd  with  Rage,  regardless  how  he  struck  ; 
But,  forc'd  the  fatal  Negligence  to  mourn, 

K s  crush'd  his  Stutnps^  before  the  Youth  could  turn. 

The  rest  their  unavailing  X'igour  try. 
And  by  the  PowV  of  A>«A  demolish'd  die. 
Awakened  Eccho  speaks  the  Itinings  o'er. 
And  forty  Notches  deep  indent  the  Score. 

Now  Kent  prepares  her  better  Skill  to  shew  ; 
Loud  rings  the  Ground,  at  each  tremendous  Blow. 
With  nervous  Arm,  performing  God-like  Deeds, 
Another,  and  another  Chief  succeeds  ; 
'Till,  tired  with  Fame,  the  conq'ring  Host  give  Way  ; 
And  head  by  thirteen  Strokes,  the  toilsome  Fray. 

Fresh  rous'd  to  Arms,  each  Labour-loving  Swain 
Swells  with  new  Strength,  and  dares  the  Field  again 
Again  to  Heai/n  aspires  the  Chearful  Sound  ; 
The  Strokes  re-eccho  o'er  the  spacious  Ground. 
The  Champion  strikes.     When,  scarce  arriving  fair. 
The  glancing  Ball  mounts  upwards  in  the  Air  ? 
The  Batsman  sees  it,  and  with  mournful  Eyes, 
Fix'd  on  th'  ascending  Pellet  as  it  flies, 
Thus  suppliant  Claims  the  Favour  of  the  Skies. 
O  mighty  y<7Z/^  /  and  all  ye  Pow'rs  above  I 
Let  my  regarded  Pray'r  your  pity  move  I 
(irant  me  but  this.     Whatever  Youth  shall  dare 
Snatch  at  the  Prize,  descending  thro'  the  Air ; 
Lay  him  extended  on  the  grassy  Plain, 
And  make  his  bold,  ambitious  Effort  vain. 

He  said.     The  Powers,  attending  his  Request 
Granted  one  Part,  to  Winds  consign'd  the  rest. 

And  now  Illustrious  5 e^  where  he  stood, 

Th'  approaching  Ball  with  cautious  Pleasure  view'd  ; 


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298  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

At  once  he  sees  the  Chiefs  impending  Doom 
And  pants  for  mighty  Honours,  yet  to  come  : 
Swift  as  the  Falcon^  darting  on  its  Prey, 
He  springs  eUastick  o'er  the  verdant  Way  ; 
Sure  of  Success,  flies  upward  with  a  Bound, 
Derides  the  slow  Approach,  and  spurns  the  Ground. 

The  Counties  now  the  Game  triumphant  lead, 
And  vaunt  their  Numbers  fifty- seven  a  Head. 

To  end  th'  immortal  Honours  of  the  Day 
The  Chiefs  of  Kent ^  once  more,  their  Might  essay  ; 
No  trifling  Toil  ev'n  yet  remains  untr/d. 
Nor  mean  the  Numbers  of  the  adverse  Side. 
With  doubled  Skill  each  dang'rous  Ball  they  shun, 
Strike  with  observing  Eye,  with  Caution  run. 
At  length  they  know  the  wish'd  for  Number  near, 
Yet  wildly  pant,  and  almost  own  they  fear. 
The  two  last  Champions  even  now  are  in, 
And  but  three  Notches  yet  remain  to  win. 
When,  almost  ready  to  recant  it's  Boast, 
Ambitious  Kent  within  an  Ace  had  lost ; 
The  mounting  Ball,  again  obliquely  driv'n. 
Cuts  the  pure  y'£'//z^r,  soaring  up  to  Heav'n. 

W k  was  ready  :    W /',  all  must  own, 

As  sure  a  Swain  to  catch  as  e'er  was  known  ; 

Yet,  whether yiw^,  and  all-compelling  Fate, 

In  their  high  Will  determin'd  Kent  should  beat  ; 

Or  the  lamented  Youth  too  much  rely  d 

On  sure  Success,  and  Fortune  often  try'd. 

The  erring  Ball,  amazing  to  be  told  I 

Slip'd  thro'  his  out-stretch'd  Hand,  and  mock'd  his  Hold. 

And  now  the  Sons  of  Kent  compleat  the  Game, 
And  firmly  fix  their  everlasting  Fame. 

Jamks  Love,  .///  Heroic  Poem,  Illustrated  ivith  the  Critical 
Ohi'/i'dlions  of  Scriblerus  Maximus  {1765  ?) 

Surry  Triumphant,  or  the  Kentish- 
Mens  Defeat 

God  prosper  long  our  harvest-work. 

Our  rakes  and  hay-carts  all  I 
An  ill-tim'd  cricket  match  there  did 

At  Bishopsboum  befall. 

To  bat  and  bowl  with  might  and  main 

Two  Nobles  took  their  way  ; 
The  hay  may  rue,  that  is  unhous'd 

The  batting  of  that  day. 


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CRICKET  299 

The  active  Earl  of  Tankei-ville 

An  even  bet  did  make. 
That  in  Bourn  paddock  he  would  cause 

Kent's  chiefest  hands  to  quake  ; 

To  see  the  Surry  cricketers 

Out-bat  them  and  out-bowl. 
To  Dorset's  Duke  the  tidings  came, 

All  in  the  park  of  Knowle  : 

Who  sent  his  Lordship  present  word, 

He  would  prevent  his  sport. 
The  Surry  Earl,  not  fearing  this, 

Did  to  East  Kent  resort ; 

With  ten  more  masters  of  the  bat, 

All  chosen  men  of  might, 
Who  knew  full  well,  in  time  of  need, 

To  aim  or  block  aright. 

[From  Marsh  and  Weald,  their  hay-forks  left, 

To  Bourn  the  rustics  hied. 
From  Romney,  Cranbrook,  Tenterden, 

And  Darent's  verdant  side  : 

Gentle  and  simple,  'squires  and  clerks, 

With  many  a  lady  fair, 
Fam'd  Thanet,  Fowell's  beauteous  bride. 

And  graceful  Sondes  were  there.] 

The  Surry  sportsmen  chose  the  ground, 

The  ball  did  swiftly  fly  ; 
On  Monday  they  began  to  play, 

Before  the  grass  was  dry  ; 

And  long  ere  supper-time  they  did 

Near  fourscore  notches  gain  ; 
Then  having  slept,  they,  in  their  turn, 

Stopp'd,  caught,  and  bowl'd  amain. 

The  fieldmen,  station'd  on  the  lawn, 

Well  able  to  endure. 
Their  loins  with  snow-white  sattin  vests, 

That  day  had  guarded  sure. 

Full  fast  the  Kentish  wickets  fell, 

W^hile  Higham  house  and  mill, 
And  Barham's  upland  down,  with  shouts 

Did  make  an  echo  shrill. 

Sir  Horace  from  the  dinner  went. 

To  view  the  tender  ground  ; 
Quoth  he,  *  This  last  untoward  shower 

Our  stumps  has  almost  drown'd  : 


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300  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

*  If  that  I  thought,  'twould  not  be  dry, 

No  longer  would  I  play.' 
With  that,  a  shrewd  young  gentleman 
Thus  to  the  Knight  did  say  : 

*  Lo  I  yonder  doth  the  sun  appear, 

And  soon  will  shine  forth  bright, 
The  level  lawn  and  slippery  ground 
All  drying  in  our  sight. 

*  Not  bating  ev'n  the  river  banks 

Fast  by  yon  pleasant  mead.' 
*Then  cease  disputing,'  Lumpey  said, 
*  And  take  your  bats  with  speed  : 

*  And  now  with  me,  my  countrymen, 

Let  all  your  skill  be  shown. 
For  never  was  there  bowler  yet. 
In  Kent  or  Surry  known, 

* Tnat  ever  did  a  bale  dislodge. 
Since  first  I  play'd  a  match. 

But  I  durst  wager,  hand  for  hand. 
With  him  to  bowl  or  catch.' 

Young  Dorset,  like  a  Baron  bold. 

His  jetty  hair  undrest, 
Ran  foremost  of  the  company, 

Clad  in  a  milk-white  vest : 

*  Shew  me,'  he  said,  *  one  spot  that's  dry. 

Where  we  can  safely  run  ; 
Or  else,  with  my  consent,  we'll  wait 
To-morrow's  rising  sun.' 

The  man  that  first  did  answer  make 

W^as  noble  Tanker vi  lie  ; 
Who  said,  *  To  play,  I  do  declare, 

There  only  wants  the  will  : 

*  Move  but  the  stumps,  a  spot  I'll  find 

As  dry  as'  Farley's  board.'  • 

*  Our  records,'  quoth  the  Knight,  *  for  this 

No  precedent  afford. 

*  Ere  thus  I  will  out-braved  be, 

All  hazards  I'll  defy  : 
I  know  thee  well,  an  Earl  thou  art ; 
And  so  not  yet  am  I. 

'  But  trust  me,  Charles,  it  pity  were, 

And  great  offence,  to  kill 
W'ith  colds  or  sprains,  these  harmless  men, 

For  they  have  done  no  ill. 

1  The  Master  of  the  Ordinarv. 


Digitized  by  LjOOQ IC 


CRICKET  301 

*  Let  us  at  single  wicket  play, 

And  set  our  men  aside.' 

*  Run  out  be  he/  reply'd  the  Earl, 

*  By  whom  this  is  deny'd  ! ' 

Then  stept  a  gallant  'squire  forth, 

Bartholomew  was  his  name, 
Who  said,  *  I  would  not  have  it  told 

On  Clandon  down  for  shame, 

*  That  Tankerville  e'er  play'd  alone, 

And  I  stood  looking  on  : 
You  are  a  Knight,  Sir,  you  an  Earl, 
And  I  a  vicar's  son  : 

*  I'll  do  the  best  that  do  I  may. 

While  I  have  pow'r  to  stand  ; 
While  I  have  pow'r  to  wield  my  bat, 
I'll  play  with  heart  and  hand.' 

The  Surry  bowlers  bent  their  backs. 

Their  aims  were  good  and  true. 
And  every  ball  that  'scap'd  the  bat, 

A  wicket  overthrew. 

To  drive  the  ball  beyond  the  booths, 

Duke  Dorset  had  the  bent ; 
Woods,  mov'd  at  length  with  mickle  pride. 

The  stumps  to  shivers  sent. 

They  ran  full  fast  on  every  side. 

No  slackness  there  was  found  ; 
And  many  a  ball  that  mounted  high. 

Ne'er  lighted  on  the  ground. 

In  truth,  it  was  a  grief  to  see. 

And  likewise  for  to  hear, 
The  cries  of  odds  that  offer'd  were, 

And  slighted  every  where. 

At  last.  Sir  Horace  took  the  field, 

A  batter  of  great  might ; 
Mov'd  like  a  lion,  he  awhile 
Put  Surry  in  a  fright  : 

He  swung,  'till  both  his  arms  did  ach, 

His  bat  of  season'd  wood, 
'Till  down  his  azure  sleeves  the  sweat 

Ran  trickling  like  a  flood. 

*  Hedge  now  thy  bets,'  said  Tankerville, 

*  I'll  then  report  of  thee. 

That  thou  art  the  most  prudent  Knight 
That  ever  I  did  see.' 


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302  •  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

Then  to  the  Earl  the  Knight  reply'd 

*  Thy  counsel  I  do  scorn  ; 

I  with  no  Surry-man  will  hedge 
That  ever  yet  was  born.' 

With  that,  there  came  a  ball  most  keen, 

Out  of  a  Surry  hand, 
He  struck  it  full,  it  mounted  high. 

But,  ah  !  ne'er  reach'd  the  land. 

Sir  Horace  spoke  no  words  but  these, 

*  Play  on,  my  merry  men  all ; 
For  why,  my  inning's  at  an  end ; 

The  Earl  has  caught  my  ball.' 

Then  by  the  hand  his  Lordship  took 

This  hero  of  the  match, 
And  said,  *  Sir  Horace,  for  thy  bets 

Would  I  had  miss'd  my  catch  I 

'In  sooth,  my  very  heart  doth  bleed 
With  sorrow  for  thy  sake  ; 

For  sure,  a  more  good-tempcr'd  Knight 
A  match  did  never  make.' 

A  'Squire  of  Western  Kent  there  was 
W^ho  saw  his  friend  out-caught, 

And  straight  did  vow  revenge  on  him 
Who  this  mischance  had  wrought : 

A  Templar  he,  who,  in  his  turn, 
Soon  as  the  Earl  did  strike 

Ran  swiftly  from  his  stopping-place. 
And  gave  him  like  for  like. 

Full  sharp  and  rapid  was  the  ball, 
Yet,  without  dread,  or  fear. 

He  caught  it  at  arm's  length,  and  straight, 
Return'd  it  in  the  air  : 

With  such  a  vehement  force  and  might. 

It  struck  his  callous  hand. 
The  sound  re-echo'd  round  the  ring, 

Through  eveiy  booth  and  stand. 

So  thus  were  both  these  heroes  caught. 
Whose  spirit  none  could  doubt. 

A  Surry  Squire,  who  saw,  with  grief, 
The  Earl  so  quickly  out. 

Soon  as  the  Templar,  with  his  bat. 

Made  of  a  trusty  tree. 
Gave  such  a  stroke,  as,  had  it  'scap'd 

Had  surely  gain'd  him  three  ; 


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CRICKET  303 

Against  this  well-intended  ball 

His  hand  so  rightly  held, 
That,  ere  the  foe  could  ground  his  bat, 

His  ardour  Lewis  quell'd. 

This  game  did  last  from  Monday  morn 

Till  Wednesday  afternoon, 
P'or  when  Bell  ^  Harr)'  rung  to  prayers, 

The  batting  scarce  was  done. 
With  good  Sir  Horace,  there  was  beat 

Hussey  of  Ashford  town, 
Davis,  for  stops  and  catches  fam'd, 

A  worthy  Canon's  son  ; 

And  with  the  Mays,  both  Tom  and  Dick, 

Two  hands  of  good  account, 
Simmons  was  beat,  and  Miller  too. 

Whose  bowling  did  surmount. 

For  Wood  of  Scale  needs  must  I  wail. 

As  one  in  doleful  dumps. 
For  if  he  e'er  should  play  again, 

It  must  be  on  his  stumps. 

And  with  the  Earl  the  conquering  bat 

Bartholomew  did  wield, 
And  slender  Lewis,  who,  though  sick. 

Would  never  leave  the  field. 

White,  Yalding,  Woods,  and  Stevens  too, 

As  Lumpey  better  known. 
Palmer,  for  batting  well  esteem'd, 

Childs,  Francis,  and  'Squire  Stone. 

Of  byes  and  overthrows  but  three. 

The  Kentish  heroes  gain'd. 
And  Surry  victor  on  the  score. 

Twice  seventy-five  remain'd. 

Of  near  three  hundred  notches  made 

By  Surry,  eight  were  byes  ; 
The  rest  were  balls,  which,  boldly  struck, 

Re-echo'd  to  the  skies  I 

Their  husbands  woful  case  that  night 

Did  many  wives  bewail. 
Their  labour,  time,  and  money  lost, 

But  all  would  not  prevail. 

Their  sun-burnt  cheeks,  though  bath'd  in  sweat, 

They  kiss'd,  and  wash'd  them  clean. 
And  to  that  fatal  paddock  begg'd 

They  ne'er  would  go  again. 

1  At  Canterbury  Cathedral. 


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304 


THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 


To  Sevenoak  town  this  news  was  brought 

Where  Dorset  has  his  seat, 
That,  on  the  Nalebourn's  banks,  his  Grace 

Had  met  with  a  defeat. 

*  O  heavy  news  I  '  the  Rector  said, 

'  The  Vine  can  witness  be, 
We  have  not  any  cricketer 
Of  such  account  as  he.' 

Like  tidings  in  a  shorter  space. 

To  Barham's  Rector  came, 
That  in  Bourn-paddock  knightly  Mann 

Had  fairly  lost  the  game. 

'  Now  rest  his  bat,'  the  Doctor  said, 

*  Sith  'twill  no  better  be  ; 
I  trust  we  have,  in  Bishopsboum, 

Five  hands  as  good  as  he. 

*  Yet  Surry-men  shall  never  say, 

But  Kent  return  will  make, 
And  catch  or  bowl  them  out  at  length. 
For  her  Lieutenant's  sake.' 

This  vow,  'tis  hop'd,  will  be  perform'd, 

Next  year,  on  Laleham  down  ; 
When,  if  the  Kentish  hearts  of  oak 

Recover  their  renown. 

From  grey  goose- wing  some  bard,  I  trust, 

Will  pluck  a  stouter  quill  : 
Thus  ended  the  fam'd  match  of  Bourn, 

Won  by  Earl  Tankerville. 

God  save  the  King,  and  bless  the  land 

With  plenty  and  increase  ; 
And  grant  henceforth  that  idle  games 

In  harvest  time  may  cease  I 

Ballad, 


^773- 


Extract  from  the  'Kentish  (iiizettc'  of  Saturday,  y/'/y  24,  1773. 

The  following  is  a  List  of  the  Noblemen  and  Gentlemen  Cricketers,  who 
played  on  Monday,  Tuesday,  and  Wednesday  last,  in  Bourn- Paddock,  Surry 
against  Kent,  for  Two  Thousand  Pounds  : 

Those  marked  thus  B  urrc  bowled  out 


Names 
Lord  Tankerville 
Mr.  Bartholomew 
Mr.  Lewis     .     . 
Mr.  Stone      .     . 


SUKKV 
by  \ 

B.  out  by  May     .     . 

C.  out  by  Simmons  . 
B.  out  by  the  Duke  . 
B.  out  by  the  Duke  . 


C  catched  out. 


Out  by  whom  2d 

C.  out  by  Mr.  Davis .  3 

B.  out  by  Miller    .     .  lo 

Last  Man  in     ...  21 

B.  out  by  Miller    .     .  24 


Digitized  by  LjOOQ iC 


CRICKET 


305 


Names  Out  by  whom 

Stevens,  alias  Lumpey  B.  out  by  Miller  . 
John  Woods .  .  .  C.  out  by  Sir  H.  Mann 
C.  out  by  Mr.  Davis 
B.  out  by  the  Duke  . 
Last  Man  in  .  .  . 
B.  out  by  May  .  . 
B.  out  by  the  Duke . 
Byes    . 


Palmer 
Thomas  White 
Yaldin .     .     . 
Childs  .     .     . 
Francis      .     . 


ISt 

Out  by  whom 

2d 

.     6 

B.  out  by  Miller   .     . 

8 

1     6 

C,  out  by  R,  May 

6 

.    22 

C.  out  by  the  Duke   . 

38 

■     5 

C.  out  by  Mr.  Husse> 

60 

.  17 

B.  out  by  the  Duke   . 

X 

0 

B.  out  by  the  Duke   . 

^ 

•     5 

C.  out  by  Wood   .     . 

36 

I 

Byes    .     . 

7 

T7 


217 


Names 
Duke  of  Dorset  . 
Sir  Horace  Mann 

Mr.  Davis      .     . 
Mr.  Hussey  .     . 


Kent 

Out  by  whom 
B.  out  by  Woods     . 
B.  out  by  Woods     , 

B.  out  by  Woods     . 
Last  Man  in  .     .     . 


Miller C.  out  by  Yaldin 

Simmons  .     .     .     .  B.  out  by  Lumpey  . 

R.  May     ....  b.  out  by  Woods     . 

Thomas  May      .     .  B.  out  by  Lumpey  . 

Louch C.  out  by  Mr.  Stone 

Pattenden      .     .     .  C.  out  by  Mr.  Lewis 

Wood  of  Scale    .     .  C.  out  by  Woods    . 

Byes     . 


xst 

25 

3 


Out  by  whom  ad 

B.  out  by  Woods  .     .     i 

C.  out  by  L.  Tanker- 
ville 22 

C.  out  by  Mr.  Lewis      o 
B.  out  by  Woods  .     .     o 


13       Run  out 10 

5  C.  out  by  Yaldin  .     .     4 

o  Last  Man  in     ...     o 

4  C.  out  by  Childs  .     .^  5 

5  B.  out  by  Lumpey     .    26 

0  I    B.  out  by  Lumpey     .      i 

1  C.  out  by  Mr.  Bartho- 

lomew     •     •     •     ."  9 

3  ,                      Byes    .     .0 

63  ,                                         78 


Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


VARIOUS 
Hawking  for  the  Partridge 

Sith  Sickles  and  the  sheering  Syihe,  hath  shornethe  Feilds  of  late, 
Now  shall  our  Hawkes  and  we  be  blythe,  Dame  Partridge  ware  your 
pate : 


Our  murdring  Kttes^  in  all  their  flights^  will  sild  or  never  never 

never  seld  or  never  misse. 
To  trusse  you  ever  ever  ever  ever,  and  make  your  bale  our  blisse, 
Whur  ret  Duty^  whur  ret  Beauty  ret,  whur  ret  L(n>e^  whur  ret,  hey 

dogs  hey. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQ IC 


VARIOUS  307 

Ware  haunt,   hey  Sempster^  ret   Faver^  ret   Minx^  ret   Dido^  ret 
Civilly  ret  Lemmon^  ret  whur  whur,  let  flie  let  flie. 

O   well  flowne  well   flowne  eager  Kiie^  marke,  marke^  O  marke 
belowe  the  Ley, 

This  was  a  fayre,  most  fayre  and  kingly  flight, 

We  Falkners  thus  make  sullen  Kites  yeeld  pleasure  fit  for  Kings, 

And  sport  with  them  and  in  those  delights,  and  oft,  and  oft  in  other 
things,  and  oft  in  other  things. 

Thomas  RXvenscroft,  A  Brief  Discourse  of  Dcgres,  1614. 


Country  Pastimes 


There  were  three  Ravens  sat  on  a  tree, 
Downe  a  downe,  hay  down,  hay  downe. 

There  were  three  Ravens  sat  on  a  tree, 
with  a  downe. 

There  were  three  Ravens  sat  on  a  tree, 

They  were  as  blacke  as  they  might  be, 

With  a  downe  derrie,  derrie,  derrie,  downe,  downe. 

II 

The  one  of  them  said  to  his  mate, 

down  adowne  hey  downe. 
The  one  of  them  said  to  his  mate, 

with  adowne : 
The  one  of  them  said  to  his  mate 
W^here  shall  we  our  breakfast  take  ? 

with  adowne  dery  downe. 

Ill 

Downe  in  yonder  greene  field, 

downe  adowne  hey  downe, 
Downe  in  yonder  greene  field, 

with  adowne. 
Downe  in  yonder  greene  field 
There  lies  a  Knight  slain  under  his  shield, 

with  a  downe. 

IV 

His  hounds  they  lie  downe  at  his  feetc, 

downe  adowne  hey  downe. 
His  hounds  they  lie  downe  at  his  feete, 

with  adow^ne. 
His  hounds  they  lie  downe  at  his  feete 
So  well  they  can  their  Master  keepe, 

with  adowne 


Digitized  by 


Google 


3o8  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 


His  Haukes  they  flie  so  eagerly 

downe  adowne. 
His  Haukes  they  flie  so  eagerly 

with  adowne. 
His  Haukes  they  flie  so  eagerly  ; 
There's  no  fowle  dare  him  come  nie, 

with  a  downe. 

VI 

Downe  there  comes  a  fallow  Doe, 

downe  adowne. 
Downe  there  comes  a  fallow  Doe 

with  a  downe. 
Downe  there  comes  a  fallow  Doe, 
As  great  with  yong  as  she  might  goe 

with  adowne. 

Yll 

She  lift  up  his  bloudy  hed, 

downe  adowne. 
She  lift  up  his  bloudy  hed, 

with  a  downe. 
She  lift  up  his  bloudy  hed, 
And  kist  his  wounds  that  were  so  red 

with  a  downe. 

VIII 

She  got  him  up  upon  her  backe, 

downe  adowne. 
She  got  him  up  upon  her  backe, 

with  adowne. 
She  got  him  up  upon  her  backe, 
And  carried  him  to  earthen  lake 

with  adowne  downe. 

IX 

She  buried  him  before  the  prime, 

downe  adowne. 
She  buried  him  before  the  prime, 

with  adowne. 
She  buried  him  before  the  prime, 
She  was  dead  her  selfe  ere  even-song  time 

with  adowne. 


Digitized  by  LjOOQ IC 


VARIOUS  309 


God  send  every  gentleman 

down  adowne. 
God  send  every  gentleman 

with  adowne. 
God  send  every  gentleman 
Such  haukes,  such  hounds,  and  such  a  Leman 

with  adowne. 

Thomas  Ravenscroft,  Melismata,  161 1. 

Hide  Parke 

A  Cotnedie^  as  it  was  presented  by  her  Majesties  Servants,  at  the 
private  house  in  Drury  Lane. 

ACT  IV.      THE  SONG. 


Come  Muses  all  that  dwell  nigh  the  fountaine, 

Made  by  the  winged  horses  heele, 

Which  firk*d  with  his  rider  over  each  Mountaine, 

Let  me  your  galloping  raptures  feele. 
I  doe  not  sing  of  fleas,  or  frogges, 
Nor  of  the  well  mouth'd  hunting  dogges. 

Let  me  be  just  all  praises  must, 

Be  given  to  well  breath'd  lilian  Thrust. 


Young  Constable  and  kill  deeres  famous, 
The  Cat  the  Mouse  and  Noddy  Gray, 
With  nimble  Pegabrig  you  cannot  shame  us, 
With  Spaniard  nor  with  Spinola. 

Hill  climing  white- rose,  praise  doth  not  lacke, 
Hansome  Dunbar,  and  yellow  Jack. 
But  if  I  be  just  all  praises  must. 
Be  given  to  well  breath'd  lilian  Thrust. 

Ill 

Sure  spurr'd  Sloven,  true  running  Robin, 
Of  young  shaver  I  doe  not  say  lesse, 
Strawbery  Soame,  and  let  Spider  pop  in, 
Fine  Brackly  and  brave  lurching  Besse. 

Victorious  too,  was  herring  shotten. 

And  ....  is  not  forgotten. 
But  if  I  be  just  all  honour  must 
Be  given  to  well  breath'd  lilian  Thrust. 


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310  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

IV 

Lusty  Gorge  and  gentlemen,  harke  yet, 
To  wining  Mackarell  fine  mouthM  Freake, 
Bay  Tarrall  what  won  the  cup  at  Newmarket, 
Thundring  tempest,  black  dragon  eake. 
Pretious  sweetelippes,  I  doe  not  lose, 
Nor  Toby  with  his  golden  shoes. 
But  if  I  be  just,  all  honour  must. 
Be  given  to  well  breath'd  lilian  Thrust. 

James  Shirley,  1637. 


Cock-Throwing 


Cocke  a  doodle-doe,  tis  the  bravest  game. 

Take  a  Cocke  from  his  Dame, 

And  bind  him  to  a  stake. 

How  he  struts^  how  he  throweSy 

How  he  swaggers^  how  he  crowes^ 

As  if  the  Day  newly  brake. 

How  his  Mistris  cackles. 

Thus  to  find  him  in  shackles ^ 

And  tyed  to  a  Packe- thread  Garter  ? 

Oh  the  Beares  and  the  Bulls^ 

Are  but  Corpulent  Gulls 

To  the  Valiant  Shrove-  Tide  Martyr : 

M.  Llewellyn,  Men  Miracles,  1646. 


The   Orders  in  Verse,   as    I    found   them 
fram'd  for  a  very  ancient  Billiard  Table 

1.  The  Leading-ball  the  upper  end  mayn't  hit  ; 
For  if  it  doth,  it  loseth  one  by  it. 

2.  The  Follower  with  the  King  lie  even  shall 
If  he  doth  pass  or  hit  the  others  ball ; 

Or  else  lose  one  :  the  like  if  either  lay 

Their  arm  or  hand  on  board  when  they  do  play. 

3.  That  man  wins  one  who  with  the  others  ball 
So  strikes  the  King  that  he  doth  make  him  fall. 

4.  If  striking  at  a  hazard  both  run  in. 

The  ball  struck  at  thereby  an  end  shall  win. 

5.  He  loseth  one  that  down  the  Port  doth  fling  ; 
The  like  doth  he  that  justles  down  the  King. 

6.  He  that  in  play  the  adverse  ball  shall  touch 
With  stick,  hand,  or  cloaths  forfeits  just  as  much. 


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VARIOUS  311 

7.  And  he  that  twice  hath  past  shall  touch  the  King, 
The  other  not  past  at  all  shall  two  ends  win. 

8.  If  both  the  balls  over  the  Table  flie, 
The  striker  of  them  loseth  one  thereby. 
And  if  but  one  upon  the  board  attend, 
The  striker  still  the  loser  of  the  end. 

9.  One  foot  upon  the  ground  must  still  be  set, 
Or  one  end*s  lost  if  you  do  that  forget : 
And  if  you  twice  shall  touch  a  ball  e're  He 
Hath  struck  between  an  end  for  him  is  free. 

10.  If  any  Stander-by  shall  chance  to  bet, 
And  will  instruct,  he  then  must  pay  the  set. 

1 1.  The  Port  or  King  being  set,  who  moves  the  same 
With  hand  or  stick  shall  lose  that  end  or  Game. 

1 2.  He  that  can  touch  being  past,  or  strike  the  other 
Into  the  Hazard  is  allowed  another. 

13.  If  any  Stander-by  shall  stop  a  ball, 

The  Game  being  lost  thereby  he  pays  for  all. 

14.  If  any  past  be  stricken  back  again, 

His  pass  before  shall  be  accounted  vain. 

15.  He  that  breaks  anything  with  violence, 

King,  Port,  or  Stick  is  to  make  good  th'  offence. 

16.  If  any  not  the  Game  doth  fully  know 
May  ask  another  whether  it  be  so. 
Remember  also  when  the  Game  you  win. 
To  set  it  up  for  fear  of  wrangling. 

17.  He  that  doth  make  his  ball  the  King  light  hit, 
And  holes  th*  other  scores  two  ends  for  it. 

The  Complete  Gamester,  1680. 


The  Last  Dying  Words  of  Bonny  Heck 

A   FAMOUS  GREYHOUND   IN   THE  SHIRE  OF  FIFE 

Alas,  alas,  quo'  bonny  Heck^ 
On  former  Days  when  I  reflect ! 
I  was  a  Dog  much  in  Respect 

For  doughty  Deed  : 
But  now  I  must  hing  by  the  Neck 

Without  Remeed. 

O  fy,  Sirs,  for  black  burning  Shame, 
Ye'll  bring  a  Blunder  on  your  Name  I 
Pray  tell  me  wherein  I'm  to  blame  ? 

Is't  in  Effect, 
Because  I'm  Criple,  Auld  and  Lame, 

Quo'  bonny  Heck, 


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312  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

What  great  Feats  I  have  done  my  Sel 
Within  Clink  of  Kilrenny  Bell, 
When  I  was  Souple,  Young  and  Fell  * 

But  Fear  or  Dread  : 
John  Ness  and  Paterson  can  tell, 

Whose  Hearts  may  bleid. 

They'll  witness  that  I  was  the  Vi 
Of  all  the  Dogs  within  the  Shire, 
rd  run  all  Day,  and  never  tyre 

but  now  my  Neck 
It  must  be  stretched  for  my  Hyre, 

quo'  bonny  Heck. 

How  nimbly  could  I  turn  the  Hair, 
Then  serve  my  self,  that  was  right  fair  ! 
For  still  it  was  my  constant  Care 

the  Van  to  lead. 
Now,  what  could  fery  *  Heck  do  mair, 

syne  kill  her  dead  ? 

At  the  King*s-Muir^  and  Kelly-law^ 
Where  good  stout  Hairs  gang  fast  awa. 
So  cliverly  I  did  it  Claw, 

with  Pith  and  Speed  : 
I  bure  the  Bell  before  them 

as  dear's  a  Beid. 

I  ran  alike  on  a'  kind  Grounds, 
Yea  in  the  midst  of  Ardry  Whines, 
I  grip't  the  Mackings  be  the  Bunns,^ 

or  be  the  Neck  : 
Where  nathing  could  sl^y  them  but  Guns, 

save  bonny  Heck : 

I  Wily,  Witty  was,  and  Gash,-* 
With  my  auld  felni  packy  Pash,"^ 
Nae  Man  might  anes  buy  me  for  Cash 

in  some  respect. 
Are  they  not  then  confounded  Rash, 

that  hangs  poor  Heck  ? 

I  was  a  bardy "  Tyk  and  bauld, 

Tho'  my  Beard's  Gray,  I'm  not  so  auld. 

Can  any  Man  to  me  unfald, 

what  is  the  Feid,'' 
To  stane  me  ere  I  be  well  Cauld  ? 

a  cruel  Deed  ! 

^  clever.  *  nimble.        3  tail.        ^  sagacious.        *  fierce  cralty  head. 

®  fearless.  '  cause  of  quarrel. 


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VARIOUS  313 

Now  Honesty  was  ay  my  Drift, 
An  innocent  and  harmless  Shift, 
A  KaiU-pot-lid  gently  to  lift, 

or  Amry-Sneck.* 
Shame  fa  the  Chafts,  dare  call  that  Thift, 

quo'  bonny  Heck, 

So  weirs  I  cou'd  play  Hocus  Pocus^ 
And  of  the  Servants  TSi2S^Jodocus^ 
And  this  I  did  in  every  Locus 

throw  their  Neglect. 
And  was  not  this  a  ^^rry  Jocus 

quo*  bonny  Heck  ? 

But  now,  good  Sirs,  this  day  is  lost, 
The  best  Dog  in  the  East-Nook  Coast : 
For  never  ane  durst  Brag  nor  Boast 

me,  for  their  Neck. 
But  now  I  must  yield  up  the  Ghost, 

quo'  bonny  Heck. 

And  put  a  period  to  my  Talking, 
For  Pm  unto  my  Exit  making  : 
Sirs,  ye  may  a'  gae  to  the  Hawking, 

and  there  Reflect, 
Ye'l  ne'er  get  sick  a  Dog  for  Makin 

as  bonny  Heck, 

But  if  my  Puppies  ance  were  ready. 

Which  I  gat  on  a  bonny  Lady  : 

They'l  be  baith  Oliver,  Keen,  and  Beddy,« 

and  ne'er  Neglect, 
To  Clink  it '  like  their  ancient  Deddy 

the  famous  Heck, 

William  Hamilton. 

A  Choice  Collection  of  Comic  and  Serious  Scots  Poems  both  Ancient  and 
Modern.     By  several  Hands,    1706. 


The   King  and  the    Forrester 

You  subjects  of  England,  come  listen  a  while  ; 
Here  is  a  new  ditty  will  make  you  to  smile, 
It  is  of  a  king  and  a  keeper  also, 
Who  met  in  a  forest  some  winters  ago. 

cupboard-latch.  *  attentive.  ^  follow  up. 

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314  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

0  early,  O  early,  all  in  the  morning, 

King  William  rose  early  all  in  the  morning. 
And  a  gown  of  grey  russet  King  William  put  on, 
As  tho'  he  had  been  some  silly  poor  man. 

The  hounds  were  ready  prepared  for  game, 
No  nobles  attended  of  honour  and  fame  : 
But  like  a  mean  subject  in  homely  array, 
He  to  his  forest  was  taking  his  way. 

Oh  then  bespoke  Mary,  our  most  royal  queen, 
'  My  gracious  lord,  pray  where  are  you  going  ? ' 
He  answered,  *  I  count  him  to  be  no  wise  man. 
That  will  his  councel  tell  unto  a  woman.' 

The  queen,  with  a  modest  behaviour  reply'd, 
'  I  wish  that  kind  providence  may  be  your  guide. 
To  keep  you  from  danger,  my  sovereign  lord. 
Which  will  the  greatest  of  blessings  afford.* 

He  went  to  the  forest  some  pleasure  to  spy, 
Where  the  hounds  run  swift,  the  keeper  drew  nigh, 

*  How  dare  you,  bold  fellow,  how  dare  you  come  here, 
Without  the  King's  leave,  to  chase  his  fair  deer.' 

*  Here  are  my  three  hounds,  I  will  give  them  to  you, 
And  likewise  my  hawk  as  good  as  e'er  flew  ; 
Besides  I  will  give  you  full  forty  shillings. 

If  thou  wilt  not  betray  me  to  William  our  King. 

1  am  one  of  his  subjects,  I  am  one  of  his  force, 
And  1  am  come  here  for  to  run  a  course.' 

'  Get  you  gone,  you  bold  fellow,  you  run  no  course  here. 
Without  the  leave  of  King  William  forbear.' 

'  All  that  I  have  proffer'd,  I  pr'y thee  now  take. 
And  do  thy  endeavour  my  peace  for  to  make, 
Besides  forty  shillings  I  will  give  thee  a  ring. 
If  thou  wilt  not  betray  me  to  William  our  King.' 

'  Your  three  hounds  I  tell  you,  I  never  will  take, 
Nor  yet  your  three  hawks  your  peace  to  make  ; 
Nor  will  I  be  brib'd  by  your  forty  shillings. 
But  I  will  betray  you  to  William  our  King.' 

*  As  I  am  a  keeper,  I  will  not  be  unjust. 
Nor  for  a  gold  ring  will  I  forfeit  my  trust  ; 

I  will  bring  you  before  him  as  sure  as  a  gun, 

And  there  you  shall  answer  for  what  you  have  done.' 


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VARIOUS  315 

'  Thou  art  a  bold  fellow,'  the  King  he  reply'd, 

*  What  dost  thou  not  see  the  star  on  my  side. 
This  forest  is  mine,  I  would  have  you  to  know, 
Then  what  is  the  reason  you  threaten  me  so  ? ' 

With  that  the  bold  keeper  he  fell  on  his  knees, 
A  trembling  fear  all  his  spirits  did  seize, 
The  picture  of  death  appeared  on  his  face  ; 
He  knew  not  at  first  the  king  was  in  that  place. 

*  O  pardon,  O  pardon,  my  sovereign  liege. 
For  your  royal  pardon  I  beg  and  beseech. 
Alas  !  my  poor  heart  in  my  breast  is  cold  ; 

0  let  me  not  sufter  for  being  so  bold. 

*  Get  up  honest  fellow,  and  shake  off  thy  fears  ; 
In  thee  there  is  nothing  of  folly  appears  : 

If  every  one  was  as  faithful  as  thee, 

What  a  blessed  prince  would  King  William  be  ! 

'  Because  I'd  encourage  such  fellows  as  you, 
I'll  make  thee  my  ranger  ;  If  that  will  not  do. 
Thou  shalt  be  a  captain  by  sea  or  by  land. 
And  high  in  my  favour  thou  ever  shalt  stand.' 

The  keeper  replied,  *  my  sovereign  lord. 
Sure  I  am  not  worthy  of  such  a  reward  ; 
Yet  nevertheless  your  true  keeper  I'll  be. 
Because  I  am  fearful  to  venture  to  sea.' 

At  which  the  King  laugh'd  till  his  sides  he  did  hold. 
And  threw  him  down  fifty  bright  guineas  in  gold, 
And  bid  him  make  haste  to  Kensington  Court, 
Where  of  this  jest  he  would  make  much  sport. 

*  And  when  you  come  there,  pray  ask  for  long  Jack, 
Who  wears  pomegranates  of  gold  on  his  back  ; 
Likewise  a  green  pheasant  upon  his  right  sleeve, 

1  warrant  he's  a  true  man,  you  may  him  believe. 

He's  one  of  my  porters  who  stands  at  my  gate, 
To  let  in  my  nobles  both  early  and  late, 
And  therefore  good  fellow,  come  up  without  fear, 
I'll  make  thee  my  ranger  of  parks  far  and  near.' 

Roxburghe  Ballads. 

Note. — There  was  an  older  version  of  this  song  called  '  The  Loyal  Forrister,' 
published  in  1696,  but  we  have  not  txjen  able  to  find  a  copy  of  it. 


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3i6  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

Song  A-la-mode 

O'er  the  Desert,  cross  the  Meadows, 

Hunters  blew  the  merry  Horn  ; 
Phcebus  chas'd  the  flying  Shadows  : 
Eccho,  she  reply'd,  in  Scorn  ; 
Still  adonng, 
And  deploring, 
Why  must  Thirsis  lose  his  Life  ? 

Rivers  murmur'd  from  their  Fountains, 

Acorns  dropping  from  the  Oaks, 
Fawns  came  tripping  o'er  the  Mountains, 
Fishes  bit  the  naked  Hooks  ; 
Still  admiring, 
And  desiring  : 
When  shall  Phillis  be  a  Wife. 

Chas.  Sedley,  Works,  ijor;, 

A  New  Song  on  Bonny  Beeswing 

Come  all  you  jolly  sportsmen  of  high  and  low  degree, 
One  moment  give  attention  and  listen  unto  me, 
While  I  of  bonny  Beeswing  sing,  that  gallant  mare  of  fame, 
Go  where  you  will  she  beats  them  all  and  adds  honour  to  her 
name. 

CHORUS 
So  here's  success  to  Beeswing ;  although  she  is  but  small, 
She  beats  some  of  their  favourites — I  hope  she'll  beat  them  all. 

Her  pedigree  I  will  make  known  if  you  the  same  require, 
I  will  tell  you  what  they  call'd  her  dam,  and  what  her  noble  sire. 
With  all  the  cups  that  she  has  won  and  purses  fill'd  with  gold. 
Since  in  the  racing  calendar  Beeswing  has  been  enrolPd. 

First  look  at  her  at  Chester  how  she  cut  a  noble  show. 

Two  of  their  favourite  run  but  they  were  both  too  slow. 

She  started  off  and  led  the  van  which  made  their  hearts  to  ache, 

But  Beeswing,  bonny  Beeswing,  won  the  cup  and  Tyrol  stakes. 

From  there  unto  Newcastle,  Lady  Beeswing  did  repair. 
And  when  the  sportsmen  saw  her,  she  made  them  all  to  stare. 
There  was  Lanercost  and  Eclipse,  they  thought  to  knock  her  up, 
But  Beeswing  showed  them  both  her  tail  and  took  away  the  cup. 

When  the  riders  stripp'd  at  Doncaster,  it  was  a  gallant  show, 
Cartwright  in  blue  and  white  to  Beeswing  he  did  go. 
Now  come  my  lass  and  do  thy  best  he  unto  her  did  say, 
She  beat  them  all  at  Doncaster  and  took  the  cup  away. 


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VARIOUS  .  317 

Now  Beeswing  is  a  gallant  mare  of  courage  stout  and  bold, 
Her  colour  is  a  bright  bay,  and  she  is  nine  years  old, 
Gold  cups  she  has  won  my  boys,  besides  such  lots  of  gold, 
As  never  yet  was  known  before,  nor  can  I  here  unfold. 

Above  fifty  prizes  Beeswing  won,  the  truth  to  you  I  tell, 
Of  all  the  mares  in  England  there's  none  can  her  excel, 
And  at  Newcastle-upon-Tyne  I  am  happy  for  to  say, 
This  year  she  has  beat  Charles  XII.,  and  took  the  cup  away. 

Now  to  conclude  and  enci  my  song,  it  is  the  sportsman's  list. 
And  when  you  come  your  gold  to  sport  don't  let  Beeswing  be 

miss'd. 
May  fortune  smile  upon  her  now  and  on  her  steps  attend. 
So  now  my  jolly  sportsman,  my  song  is  at  an  end. 


Ballad. 


The  Tennis-Court 

When  as  the  hand  at  Tennis  plays, 

And  Men  to  gaming  fall ; 
Love  is  the  court,  Hope  is  the  house, 

And  favour  serves  the  Ball. 

This  Ball  itself  is  due  desert, 
The  Line  that  measure  shows 

Is  Reason,  whereon  judgement  looks 
Where  Players  win  and  lose. 

The  Tutties  are  deceitful  shifts  ; 

The  Stoppers,  jealousy, 
Which  hath.  Sire  Argus'  hundred  eyes, 

Wherewith  to  watch  and  pry. 

The  Fault,  whereon  fifteen  is  lost. 
Is  want  of  Wit  and  Sense  ; 

And  he  that  brings  the  Racket  in 
Is  Double  Dilligence. 

But  now  the  Racket  is  Free-will, 
Which  makes  the  Ball  rebound  ; 

And  noble  beauty  is  the  choice. 
And  of  each  Game  the  ground. 

The  Racket  strikes  the  Ball  away. 

And  there  is  oversight ; 
A  bandy,  ho  !  the  people  cry, 

And  so  the  Ball  takes  flight. 


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3i8  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

Now  at  the  length  good  liking  proves 

Content  to  be  their  gain  ; 
Thus,  in  the  Tennis- Court,  Love  is 

A  Pleasure  mixed  with  Pain. 

Fishing  and  Shooting  ^1720]. 

The  Lincolnshire   Poacher 

When  I  was  bound  apprentice  in  fair  Lincolnshire^ 

Full  well  I  served  my  master  for  more  than  seven  year, 

'Till  I  took  up  to  polchin^^  as  you  shall  quickly  hear, 

O  'tis  my  delight,  in  a  shinning  night,  in  the  season  of  the  year. 

As  me  and  my  comarade  were  setting  of  a  snare, 
Twas  then  we  spied  the  game-keeper — for  him  we  did  not  care. 
For  we  can  wrestle  and  fight,  my  boys,  and  jump  o'er  anywhere. 
O  'tis  my  delight  on  a  shinning  night,  in  the  season  of  the  year. 

As  me  and  my  comarade  were  setting  four  or  five, 

And  taking  on  them  up  again  we  caught  the  hare  alive. 

We  caught  the  hare  alive,  my  boys,  and  through  the  woods  did  steer. 

O  'tis  my  delight  on  a  shinning  night,  in  the  season  of  the  year. 

We  throdun  him  over  our  shoulder,  and  then  we  trudged  home. 
We  took  him  to  a  neighbour's  house,  and  sold  him  for  a  crown, 
We  sold  him  for  a  crown  my  boys,  but  I  did  not  tell  you  where, 
O  'tis  my  delight  on  a  shinning  night,  in  the  season  of  the  year. 

Success  to  every  gentleman  that  lives  in  Lincolnshire, 
Success  to  every  polcher  that  wants  to  sell  a  hare. 
Bad  luck  to  every  game-keeper  that  will  not  sell  his  deer. 
O  'tis  my  delight  on  a  shinning  night,  in  the  season  of  the  year. 

Ballad. 

The  Diversion  of  Quoit  Playing 

Tune:  *  The  Hounds  are  all  out,  &c.' 

Mankind  will  their  favourite  pleasures  pursue, 

The  Mind  must  be  ever  employ'd  ; 
The  Fancy  to  please  is  the  Motive  in  view. 

And  each  will  his  Hobby  Horse  ride. 

My  brave  Boys. 

Some  take  up  their  Batts  and  the  Cricket-ball  bang. 

Some  brisk  in  the  Five  Court  are  seen  ; 
Of  the  Sports  of  the  Field  many  fondly  harangue, 

And  some  boast  the  Sports  of  the  Green. 


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VARIOUS  319 

Amusements  are  fashion'd  for  every  age, 

And  Novelty  pleasure  excites  ; 
But  we  in  that  old  rustic  pastime  engage, 

The  manly  Diversion  of  Quoits. 

The  Britons  of  old  by  this  practice  we  know, 

The  Brave  to  the  Field  did  invite  ; 
The  same  nervous  Arm  that  could  twang  the  long  Bow, 

Was  accustom'd  to  throw  the  broad  Quoit. 

Tune :    '  Hark,  hark  away.' 
Come,  come  my  Boys  to  sport  away, 
With  pleasing  Games  we'll  crown  the  Day  ; 
Follow  your  Sire  ye  Social  Throng, 
See  how  alert  he  trips  it  along  ; 

The  wisest  Man, 

From  Nature's  plan. 
Who  pictured  Life  was  pleas'd  to  say,  Sir, 

For  every  Class, 

There  always  was, 
A  Time  to  work,  and  a  Time  to  play.  Sir. 

The  Clock's  struck  four,  the  game  begin, 
Longer  to  dally  'twere  a  Sin, 
Off  with  your  Hat,  for  Partners  throw, 
Off  with  your  Coats  your  best  to  do  ; 

Equally  match'd. 

That's  widely  pitch'd  ; 
Strive  with  more  edge  to  ground  your  Pieces  ; 

Room  enough  yet, 

One  lucky  hit. 
Makes  full  amends  for  twenty  Misses. 

Cheer  up  my  Boy,  exert  your  strength. 
Study  to  find  a  proper  length  ; 
Mind  your  next  piece,  be  sure  be  straight. 
The  best  by  chance  are  sometimes  beat  ; 

Good,  good  again. 

That  makes  us  ten  ; 
Who  at  such  play  can  ever  grumble  : 

Fortune  forbear. 

What  luck  is  there  ! 
See  how  those  Trinkets  ^  roll  and  tumble. 

Now  to  Contest  close  attend. 
And  this  will  be  a  glorious  end  ; 
Seven  good  Quoits  the  Hob  surround. 
Not  one  three  inches  from  it  found  ; 

*  Veiy  small  quoits. 

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320  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

A  Toucher  here, 

Another  there, 
Drops  within  the  breadth  of  a  Finger, 

Who  more  can  do, 

That  noble  throw, 
Crowns  the  Game  with  a  double  Ringer. 

Lucre  our  object  cannot  be, 
For  Pence  a  piece  we  only  play  ; 
Tho'  but  a  trifle  still  the  Game, 
From  all  can  strict  attention  claim  : 

The  Feather's  fled. 

The  Hob  lies  hid. 
Close  to  the  Ground  the  Pieces  pin  it  ; 

Drawing  so  near. 

Many  would  swear  ! 
The  virtue  of  the  Loadstone's  in  it. 

Finding  by  chance  the  Weather  wet 
Why  then  we  under  cover  get, 
Handing  the  friendly  Cup  about, 
Until  we've  drank  the  Jorum  out ; 

Chearful  and  gay. 

Drink  down  the  Day, 
Joining  in  pleasant  Conversation  ; 

Hearty  and  true, 

All  Summer  through, 
This  is  our  weekly  Recreation. 

John  Freeth,  Political  Songster,  1790. 


The  Game  of  Fives 

Tune  :  *  Welcome  every  friendly  Guest ' 

Sprightly  Sons  of  manly  Sport, 
Haste  to  pleasures  spacious  Court  ; 
Murmur  not  how  Chances  fall, 
First  strike  hands  than  strike  the  ball 
Win  or  lose  at  trifling  bets, 
Laugh'd  at  be  the  Man  that  frets. 

Now  obser\'e  the  Marker's  call. 
Hear  him  rally  Fourteen  all, 
Down  to  Five  again  were  set. 
Six  hands  in  and  scarce  a  Let  ; 
Let  which  will  the  Victory  claim, 
'Tis  my  Boys  a  well  fought  Game. 


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VARIOUS  321 

For  an  Evening^s  active  Sport, 
To  the  Angel  we  resort, 
Where  in  heart-felt  sportive  glee, 
Worn  down  Vet'rans  smile  to  see  ; 
Youthful  vigour  tripping  round, 
Pleasure's  consecrated  Ground. 

Fives  amongst  the  Sons  of  Fame, 
Was  the  antient  Britons  (lame, 
Mixt  with  prudence  still  the  wise. 
Call  it  healthful  Exercise  ; 
Ne'er  let  good  old  Customs  drop. 
Strike  the  Ball  and  keep  it  up. 

Round  the  World  the  Seasons  through. 
Youth  their  various  Sports  pursue  ; 
Some  resort  where  Cards  are  seen. 
Some  the  Cockpit,  some  the  Green, 
Ours  against  the  stately  Wall, 
Is  to  jerk  the  bouncing  Ball. 

John  Frketh,  Political  Songster,  1790. 

The  High-mettled  Racer 

See  the  course  throng'd  with  gazers,  the  sports  are  begun, 

Confusion  but  hear,  I  bet  you  sir,  done  : 

Ten  thousand  strange  murmurs  resound  far  and  near. 

Lords,  hawkers,  and  jockies,  assail  tbfe  tir'd  ear  ; 

While  with  neck  like  a  rainbow  erecting  his  crest, 

Pamper'd,  prancing,  and  pleas'd,  his  head  touching  his  breast. 

Scarcely  snuffing  the  air,  he's  so  proud  and  elate. 

The  high-mettled  Racer  first  starts  for  the  plate. 

Now  Reynard's  turn'd  out,  and  o'er  hedge  and  ditch  rush. 
Dogs,  horses,  and  huntsmen,  all  hard  at  his  brush  ; 
Thro'  marsh,  fen,  and  brier,  led  by  their  sly  prey, 
They  by  scent,  and  by  view,  chace  a  long  tedious  way  ; 
While  alike  bom  for  sports  of  the  field  and  the  course. 
Always  sure  to  come  through — a  stanch  and  fleet  horse  ; 
When  fairly  run  down,  the  Fox  yields  up  his  breath, 
The  high-mettled  Racer  is  in  at  the  death. 

Grown  aged,  us'd  up,  and  turn'd  out  of  the  stud. 

Lame,  spavin'd,  and  wind-gall'd,  but  yet  with  some  blood, 

While  knowing  postillions  his  pedigree  trace. 

Tell  his  dame  won  this  sweep,  his  sire  won  that  race, 

And  what  matches  he  won  to  the  hostlers  count  o'er. 

As  they  loiter  their  time  at  some  hedge-ale-house  door, 

While  the  harness  sore  galls,  and  the  spurs  his  sides  goad. 

The  high-mettled  Racer's  a  hack  on  the  road. 


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322  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

Till  at  last  having  laboured,  dragged  early  and  late, 

Bow'd  down  by  degrees  he  bends  on  to  his  fate, 

Blind,  old,  lean,  and  feeble,  he  tugs  round  a  mill, 

Or  draws  sand,  till  the  sand  of  his  hourglass  stands  still  ; 

And  now  cold  and  lifeless,  expos'd  to  the  view, 

In  the  very  same  cart  that  he  yesterday  drew, 

While  a  pitying  crowd  his  sad  relics  surrounds, 

The  high-mettled  Racer  is  sold  for  the  hounds. 

Collection  of  Ballad:^  and  Songs.     Found  also  among  a 
Colk'ction  of  Songs  by  Charles  Dibdin. 


Sonnet  on  Bathing 

When  late  the  trees  were  stript  by  winter  pale, 

Young  Health,  a  dr>'ad-maid  in  vesture  green, 

Or  like  the  forest's  silver-quiver'd  queen. 

On  airy  uplands  met  .the  piercing  gale  ; 
And,  ere  its  earliest  echo  shook  the  vale, 

Watching  the  hunter's  joyous  horn  was  seen. 

But  since,  gay-thron'd  in  fiery  chariot  sheen, 

Summer  has  smote  each  daisy-  dappled  dale  ; 
She  to  the  cave  retires,  high-arch'd  beneath 

The  fount  that  laves  proud  I  sis'  tower  d  brim  : 

And  now,  all  glad  the  temperate  air  t6  breath, 
While  cooling  drops  distill  from  arches  dim, 

Binding  her  dewy  locks  with  sedgy  wreath, 

She  sits  amid  the  quire  of  Naiads  trim. 

Thus.  Warton,  Poems,  1777. 

The  Skaiter  s   March 

{Composed for  the  Skailet^s  Club  at  Edinburgh] 

This  snell  and  frosty  morning. 

With  rhind  the  trees  adorning. 

Tho'  Phoebus  below. 

Through  the  sparkling  snow, 

A  skaiting  we  go, 

With  a  fal,  lal,  lal,  lal,  lal,  lal, 

To  the  sound  of  the  merry  merry  horn. 

From  the  right  to  the  left  we're  plying. 
Swifter  than  winds  we're  flying, 
Spheres  with  spheres  surrounding. 
Health  and  strength  abounding, 
In  circles  we  sweep, 


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**  Through  the  sparkling  snow 
A  skaiting  we  go/' 


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VARIOUS  323 

Our  poise  still  we  keep, 

Behold  how  we  sweep,  • 

The  face  of  the  deep, 
With  afal,  lal,  lal,  lal,  lal,  lal, 
To  the  sound  of  the  merry  merry  horn. 

Great  Jove  looks  down  with  wonder, 

To  view  his  sons  of  thunder, 

Tho'  the  water  he  seal, 

We  rove  on  our  heel, 

Our  weapons  are  steel. 

And  no  danger  we  feel. 
With  a  fal,  lal,  lal,  lal,  lal,  lal. 
To  the  sound  of  the  merry  merry  horn. 

See  the  Club  advances. 

See  how  they  join  the  dances, 

Horns  and  trumpets  sounding, 

Rocks  and  hills  resounding, 

Let  Tritons  now  blow, 

For  Neptune  below, 

His  beard  dares  not  shew, 

Or  call  us  his  foe, 
With  a  fal,  lal,  lal,  lal,  lal,  lal, 
To  the  sound  of  the  merry  merry  horn. 

C.  DiBDiN,  Sporting  Magazine,  1802, 


The  Boy  in  Yellow 

When  first  I  strove  to  win  the  prize, 

1  felt  my  youthful  spirits  rise  ; 

Hope's  crimson  flush  illum'd  my  face, 

And  all  my  soul  was  in  the  race. 

When  weigh'd  and  mounted,  'twas  my  pride, 

Before  the  starting  post  to  ride  ; 

My  rival's  drest  in  red  and  green. 

But  I  in  simple  yellow  seen. 

In  stands  around  fair  ladies  swarm, 
And  mark  with  smiles  my  slender  form  ; 
Their  lovely  looks  new  ardour  raise, 
For  beauty's  smile  is  merit's  praise  ! 
The  flag  is  dropt—  the  sign  to  start — 
Away  more  fleet  than  winds  we  dart, 
And  tho'  the  odds  against  me  lay, 
The  boy  in  yellow  wins  the  day  ! 

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324  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

Tho'  now  no  more  we  seek  the  race, 
I  trust  the  jockey  keeps  his  place  ; 
For  still  to  win  the  prize,  I  feel 
An  equal  wish,  an  equal  zeal : 
And  still  can  beauty's  smile  impart 
Delightful  tremors  thro'  this  heart  : 
Indeed,  I  feel  it  flutter  now-- 
Yes,  while  I  look,  and  while  I  bow  ! 

My  tender  years  must  vouch  my  truth — 
For  candor  ever  dwells  with  youth  ; 
Then  sure  the  sage  might  well  believe, 
A  face — like  mine— could  ne'er  deceive, 
If  here  you  o'er  a  match  should  make. 
My  life  upon  my  luck  I'll  stake  ; 
And  'gainst  all  odds,  I  think  you'll  say, 
The  boy  in  yellow  wins  the  day. 

Songs  of  tfw  Chace,  1 8  r  i . 

Poor  old  Mike 

I  was  reared  in  Doncaster  some  forty  years  ago, 
Hut  times  are  very  different,  as  many  of  you  know ; 
I've  had  my  share  of  sunshine,  of  course  I  can't  complain. 
Hut  the  good  old  days  have  passed  away,  and  thev'^ll  never  come 
again. 

Poor  old  Mike. 

?'or  now  I'm  growing  old,  and  my  age  it  does  decay, 
A  poor  old,  worn  out  stableman,  every  one  does  say, 

Poor  old  Mike,  Poor  old  Mike. 

When  I  was  rising  six  years  old,  they  first  put  me  across 
One  of  Lord  Derb>''s  favorites,  for  a  trial  round  the  course. 
So  firm  and  neat  I  kept  my  seat,  the  knowing  ones  they  star'd, 
As  I  rattled  in  from  a  two  miles  spin,  every  one  declared — 

Twas  clever  little  Mike  ! 

Then  I  was  made  a  Jockey,  it  suited  well  my  taste, 
A  handy  chap  at  a  handicap,  smart  at  a  steeple  chase  ; 
East,  west,  north,  or  south,  I  could  show  an  open  face, 
Vox  1  always  acted  on  the  square,  and  ne\er  sold  a  race. 

Honest  little  Mike. 

But  soon  I  grew  too  big,  I  could  neither  train  or  waste. 
My  patrons  too  they  died,  so  I  was  sack'd  in  haste. 
But  posting  days  were  in  there  prime,  a  post  hack  I  bestrode, 
With  a  smack,  *  Va  hip  1 '  crack  goes  the  whip,  rattling  down  the 
road. 

Merry  little  Mike. 


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VARIOUS  325 

But  steam  soon  run  us  off  the  road,  and  rheumatizm  set  in, 
'Twas  then  I  first  knew  poverty,  my  troubles  did  begin. 
Relations,  friends,  acquaintances,  all  dead  or  far  away, 
I  was  odd  man  in  a  stable  yard  for  half-a-crown  a  day. 

Poor  old  Mike. 

By  the  young  un's  beaten  out  and  out,  and  bundled  from  the  yard, 
I  touted  in  St.  Martin's  Lane,  or  sold  a  racing  card. 
Sometimes  I  get  the  tip  when  a  old  friend  comes  to  town. 
And  there's  many  a  swell  for  the  news  I  tell  will  drop  me  half-a- 
crown.  Poor  old  Mike. 


Ballad. 


Epsom 


High  on  the  downs  the  awful  ring  is  made, 

The  gath'ring  clan  of  all  the  blackleg  trade  ; 

A  thousand  shouts  increase  the  deafning  cr>'. 

And  quite  confound  all  question  and  reply  ; 

Yet  order  still  o'er  madness  holds  her  rule, 

And  Cocker's  self  might  learn  in  Gulley's  school. 

The  storm  increases,  swells  the  pencill'd  score  ; 

And  lords  and  senators  and  bullies  roar. 

The  statelier  cr6w,  their  speculation  made. 

Forsake  the  rabble,  and  invest  the  glade  ; 

Where,  just  led  out,  the  paragons  are  seen 

To  press,  not  wound,  with  glitt'ring  hoof  the  green. 

Each  arching  neck's  impatient  of  the  rein. 

Fire  in  each  eye,  and  swelling  ev'ry  vein. 

Back  to  a  hundred  sires  of  Arab  breed 

Trace  we  the  bottom  and  enquire  the  speed  : 

By  Selim  this,  and  that  by  Phantom  got ; 

And  this  by  Tramp  was  bred  by  Mr.  Watt. 

And  memory  now  in  praise  is  fond  to  trace 

Friends  of  the  turf,  and  patrons  of  the  race  : 

Smolensko,  last  of  skilful  Bunbury's  breed. 

Whom  Jersey^s  Earl  and  Grafton's  Duke  succeed  ; 

Their  care,  their  hope,  their  profit,  and  their  pride 

A  moment  may  o'ertum,  and  must  decide. 

That  moment  comes,— the  bell  !  the  saddling  bell. 

Sounds  fortune's  proudest  triumph  or  her  knell  ! 

How  beats  our  hero's  pulse  ?  or  where  his  heart  ? — 

They're  off !  but  order'd  back  for  a  false  start. 

They're  ranged  again  I  and  now  are  off! — I  deem 

Two  minutes  now  two  lagging  ages  seem  ; 

Till  twice  ten  thousand  shouts  and  yells  proclaim. 

That  Jersey's  Mameluke  wins  deathless  fame. 

Some  weep  for  joy.  some  think  'twas  falsely  done, 

And  swear  Glenartney  might  with  ease  have  won. 

The  Man  of  Ton  :  a  Salire.     L826.  t 

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326  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

The  Jolly   Curlers 

THE   LAIRD'S   DITTY 

Tune :  *  O  for  him  back  ag.iin  ! ' 

Of  a*  the  games  that  e'er  I  saw, 
Man,  callant,  laddie,  birkie,  wean, 

The  dearest  far  aboon  them  a' 

Was  ay  the  witching  channcl-stanc. 

Chorus, — O  for  the  channel-stane. 

The  fell-gude  game,  the  channel-stane  ! 

There's  ne'er  a  game  that  e'er  1  saw 

Can  match  auld  Scotland's  channel-stane. 

I've  been  at  bridals  unco  glad, 
Wi'  courtin'  lasses  wondrous  fain  : 

But  what  is  a'  the  fun  I've  had, 
Compare  it  wi'  the  channel-stane  ? 

O  for  the,  &c. 

Were  I  a  sprite  in  yonder  sky. 

Never  to  come  back  again, 
I'd  sweep  the  moon  and  starlets  by. 

And  play  them  at  the  channel-stane. 

O  for  the,  &c. 

We'd  boom  across  the  Milky-  Way  ; 

One  tee  should  be  the  Northern  Wain  ; 
Another,  bright  Orion's  ray  ; 

A  comet  for  a  channcl-stanc. 

O  for  the,  &c. 

The  Caledonian,  i8at. 


The  following  additional  verse  was  printed  in  the  version  which  appeared 
[he  Kilmarnock  '  Treatise  on  Curling,'  which  appeared  in  1828  : 


in  the 

I've  played  at  quoiting  in  my  day, 

And  maybe  I  may  do'l  again. 
Hut  still  unto  myself  I'd  say, 

This  is  no  the  channel-stane. 
Oh !  for.  &c. 

In  this  edition,  and  very  often  since,  the  song  is  attributed  to  Hogg,  the 
Ettrick  Shepherd,  but  it  was  probably  written  by  Professor  Gillespie  of  St. 
Andrews,  who  made  one  of  the  famous  company  in  the  '  Xoctes  Ambrosianae  ' 
of  •  Hlackwoods  Magazine.' 


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VARIOUS  327 

Pigeon-shooting 

There's  no  rural  sport  surpasses 
Pigeon  shooting — circling  glasses — 

Fill  the  crystal  goblet  up  : 
No  game  laws  can  ever  thwart  us, 
Nor  qui  tarns  \  no  habeas  corpus  ;  ^ 
For  our  licence  \'enus  grants. 
Let's  be  grateful —here's  a  bumper  ; 
For  her  bounty — here's  a  bumper  ; 
'Listed  under  beauty's  banners, 
What's  to  us  freehold  or  manors  ? 

Fill  the  crystal  goblet  up. 

No  suspense  our  tempers  trying, 
Endless  sport  our  trap  supplying  ; 
No  ill  state  'twixt  hope  and  fear, 
At  magic  word  our  birds  appear. 

Fill  the  crystal  goblet  up. 
Alike  all  seasons  in  our  favour, 
O'er  vales  and  hills,  no,  toil  or  labour, 
No  alloy  our  pleasures  yield. 
No  gamekeeper  e'er  employing, 
Skill'd  in  art  of  game  destroying  ; 
Free  from  trouble,  void  of  care, 
We  set  at  nought  the  poacher's  snare — 

Fill  the  crystal  goblet  up. 

No  blank  days  can  ever  vex  us. 
No  false  points  can  e'er  perplex  us  ; 

Fill  the  crystal  goblet  up  : 
Pigeons,  swift  as  wind,  abounding. 
Detonating  guns  resounding, 
Sec  the  tow'ring  victims  fall. 
With  Apollo  science  vying. 
View  the  heaps  of  dead  and  dying, 
Forc'd  to  pay  the  debt  of  nature- 
Matters  it,  or  soon  or  later  : 

Fill  the  crystal  goblet  up. 

The  Sportsman's  I 'oral  Cabinet,  1830, 

Steeple  Chases 

THE  ORKUN   OF    THE  STEEPLE  CHASE 

The  days  of  palmy  Chivalry  are  o'er  : 

Plumed  morion,  corslet,  faulchion,  spear,  and  shield 
Shine  in  the  gorgeous  Tournament  no  more  : 

No  Herald  summonses  the  leagucr'd  field  : 

•    Tho  suspension. 


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328  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

The  roving  prow  seeks  not  the  savage  shore 

To  win  the  spoils  that  barbarous  foemen  yield  : 
Say  then,  what  Venture  may  thy  prowess  try, 
*  Lord  of  the  lion  heart  and  eagle  eye  ? ' 

The  War  is  past :  beneath  the  olive  bough 
Young  Peace  and  Love  exchange  the  soft  salute- 

The  God  of  Battles  smoothes  his  niffled  brow, 
And  Glory's  energetic  voice  is  mute. 

Where  whilom  rang  the  brazen  trumpet,  now 
The  maiden  dances  to  the  shepherd's  lute  : 

Up,  Gallants,  up  I  let  not  your  spirits  cease 

Their  daring  in  these  *  piping  time  of  peace  I ' 

Lo  I  at  the  call,  as  eager  to  beguile 
The  weary  hours  of  most  unwelcome  ease, 

Spread  from  each  harbour  of  the  sea-girt  Isle, 
The  snowy  canvas  woos  the  wanton  breeze  : 

And  many  a  bark  of  l^eauty  speeds  the  while 
O'er  the  bright  waters  of  the  summer  seas. 

Grant  but  the  gale,  and  when  did  landsman  feel 

The  wild,  fierce  rapture  of  the  bounding  keel ! 

Light  as  the  meteor  glances  through  the  gloom  ; 

Swift  as  the  eagle  in  his  stoop  of  pride  ; 
Away  with  flowing  sheet  and  spanking  boom 

The  arrowy  shallop  cleaves  the  waters  wide — 
But  oh,  the  quickened  grave  !  the  living  tomb. 

When  Zephyr  slumbers  o'er  the  drowsy  tide  ; 
The  heart  that  dances  when  the  glad  wind  blows,. 
Pines,  droops,  and  sickens  in  that  grim  repose. 

Soon  as  Spring's  fragrant  velvet  decks  the  mead. 
Matchless  in  courage,  symmetry,  and  grace. 

With  step  elastic,  hoof  of  burning  speed. 
And  eager  eye,  that  would  devour  all  space, 

O'er  the  green  carpet  springs  the  noble  steed. 
Strains  for  the  goal,  and  conquers  in  the  race  : 

Mark  I  while  the  shout  of  triumph  rends  the  sky. 

The  guerdon  rare  that  crowns  the  victory  ! 

A  goodly  picture  that,  so  it  be  placed 
In  such  a  light  that  those  alone  be  seen 

Whom  in  relief  the  limner  may  have  traced  : 
But  look  into  the  back  ground,  and  1  ween 

Small  sympathy  will  mingle  with  your  taste, 
And  the  dark  forms  that  haunt  the  murky  scene  : 

See  I  how  among  that  ghastly  cluster  glide 

The  swindler — robber — perjurer— homicide  ! 


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VARIOUS  329 

Summer,  and  bloom  and  fragrance,  all  are  past, 
And  VVinter's  sober  russet  clothes  the  ground  : 

Hark  I  how  the  horn  of  Chase  with  jocund  blast 
Answer  the  merry  music  of  the  hound, 

While  Echo  joins  the  minstrelsy,  and  fast 
Repeats  the  sylvan  harmony  around  : 

In  \'am  the  pen  would  tell,  the  pencil  trace 

The  joy,  the  might,  the  magic  of  the  Chase  ! 

Leaps  every  heart  that  lists  the  wild  *  Away  ! ' 
As  peals  the  chorus  of  the  woodland  choir, 

What  eye  but  sparkles  at  the  proud  array  I 
What  soul  such  melody  may  not  inspire  I 

On,  Ciallants,  on  I  there's  nought  your  track  can  stay. 
Or  check,  or  daunt  your  generous  courser's  fire. 

But  lo  I  they  pause  :  to  mar  such  merriment, 

*  Surgit  atnari  aliqtddV — The  Scent  ! 

Such  was  the  fate  of  all  who  sought  the  round 
Of  circling  Pleasure's  fair  and  lustrous  sphere. 

That  still  some  dark  and  envious  shade  was  found 
To  dim  the  splendour  of  her  gay  career  : 

Ere  the  ripe  fruit  Hope's  early  blossom  crown'd, 
Some  blight  would  baulk  the  promise  of  the  year, 

'Till  Dian  came,  and  o'er  the  drooping  land 

Waved  a  bright  pennon  in  her  cheering  hand. 

And  thus  the  Ooddess  spoke  :  *  My  sons,  arise, 
Too  long  like  planets  to  one  orb  confined, 

Each  sylvan  sport  engross'd  your  energies — 
Now  take  this  banner,  whose  device  you'll  find. 

Like  to  the  clusters  of  the  starry  skies, 
A  constellation  of  them  all  combined, 

While  for  a  motto  on  the  silk  you  trace 

Diana's  noblest  gift — the  Steeple  Chase  ! 

Sporting  Magazine,  April  1836. 


The  Tantivy  Trot 

I 

Here's  to  the  old  ones,  of  four-in-hand  fame, 

Harrison,  Peyton,  and  Ward,  Sir ; 
Here's  to  the  fast  ones  that  after  them  came. 
Ford  and  the  Lancashire  Lord,  Sir. 
Let  the  steam  pot 
Hiss  till  it*s  hot, 
(iive  me  the  speed  of  the  Tantivy  Trot. 


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330  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 


Here's  to  the  team,  Sir,  all  harness'd  to  start. 

Brilliant  in  Brummagem  leather  ; 
Here's  to  the  waggoner,  skill'd  in  the  art, 

Coupling  the  cattle  together. 

Let  the  steam  pot,  &c. 

Ill 

Here's  to  the  shape  that  is  shown  the  near  side, 
Here's  to  the  blood  on  the  off,  Sir  ; 

Limbs  with  no  check  to  their  freedom  of  stride  ! 
Wind  without  whistle  or  cough.  Sir  ! 
Let  the  steam  pot,  &c. 

IV 

Here's  to  the  dear  little  damsels  within, 
Here's  to  the  swells  on  the  top.  Sir  ; 

Here's  to  the  music  in  three  feet  of  tin. 
And  here's  to  the  tapering  crop,  Sir. 
Let  the  steam  pot,  &c. 


Here's  to  the  arm  that  can  hold  'cm  when  gone, 

Still  to  a  gallop  inclin'd.  Sir  ; 
Heads  in  the  front  with  no  bearing  reins  on  ! 

Tails  with  no  cruppers  behind.  Sir  I 
Let  the  steam  pot,  &c. 


Here's  to  the  dragsmcn  I've  dragg'd  into  song, 
Salisbury,  Mountain,  and  Co.,  Sir  ; 

Here's  to  the  Cracknell  who  cracks  them  along 
Five  twenty-fives  at  a  go  I  Sir. 
Let  the  steam  pot,  &c. 

vii 

Here's  to  Mac  Adam  the  Mac  of  all  Macs, 

Here's  to  the  road  we  ne'er  tire  on  ; 
Let  me  but  roll  o'er  the  granite  he  cracks, 
Ride  ye  who  like  it  on  iron. 
Let  the  steam  pot 
Hiss  till  it's  hot. 
Give  me  the  speed  of  the  Tantivy  Trot. 


R.  E.  1':gekton  Warburton,  1834. 

Digitized  by  LjOOQ IC 


VARIOUS 


33  > 


Hawking 

A    LAY 

Dedicated  to  Saint  Hubert 

Thro'  the  castle  gates  first  ride  they  forth, 

A  gallant  glittering  band, 
Renowned  knights,  whose  falchions  bright 
Have  earned  them  laurels,  in  many  a  fight, 

In  a  strange  and  distant  land. 


And  maidens,  too,  on  palfreys  gay, 

From  Araby,  so  rare. 
Snorting  and  prancing,  on  they  bound — 
So  light,  they  scarcely  touch  the  ground- 

A  beauteous  sight  they  were  I 

Swift  as  the  wind,  fast  on  they  go, 

O'er  hill  and  valley  wide  ; 
With  falcons  fierce  and  gos-hawks  fair, 
Their  bewits  tinkling  shrill  and  clear. 

How  bonnily  they  ride  I 


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332  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

Now,  startled  by  their  merry  shout. 

Away  the  fleet  deer  bound  ; 
The  skulking  fox  has  sped  away  ; 
The  timid  hare,  the  squirrel  grey, 

Sit  humbling  at  the  sound. 

But  now  aloft  the  wild  fowl  rise, 

With  outstretched  neck  and  wing, 
Cleaving  their  way  thro'  the  sunny  skies, 
The  forest  echoing  with  their  cries — 
They  make  the  wild  wood  ring. 

Quick  the  fierce  falcon's  hood  is  doffed, 

His  jesses  slipt — Away  ! 
His  bright  eyes  sparkle  at  the  sight, 
He  soars  aloft  in  conscious  might, 

And  well  he  marks  his  prey. 

Aloft  he  wheels — aloft  he  soars — 

A  speck  upon  the  skies  1 
One  instant  rests  he  in  mid  air — 
He  stoops— his  talons  fiercely  tear  ! 
The  Quarry  is  his  prize  I 

Right  well,  I  ween,  that  saint  was  loved, 

Who  bless'd  the  chase  so  gay  ; 
Oh  I  bonnily  they  all  did  ride 
O'er  hill  and  dale  and  chasm  wide, 
On  good  St.  Hubert's  day  ? 

G.  G.  Sill,  The  Sportsman,    1840. 


The  Criterion  Coach 

The  following  lines  were  written  by  the  late  Hon.  Martin  Hawkk,  at  the 
lime  when  the  Duke  of  Beaufort,  then  Marquis  of  Worcester,  tooled 
the  Criterion  Brighton  coach. 

As  quick  as  thought,  there  see  approach, 

Swift  glancing  down  the  road. 
The  dashing  gay  Criterion  coach, 

With  in  and  outside  load. 

'Tis  Worcester's  Lord  who  drives  the  team, 

Thorough-bred,  or  near  it, 
Of  *  all  the  talents  '  he's  the  cream — 

Upset  I — who  can  fear  it  ? 


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VARIOUS  333 


And  now  they  change,  and  oft'  again 

Under  half  a  minute  ; 
So  just  each  trace,  so  true  each  rein, 

Really  magic's  in  it  ! 

Like  bright  japan  the  harness  shines 

All  chosen  and  select  ; 
The  brasslike  famed  Potosi's  mines 

A  mirror  to  reflect. 

And  mark  the  flowers  on  each  head — 

The  rose  and  lily  fair 
Around  us  all  their  fragrance  shed, 

Enbalm  the  morning  air  ! 

The  well-shaped  yew,  the  taper  thong, 
Proclaim  the  workman's  art ; 

But  as  the  blood-ones  dash  along, 
They  feel  no  useless  smart. 

Oh  no  !  he  tries  each  supple  rein 
To  check  their  eager  speed. 

Strong  is  the  hand  that  can  restrain 
Each  noble  well-bred  steed  ! 

Here  all  is  life,  excitement,  joy, 

Our  troubles  left  behind, 
No  cares  our  pleasures  to  destroy, 

Our  sorrows  to  the  wind  ! 

The  hunter  boasts  his  gallant  steed 
That  flies  o'er  hill  and  dale. 

But  we  can  beat  his  fastest  speed. 
And  tell  a  brighter  tale  I 

We've  no  blank  days,  no  want  of  scent. 
To  check  our  forward  course  ; 

Fresh  teams  await  when  this  is  spent. 
This  beats  his  Second  horse  ! 

And,  hark  !  the  bugle  sounds  alarms 

Thro'  every  country  place, 
The  village  beauties  show  their  charms, 

Displaying  every  grace  ! 

Then,  here's  my  toast  and  fill  it  up, 

*  Success  the  Road  attend.' ' 
And  he  that  will  not  pledge  the  cup 

To  talent  is  no  friend  ! 


M.   H. ,  Sporthig  Magazine,  December  1840. 

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334  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

A  Song  for  the  Sportsman 

I 

When  the  rosy  dawn  just  breaketh, 

And  the  dew  is  on  the  lea, 
Ere  the  sun  his  first  step  taketh, 

Over  hill  and  over  sea  ; 
Forth  he  fares— the  ^^^allant  Hunter  I— 

Forth  he  fares,  and  mounts  his  steed  ; 
Over  heath  and  hollow  bounding, 
While  the  merry  horn  resounding, 

Bids  the  healthful  pastime  speed  ! 

n 
When  the  day,  in  sunny  brightness, 

Paces  on — a  summer  guest  I 
And  the  zephyr  sighs  in  lightness 

O'er  the  river's  quiet  breast ; 
Forth  he  fares— the  wily  Angler  I— 

Forth  he  fares,  with  rod  and  line. 
Basket  at  his  back  suspended  ; 
Ere  the  day  its  course  hath  ended, 

Many  a  trout  will  in  it  shine. 

Ill 
When  the  moorland  track  is  growing 

Browner  'neath  the  commg  night, 
And  the  heather-bloom  is  glowing 

Redly,  in  the  faint  moonlight ; 
Forth  he  fares— the  midnight  SPORTSMAN  '.  — 

Forth  he  fares  to  stalk  the  roe  ; 
And,  amid  the  night's  long  watches. 
Thinks,  and  drinks,  and  sings  by  snatches, 

'Till  his  fated  prey  lies  low  1 

Major  Calder  Campbell,  Sportsman,  1840. 

Epitome  of  the   Seasons 

When  summer  bids  us  seek  the  shade. 
Let's  hasten  to  the  mazy  glade  ; 
'Tis  there  the  limpid  riv'let  strays 
O'er  pebbled  banks,  a  thousand  ways. 
The  tapering  rod,  the  fur-fraught  fly. 
Delude  the  trout's  quick,  darling  eye  : 
Each  tenant  of  the  wat'ry  plain 
Becomes  the  skilful  angler  s  gain. 
When  Aitgust  l^rings  its  sultry  hours, 
Teeming  plains,  and  fruits,  and  flowers  ; 


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VARIOUS  335 

Then  ling -clad  moors  shall  offer  sports 
Far  better  than  the  glare  of  courts. 
O'er  scented  mountain,  marshy  vale, 
On  fluttering  wings  the  heath-cocks  sail : 
They  mount,  they  quiver,  and  they  die, 
Whilst  mimic  thunder  rends  the  sky  ! 
When  kind  Septembtr  cheers  the  swain, 
Let's  hasten  to  the  stubble's  plain  ; 
'Tis  there  the  partridge  chirps  away, 
Basking  beneath  the  noontide  ray  : 
Our  dogs  are  stanch,  our  marksmen  sure, 
P'.qual  each  varying  toil  t'  endure  : 
In  fluttering  haste  the  coveys  rise. 
Ah  !  soon  to  fall  in  mute  surprise. 
Brown  October  claims  my  song  ; 
We'll  ramble,  then,  the  woods  among  ; 
The  golden  pheasants  there  repair. 
And  brakes  conceal  the  fearful  hare. 
Come,  bleak  November's  gloomy  hours. 
Swift-descending,  fleecy  showers  ; 
For  woodcocks,  range  the  brier>'  fens, 
And  flush  them  from  their  rushy  dens. 
Hark  !  the  merry  hounds  and  horn. 
Welcome  December's  short-lived  mom  ; 
Reynard  leaves  his  fa v' rite  cave, 
And  flies  afar,  his  life  to  save : 
Or  the  swift  and  doubling  hare 
Demands  the  sportsman's  early  care. 
Ere  wintry  storms  forbid  the  sport. 
At  dawn  of  mom  the  season  court  ; 
Gently  guide  the  courser's  flight. 
With  echoing  cry,  till  fall  of  night. 
Snow  and  frost,  a  pow'rful  train, 
Too  soon  shall  cover  all  the  plain  ; 
Tread,  then,  the  winding  riv'let's  shore, 
Where  the  whirling  cataracts  roar  ; 
Twitt'ring  snipes,  and  wild-ducks  too. 
Shall  there  become  a  prey  to  you. 

Such,  surely,  is  the  sportsman's  joy, — 
Gay  sports,  which  wintry  hours  employ. 
Changed  to  thaw,  the  rapid  hare 
And  well-bred  greyhound  claims  thy  care  ; 
Then  seek  the  healthful  wolds  in  haste. 
The  freshness  of  the  air  to  taste  : 
Far  removed  from  noise  and  strife. 
There  view  the  joys  of  rural  life. 
Grant  me,  ye  gods,  contented  hours, 
Such  valued  sports  and  sylvan  bowers. 

Hon.  Martin  Hawke,  Sporting  Rcine-w,  iS^o.  t 

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336  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 


Song  of  the  Old  English  Falconer 

Awa)j,  away,  to  the  woods  with  me, 
Fair  is  the  dew  on  the  grassy  lea, 
Pure  and  bright  is  the  dawn  of  day. 
Hie  to  the  woodlands,  hie  away  ! 

Lady,  awake,  and  leave  your  bower, 
Kisses  of  dew  in  every  flower 
Wait  but  the  touch  of  your  finger  fair 
To  shed  their  sweets  on  the  morning  air. 
Arise,  arise,  leave  dreams  of  love 
For  marlyon  '  gay  and  for  broidered  glove. 
For  the  gallant  bound  of  your  palfrey  grey, 
For  the  hunter's  horn  and  roundelay. 
Away,  &c. 

Up,  up.  Sir  Knight  I  to  horse,  to  horse  ! 
The  red-deer  lies  in  the  roscid  '  gorse  ; 
The  wild-fowl  float  on  the  woodland  lake  ; 
Up  and  away  through  briar  and  brake. 
In  the  grove  of  oaks  the  yeomen  wait. 
The  wolf-hound  bays  at  the  Castle  gate, 
The  sluggard  may  lie  on  his  bed  of  down, 
Seek  we  the  heath  and  the  heather  brown. 
Away,  &c. 

Arise  !  arise  I  'tis  the  matin  hour  ; 
Hark  to  the  chimes  from  the  belfry  tower  ! 
The  hawks  are  sounding  their  Milan  bells,'- 
And  Echo  replies  from  the  shady  dells, 
Like  the  silver  voice  of  a  woodside  god 
That  laughs  at  the  trees  as  they  bend  and  nod — 
Nodding  in  joy  to  their  sturdy  mates, 
That  cast  their  shade  o'er  the  Castle  gates  ! 
Away,  &c. 
Sandie  Gkey,  Sporiing  Magazine,  Decemljoi-  1841. 

1  In  the  old  books  on  hawking  the  inarlyon  is  set  down   as   the    hawk 
properly  belonging  to  a  lady. 

*  Thi'  hawk's  bells  made  al  Milan  were  much  in  repute  among  our  ances- 
tors at  one  time. 

'  Meithinkes  these  Millane  bels  do  sound  loo  full, 
And  spoile  the  mounting  of  your  hawke.' — Old  Play. 


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VARIOUS  337 

Ballad 

Lorraine,  Lorraine,  Lorr^e 
I 

Are  you  ready  for  your  steeplechase,  Lorraine,  Lorraine,  Lorrde  ? 

Barum,  Barum,  Barum,  Barum,  Barum,  Barum,  Baree, 
You're  booked  to  ride  your  capping  race  to-day  at  Coulterlee, 
You're  booked  to  ride  Vindictive,  lor  all  the  world  to  see, 
To  keep  him  straight,  to  keep  him  first,  and  win  the  race  for  me. 

Barum,  Barum,  &c. 


She  clasped  her  new-bom  baby,  poor  Lorraine,  Lorraine,  Lorree. 

*  I  cannot  ride  Vindictive  as  any  man  might  see, 

And  I  will  not  ride  Vindictive,  with  this  baby  on  my  knee  ; 
^  He's  killed  a  boy,  he's  killed  a  man,  and  why  must  he  kill  me  ? ' 

III 

*  Unless  you  ride  Vindictive,  Lorraine,  Lorraine,  Lorree, 
Unless  you  ride  Vindictive  to-day  at  Coulterlee, 

And  land  him  safe  across  the  brook,  and  win  the  blank  for  me, 
It's  you  may  keep  your  baby,  for  you'll  get  no  keep  from  me.' 

IV 

*  That  husbands  could  be  cruel,'  said  Lorraine,  Lorraine,  Lorree, 

*  That  husbands  could  be  cruel,  I  have  known  for  seasons  three  ; 
But  oh  I  to  ride  Vindictive  while  a  baby  cries  for  me. 

And  be  killed  across  a  fence  at  last  for  all  the  world  to  see  ! ' 


She  mastered  young  Vindictive — oh  I  the  gallant  lass  was  she-  - 
And  kept  him  straight  and  won  the  race  as  near  as  near  could  be  ; 
But  he  killed  her  at  the  brook  against  a  pollard  willow  tree, 
Oh  I  he  killed  her  at  the  brook,  the  brute,  for  all  the  world  to  see, 
And  no  one  but  the  baby  cried  for  poor  Lorraine,  Lorree. 

Charles  Kingsley.     Last  poem  written  in  illness,  June  1874. 


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' 


HUMOROUS  SONGS  &  PARODIES 

HUNTING 
Going  Out  a  Hunting 

Air  :  *The  King  of  the  Cannibal  Islands* 

Good  friends  I  pray  you  list  to  me, 

And  very  soon  you  all  shall  see, 

Vot  lots  of  fun  and  mirth  and  glee, 
I  had  ven  I  vos  hunting. 

Last  Easter  Monday  you  must  know, 

Some  friends  persuaded  me  to  go, 

To  the  Epping  hunt  myself  to  show, 

And  join  the  sportsman's  tally-ho  ! 

So  off  I  vent  along  with  they. 

To  spend  my  Easter  holiday, 

Upon  a  norse  I  hired  that  day, 
To  take  me  out  a  hunting. 

Vith  our  boots  and  spurs  and  vhips  so  new^ 
And  scarlet  coats  and  breeches  too. 
Oh,  didn't  we  have  a  phililoo 
Vhen  ve  vent  out  a  hunting. 

Oh,  didn't  ve  not  give  a  shout, 
Vhen  in  the  morn  ve  all  set  out. 
And  trotted  on  along  the  rout, 

Vhere  people  go  a  hunting. 
There  was  Tommy  Thompson,  Charley  Lee, 
Vith  Johnny,  Peter,  Bill,  and  me, 
All  mounted  on  our  nags  so  free. 
Determined  we  should  have  a  spree  ; 
Ve  halted  at  the  Seven  Stars, 
And  had  some  ale  and  fresh  cigars  : 
Then  off  ve  vhent  in  spite  of  bars, 

Vhen  ve  vos  out  a  hunting. 
Vith  our  boots  and  spurs,  &c. 


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HUMOROUS  SONGS  AND  PARODIES— HUNTING    339 

Ve'd  very  near  to  Epping  got, 
Vhen  Charley  cries  I  tell  you  vot, 
I  feels  as  how  so  very  hot, 

Through  going  out  a  hunting  ; 
So  let  us  stop  at  this  here  inn, 
And  each  von  have  a  drop  of  gin, 
Then  off  ve'll  dash  thro'  thick  and  thin, 
And  perhaps  the  stag  hunt  we  may  vin. 
He  hadn't  time  to  say  no  more. 
For  the  stag  upset  him  vot  a  bore  ! 
Right  slap  at  Tommy  Rounding's  door. 

Vhen  ve  vos  out  a  hunting. 
Vith  our  boots  and  spurs,  &c. 


Vhile  Johnny  fell  in  an  old  sow's  trough 
Vhen  ve  vos  out  a  hunting 

Ve  rode  again  soon  arter  that, 
Vhen  Tommy  Thompson  fell  down  flat, 
And  Billy  Valker  lost  his  hat, 
While  ve  vos  out  a  hunting. 


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340  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

At  their  disasters  I  lau^h'd  loud, 
And  of  myself  I  felt  quite  proud, 
Vhen  my  horse  at  a  bull  he  cowed, 
And  threw  me  bang  into  a  crowd  ; 
The  people  on  the  road  did  scoff, 
To  see  us  tumbling  on  and  off, 
Vhile  Johnny  fell  in  an  old  sow's  trough, 
Vhen  ve  vos  out  a  hunting. 
Vith  our  boots  and  spurs,  &c. 

At  length  the  night  began  to  grow. 
And  dark  as  old  Nick's  place  below, 
So  every  one  agreed  to  go. 

And  leave  off  going  a  hunting. 
Then  homeward  we  began  to  trot, 
But  scarcely  half  a  mile  had  got. 
Before  we  met  a  jolly  lot, 
Of  chaps  vot  hunting  [hadl  been  not ; 
They  made  us  stand  [rightj  up  in  front, 
Then  all  our  pockets  they  did  hunt, 
And  robb'd  us  each  of  all  our  blunt, 

Vhile  ve  vos  out  a  hunting. 
Vith  our  boots  and  spurs,  &c. 

At  last  we  got  home  safe  and  tight, 
But  in  a  werry  shocking  plight ; 
In  fact  ve  all  enough  had  quite. 

Of  going  out  a  hunting. 
Not  von  of  us  Pm  sure  can  bmg. 
Of  hunting,  tho'  each  had  a  nag, 
For  every  one  so  much  did  lag, 
Ve  never  even  saw  the  stag. 
So  now  I've  told  you  all  my  sport. 
On  Easter  Monday,  and  in  short. 
Never  again  will  I  be  caught, 

A  going  out  a  hunting. 

Vith  our  boots  and  spurs,  &c. 


Ballad. 


From  the  '  Tour  of  Doctor  Syntax ' 

The  'Squire  with  half-smok'd  pipe  in  hand, 
Desir'd  the  Doctor  to  command 
Whatever  Nimrod-Hall  possess'd, 
And  prove  himself  a  welcome  guest. 
With  some  good  neighbours,  sportsmen  all 
W^ho  had  just  sought  the  shelt'ring  hall. 

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HUMOROUS  SONGS  AND  PARODIES— HUNTING    341 

Dinner  was  serv'd,  each  took  his  place, 
And  a  View  Halloo  was  the  grace  : 
But  soon  the  Doctor  did  retire 
From  noisy  table  to  the  fire, 
To  hear  the  chit-chat  of  the  'Squire. 
Nor  did  the  far-fam'd  Nimrod  balk 
His  fancy  for  an  hour's  talk. 

Nimrod 

*  My  life,  I  rather  fear,  supplies 
But  little  you  may  not  despise  : 
But  still,  you  sages  of  the  schools. 
Will  not  declare  us  sportsmen  fools, 

If  each,  in  his  due  weight  and  measure 

Should  analyse  his  pain  and  pleasure  ! 

*Tis  true  for  forty  years  and  more, 

(For  I  have  long  been  past  threescore,) 

My  life  has  never  ceas'd  to  be 

One  scene  of  rural  jollity  : 

But  hurrying  Time  has  fled  so  fast, 

My  former  pastimes  all  are  f)ast : 

Yet,  though  our  nature's  seasons  are, 

Mix'd  up  with  portion  due  of  care  ; 

Though  I  have  many  dangers  run, 

I'm  still  alive  at  seventy-one. 

— Nimrod  was  always  in  his  place  ; 

He  was  the  first  in  ev'ry  chace  ; 

Nor  last  when,  o'er  th'  enliv'ning  bowl. 

The  hunters  felt  the  flow  of  soul. 

The  first,  when,  at  the  break  of  day. 

It  was — To  Cover,  hark  away  ! 

The  last,  when  midnight  heard  the  strain 

Which  sung  the  pleasures  of  the  plain.' 

Syntax 

*  But  hunting  lasts  not  all  the  year  : 
How  did  you  then  the  moments  cheer  ? 
In  the  vacation  of  your  sport 

To  what  employ  did  you  resort  ? 
You  read,  perhaps,  and  can  unfold 
How  in  old  times  the  hunter  bold. 
Did  with  strong  lance  and  jav'lin  slay 
The  brindled  lion  as  his  prey, 
Or  chac'd  the  boar,  or  sought  reward 
In  spotted  cloa thing  of  the  pard.' 

Nimrod 


*  I've  not  quite  lost  the  little  knowledge. 
Which  I  obtain'd  in  school  and  college  ; 


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342  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

But  the  old  Greeks,  those  fighting-cocks, 

Did  not  pretend  to  hunt  the  fox  : 

For  where,  think  you,  their  hounds  were  bred  ; 

Or  how,  think  you,  their  dogs  were  fed, 

If  it  be  true  as  I  have  read. 

That,  in  a  freak  and  at  a  sup, 

The/d  turn  and  eat  their  huntsman  up. 

— No,  Sir,  my  books  enjoy  themselves 

In  long  known  quiet  on  their  shelves. 

— In  summer,  when  the  chace  is  o'er. 

And  echoing  horn  is  heard  no  more, 

The  harvest  then  employ'd  my  care, 

The  sheafs  to  bind,  the  flocks  to  shear  ; 

The  autumn  did  its  fruitage  yield 

In  ev'ry  orchard,  eVry  field, 

And  the  emptied  casks  receive 

The  juice  Pomona  loves  to  give. 

The  winter  comes  and  once  a^ain 

Echos  awake  in  wood  and  plain. 

And  the  loud  cry  of  men  and  hound, 

Was  heard  again  the  country  round  : 

Though  I  those  days  no  more  shall  sec, 

They're  gone  and  past  and  lost  to  me  : 

But  as  a  poet  doth  relate, 

When  the  world's  victor  feasting  sat. 

And  trumpets  gave  the  martial  strain, 

He  fought  his  battles  o'er  again  ; — 

Thus  I  can  from  my  windows  see 

Scenes  of  the  Nimrod  chivalry  ; 

And  with  these  old  dogs  on  the  floor, 

I  talk  the  former  chaces  o'er. 

There's  Music ^  whose  melodious  tone 

Was  to  each  pathless  covert  known  ; 

And  Captain  who  was  never  wrong 

Whenever  heard  to  give  his  tongue  ; 

There's  Parragon  whose  nose  could  boast, 

To  gain  the  trail  whenever  lost ; 

And  Darlings  in  the  scented  track 

Would  often  lead  the  clam'rous  pack  ; 

While  Re>Tiard  chill  despair  would  feel 

When  Favourite  was  at  his  heel. 

Doctor,  these  dogs  which  round  me  lay, 

Were  famous  creatures  in  their  day. 

And  while  they  live  they  ne'er  shall  cease. 

To  know  what  plenty  is  and  peace  ; 

Be  my  companions  as  you  see. 

And  eke  out  their  old  age  with  me. 

With  them  I  sit  and  feel  the  glow 

Which  fond  remembrance  both  bestow  : 


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HUMOROUS  SONGS  AND  PARODIES— HUNTING    343 

And  when  in  fancy's  dream,  I  hear 

The  tumults  break  upon  my  ear ; 

The  shouting  cry,  the  joyous  sounds 

Of  huntsmen  and  the  deep-mouthM  hounds  ; 

My  old  age  ceases  to  lament 

My  crippled  limbs,  my  vigour  spent  ; 

I,  for  those  moments,  lose  my  pain, 

And  halloo  as  if  young  again. 

'Tis  true,  from  leaps  I've  dar'd  to  take, 

That  I  have  often  risk'd  my  neck  ; 

But  though,  thank  Heaven,  I've  sav'd  my  back. 

My  ev'ry  rib  has  had  a  crack. 

And  twice,  'tis  true,  the  surgeon's  hand 

Has  my  hard  batter'd  scull  trepann'd  ; 

To  which  I  add  a  broken  arm  ; 

And  now  I've  told  you  all  the  harm 

Which  my  remembrance  bids  me  trace 

In  my  adventures  of  the  chace. 

— For  these  swell'd  hands  and  tender  feet 

That  fix  me  in  this  gouty  seat, 

Which  keep  me  coop'd  as  I  appear, 

And  as  you  see  me  sitting  here, 

'Twas  not  my  age  of  hunting  past. 

Which  thus  have  kennell'd  me  at  last : 

It  is  Port- wine  and  that  alone 

Which  brought  these  wretched  symptoms  on. 

'Twas  not  the  pleasures  of  the  day 

That  bade  my  stubborn  health  decay, 

But  the  libations  of  the  night, 

To  which  I  owe  this  piteous  plight. 

Now  of  this  mansion  take  a  view. 

And,  Doctor,  I  believe  it  true. 

Could  it  be  gag'd  and  fiU'd  with  liquor. 

Myself,  my  sportsmen  and  the  Vicar, 

Whate'er  of  wine  it  might  contain, 

Have  drank  it  o'er  and  o'er  again. 

— Philosophers  and  sage  grave  men 

Have  by  their  preaching  and  their  pen, 

Enforc'd  it  as  a  certain  rule 

Of  conduct  in  the  human  schooJ, 

That  some  prime  feeling  doth  preside 

In  each  man's  bosom  as  his  guide, 

Or  right  or  wrong,  as  it  may  prove 

The  passions  and  affections  move. 

Thus  some  on  lower  objects  pore. 

Others  aloft  sublimely  soar, 

While  many  take  the  devious  way. 

And  scarce  know  how  or  where  they  stray. 


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344  ^-^^  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

But  I  ne'er  thought  of  moving  higher 

Than  a  plain,  hunting  Country-'Scjuire, 

And  you  will  think,  perhaps,  my  aim 

Has  been  content  with  vulgar  fame, 

When  it  has  been  my  highest  boast, 

To  ride  the  best,  and  drink  the  most ; 

To  guide  the  hounds  with  matchless  grace, 

To  be  the  leader  of  the  chace, 

And  when  'twas  over,  to  be  able 

To  lay  my  guests  beneath  the  table. 

While  I  with  no  unsteady  head, 

Could  walk  unstagg'ring  to  my  bed. 

Laugh  at  a  milk-sop's  wimp'ring  sorrow, 

Nor  feel  a  head-ache  on  the  morrow. 

You  grave  Divines  perhaps  may  flout  it, 

But  still  I  love  to  talk  about  it. 

And  sometimes  too  my  neighbours  join  ; 

Though,  while  they  take  their  gen'rous  wine, 

I  feel,  at  length,  'tis  very  cruel 

To  pledge  their  toasts  in  water-gruel.' 

William  Combe,  1820. 

The  Epping  Hunt 

'  On  Monday  they  began  to  hunt.'  -Chei'y  Chase. 

John  Huggms  was  as  bold  a  man 

As  trade  did  ever  know, 
A  warehouse  good  he  had,  that  stood 

Hard  by  the  church  of  Bow. 

There  people  bought  Dutch  cheeses  round. 

And  single  Glos'ter  flat, — 
And  English  butter  in  a  lump. 

And  Irish — in  a//?/. 

Six  days  a  week  beheld  him  stand, 

His  business  next  his  heart, 
At  counter  with  his  apron  tied 

About  his  counter-pan. 

The  seventh  in  a  sluice-house  box, 

He  took  his  pipe  and  pot  ; 
On  Sundays  for  ^<?/-piety, 

A  very  noted  spot. 

Ah,  blest  if  he  had  never  gone 

Beyond  its  rural  shed  I 
One  Easter-tide,  some  evil  guide 

Put  Epping  in  his  head  I 


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HUMOROUS  SONGS  AND  PA JRODIES— HUNTING    345 

Kpping  for  butter  justly  famed 

And  pork  in  sausage  pop't ; 
Where  winter  time,  or  summer  time, 

Pig's  flesh  is  always  chofiL 

But  famous  more,  as  annals  tell, 

Because  of  Easter  chase  ; 
There  ev'ry  year,  'twixt  dog  and  deer, 

There  is  a  gallant  race. 

With  Monday's  sun  John  Huggins  rose. 

And  slapt  his  leather  thigh. 
And  sang  the  burthen  of  the  song, 

*  This  day  a  stag  must  die.' 

For  all  the  live-long  day  before, 

And  all  the  night  in  bed. 
Like  Beckford,  he  had  nourish'd  *  Thoughts 

On  Hunting'  in  his  head. 

Of  horn  and  mom,  and  hark  and  bark, 

And  echo's  answering  sounds, 
All  poet's  wit  hath  every  writ 

In  ^^-rel  verse  of  hounds, 

Alas  !  there  was  no  warning  voice 

To  whisper  in  his  ear, 
Thou  art  a  fool  in  leaving  Cheap 

To  go  and  hunt  the  deer  ! 

No  thought  he  had  of  twisted  spine, 

Or  broken  arms  or  legs  : 
Not  chicken-hearted  he,  altho' 

'Twas  whisper'd  of  his  eggs  ! 

Ride  out  he  wouldf|*nd  hunt  he  would, 

Nor  dreamt  of  ending  ill ; 
Mayhap  with  Dr.  Ridoufs  fee, 

And  Surgeon  Hunter's  bill. 

So  he  drew  on  his  Sunday  boots, 

Of  lustre  superfine  ; 
The  liquid  black  they  wore  that  day, 

Was  Warren-t^di  to  shine. 

His  yellow  buckskins  fitted  close, 

As  once  upon  a  stag  ; 
Thus  well  equipt  he  gaily  skipt. 

At  once,  upon  his  nag. 

But  first  to  him  that  held  the  rein, 

A  crown  he  nimbly  flung  ; 
For  holding  of  the  horse  ? — why,  no — 

For  holding  of  his  tongue. 


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346  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

To  say  the  horse  was  Huggins*  own, 

Would  only  be  a  brag  ; 
His  neighbour  Fig  and  he  went  halves, 

Like  Centaurs,  in  a  nag. 

And  he  that  day  had  got  the  gray, 
Unknown  to  brother  cit ; 

The  horse  he  knew  would  never  tell, 
Altho'  it  was  a  ///. 

A  well  bred  horse  he  was  I  wis, 

As  he  began  to  show, 
By  quickly  '  rearing  up  within 

The  way  he  ought  to  go/ 

But  Huggins,  like  a  wary  man. 
Was  ne'er  from  saddle  cast ; 

Resolved,  by  going  very  slow. 
On  sitting  very  fast. 

And  so  he  jogged  to  Tot'n'am  Cross, 
An  ancient  town  well  known. 

Where  Edward  wept  for  Eleanor 
In  mortar  and  in  stone. 

A  royal  game  of  fox  and  goose. 

To  play  on  such  a  loss ; 
Wherever  she  set  down  her  orts^ 

Thereby  he  put  a  cross. 

Now  Huggins  had  a  crony  here. 
That  lived  beside  the  way  ; 

One  that  had  promised  sure  to  be 
His  comrade  for  the  day. 

Whereas  the  man  had  chang'd  his  mind, 
Meanwhile  upon  the  case  ! 

And  meaning  not  to  hunt  at  all, 
Had  gone  to  Enfield  Chase. 

For  why,  his  spouse  had  made  him  vow 

To  let  a  game  alone. 
Where  folks  that  ride  a  bit  of  blood. 

May  break  a  bit  of  bone. 

*  Now,  be  his  wife  a  plague  for  life  ! 

A  coward  sure  is  he  : ' 
Then  Huggins  turned  his  horse's  head, 

And  crossed  the  bridge  of  Lea. 

Thence  slowly  on  thro'  Laytonstone, 
Past  many  a  Quaker's  box, — 

No  friends  to  hunters  after  deer, 
Tho'  followers  of  a  Fox, 


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HUMOROUS  SONGS  AND  PARODIES^HUNTING    347 

And  iliany  a  score  behind — before — 

The  self- same  route  inclin'd, 
And  minded  all  to  march  one  way, 

Made  one  great  march  of  mind. 

Gentle  and  simple,  he  and  she, 

And  swell,  and  blood,  and  prig  ; 
And  some  had  carts,  and  some  a  chaise, 

According  to  their  gig. 

Some  long-eaHd  jacks,  some  knacker's  hacks, 

(However  odd  it  sounds), 
Let  out  that  day  to  hunt^  instead 

Of  going  to  the  hounds  / 

And  some  had  horses  of  their  own. 

And  some  were  forced  to  job  it  ; 
And  some,  while  they  incline  to  Hunt^ 

Betook  themselves  to  Cob-it, 

All  sorts  of  vehicles  and  vans, 

Bad,  middling,  and  the  smart ; 
Here  roll'd  along  the  gay  barouche. 

And  there  a  dirty  cart  I 

And  lo  !  a  cart  that  held  a  squad 

Of  costermonger  line  ; 
With  one  poor  hack,  like  Pegasus, 

That  slaVd  for  all  the  Nine  I 

Yet  marvel  not  at  any  load, 

That  any  horse  might  drag  ; 
When  all,  that  mom,  at  once  were  drawn 

Together  by  a  stag  ! 

Now  when  they  saw  John  Huggins  go 
At  such  a  sober  pace  ; 

*  Hallo  ! '  cried  they  ;  *  come,  trot  away, 

You'll  never  see  the  chase  ! ' 

But  John,  as  grave  as  any  judge, 
Made  answers  quite  as  blunt  ; 

*  It  will  be  time  enough  to  trot, 

When  I  begin  to  hunt  I ' 

And  so  he  paced  to  Woodford  Wells, 

Where  many  a  horseman  met. 
And  letting  go  the  reinsy  of  course, 

Prepared  for  heavy  wet. 

And  lo  !  within  the  crowded  door. 

Stood  Rounding,  jovial  elf ; 
Here  shall  the  Muse  frame  no  excuse, 

But  frame  the  man  himself. 


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THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

A  snow  white  head,  a  merry  eye, 

A  cheek  of  jolly  blush  ; 
A  claret  tint  laid  on  by  health, 

With  master  reynard's  brush. 

A  hearty  frame,  a  courteous  bow. 
The  prince  he  learn'd  it  from  ; 

His  age  about  three-score  and  ten, 
And  there  you  have  Old  Tom. 

In  merriest  key  I  trow  was  he. 
So  many  guests  to  boast  ; 

So  certain  congregations  meet, 
And  elevate  the  host. 


-  ^-^f^'^^mm^ 


But  Huggins,  hitching  on  a  tree, 
Brafic Ad  off  from  all  the  rest 

*  Now  welcome,  lads,'  quoth  he,  *  and  prads 

You're  all  in  glorious  luck  : 
Old  Robin  has  a  run  to-day, 
A  noted  forest  buck. 

*  Fair  Mead's  the  place,  where  Bob  and  Tom, 

In  red  already  ride  ; 
Tis  but  a  s^epy  and  on  a  horse 
You  soon  may  go  astride^ 

So  off  they  scamper'd,  man  and  horse, 

As  time  and  temper  press'd  ; — 
But  Huggins,  hitching  on  a  tree, 

Branched  off  from  all  the  rest. 


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HUMOROUS  SONGS  AND  PARODIES— HUNTING    349 

Howbeit  he  tumbled  down  in  time 

To  join  with  Tom  and  Bob, 
All  in  Fair  Mead,  which  held  that  day 

Its  own  fair  meed  of  mob. 

Idlers  to  wit— no  Guardians  some, 

Of  Tattlers  in  a  squeeze  ; 
Ramblers,  in  heavy  carts  and  vans, 

Spectators,  up  in  trees. 

Butchers  on  backs  of  butchers'  hacks, 

That  shambled  to  and  fro '  ! 
Bakers  intent  upon  a  buck. 

Neglectful  of  the  dough  ! 

Change  Alley  Bears  to  speculate, 

As  usual,  for  a  fall ; 
And  green  and  scarlet  runners,  such 

As  never  climb'd  a  wall  ! 

'Twas  strange  to  think  what  difference 

A  single  creature  made  ; 
A  single  stag  had  caused  a  whole 

5/tf^nation  in  their  trade. 

Now  Huggins  from  his  saddle  rose, 

And  in  the  stirrups  stood  ; 
And  lo  I  a  little  cart  that  came 

Hard  by  a  little  wood. 

In  shape  like  half  a  hearse, — tho'  not 

For  corpses  in  the  least ; 
For  this  contained  the  lUcr  aUve^ 

And  not  the  dear  deceased. 

And  now  began  a  sudden  stir, 

And  then  a  sudden  shout. 
The  prison-doors  were  opened  wide. 

And  Robin  bounded  out  ! 

His  antler'd  head  shone  blue  and  red 

Bedeck'd  with  ribbons  fine  ; 
Like  other  bucks  that  come  to  'list 

The  hawbucks  in  the  line. 

One  curious  gaze  of  mild  amaze. 

He  tum'd  and  shortly  took  : 
Then  gently  ran  adown  the  mead, 

And  bounded  o'er  the  brook. 

Now  Huggins  standing  far  aloof, 

Had  never  seen  the  deer, 
Till  all  at  once  he  saw  the  beast. 

Come  charging  in  his  rear. 


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350 


THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

Away  he  went,  and  many  a  score 

Of  riders  did  the  same, 
On  horse  and  ass — like  high  and  low 

And  Jack  pursuing  game  ! 

Good  lord  !  to  see  the  riders  now, 
Thrown  off  with  sudden  whirl, 

A  score  within  the  purlmg  brook, 
Enjo/d  their  *  early  purl/ 

A  score  were  sprawling  on  the  grass. 
And  beavers  fell  in  show'rs  ; 

There  was  another  Floorer  there, 
Beside  the  Queen  of  Flowers  ! 


Till  all  at  once  he  saw  the  beast 
Come  charging  in  his  rear 


Some  lost  their  stirrups,  some  their  whips, 

Some  had  no  caps  to  show  ; 
But  few,  like  Charles  at  Charing  Cross, 

Rode  on  in  Statue  quo. 

*  O  dear  !  O  dear  ! '  now  might  you  hear, 

*  Pve  surely  broke  a  bone  ; ' 

*  My  head  is  sore,' — with  many  more 

Such  speeches  from  the  thrown. 

Howbeit  their  wailings  never  mov'd 

The  wide  satanic  clan. 
Who  grinned,  as  once  the  devil  grinn'd 

To  see  the  fall  of  Man. 


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HUMOROUS  SONGS  AND  PARODIES— HUNTING    351 

And  hunters  good,  that  understood, 
Their  laughter  knew  no  bounds, 

To  sec  the  horses  *  throwing  off,' 
So  long  before  the  hounds. 

For  deer  must  have  due  course  of  law, 

Like  men  the  Courts  among  ; 
Before  those  Barristers  the  dogs 

Proceed  to  *  giving  tongue.* 

But  now  Old  Robin's  foes  were  set, 

That  fatal  taint  to  find, 
That  always  is  scent  after  him. 

Yet  always  left  behind. 

And  here  observe  how  dog  and  man 

A  different  temper  shows, 
What  hound  resents  that  he  is  sent 

To  follow  his  own  nose  t 

Fowler  and  Jowler — howlers  all, 

No  single  tongue  was  mute  ; 
The  stag  had  led  a  hart,  and  lo  ! 

The  whole  pack  followed  suit. 

No  spur  he  lack'd,  fear  stuck  a  knife 

And  fork  in  either  haunch  ; 
And  every  dog  he  knew  had  got 

An  eye  tooth  to  his  paunch  ! 

Away,  away  I  he  scudded  like 

A  ship  before  the  gale  ; 
Now  flew  to  '  hills  we  know  not  of,' 

Now,  nun-like,  took  the  vale. 

Another  squadron  charging  now, 

Went  oft  at  furious  pitch  ; — 
A  perfect  Tam  o'  Shanter  mob, 

Without  a  single  witch. 

But  who  was  he  with  flying  skirts, 

A  hunter  did  endorse, 
And  like  a  poet  seem'd  to  ride 

Upon  a  winged  horse. 

A  whipper  in  ?  no  whipper  in  : 

A  huntsman  ?  no  such  soul  : 
A  connoisseur,  or  amateur  ? 

Why,  yes,— a  Horse  Patrole. 

A  member  of  police,  for  whom 

The  county  found  a  nag. 
And,  like  Acteon  in  the  tale, 

He  found  himself  in  stag  ! 


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352  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

Away  they  went  then  dog  and  deer, 

And  hunters  all  away, — 
The  maddest  horses  never  knew 

Mad  staggers  such  as  they  I 

Some  gave  a  shout,  some  roll'd  about, 

And  antick'd  as  they  rode, 
And  butchers  whistled  on  their  curs, 

And  milkmen  tally  hdd! 

About  two  score  there  were,  not  more. 

That  galloped  in  the  race  ; 
The  rest,  alas  !  lay  on  the  grass. 

As  once  in  Chevy  Chase  ! 

But  even  those  that  gallopped  on. 

Were  fewer  every  minute, — 
The  field  kept  getting  more  select. 

Each  thicket  served  to  thin  it. 

For  some  pulled  up,  and  left  the  hunt. 

Some  fell  in  miry  bogs. 
And  vainly  rose  and  *  ran  a  muck,' 

To  overtake  the  dogs. 

And  some  in  charging  hurdle  stakes. 

Were  left  bereft  of  sense. 
What  else  could  be  premised  of  blades, 

That  never  leam'd  to  fence  ? 

But  Roundings,  Tom  and  Bob,  no  gate. 
Nor  hedge  nor  ditch  could  stay  ; 

O'er  all  they  went,  and  did  the  work 
Of  leap  years  in  a  day. 

And  by  their  side  see  Huggins  ride, 

As  fast  as  he  could  speed  ; 
For,  like  Mazeppa,  he  was  quite 

At  mercy  of  his  steed. 

No  means  he  had,  by  timely  check. 

The  gallop  to  remit. 
For  firm  and  fast,  between  his  teeth, 

The  biter  held  the  bitt. 

Trees  raced  along,  all  Essex  fled 

Beneath  him  as  he  sate, — 
He  never  saw  a  county  go 

At  such  a  county  rate  ! 

*  Hold  hard  !  hold  hard  !  you'll  lame  the  dogs  : ' 

Quoth  Huggins,  *  so  I  do, — 
I've  got  the  saddle  well  in  hand. 

And  hold  as  hard  as  you  ! ' 


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JIUMOROUS  SONGS  AND  PARODIES—HUNTING    353 

Good  lord  !  to  see  him  ride  along, 

And  throw  his  arms  about, 
As  if  with  stitches  in  the  side, 

That  he  was  drawing  out ! 

And  now  he  bounded  up  and  down, 

Now  like  a  jelly  shook  : 
Till  bump'd  and  gall'd — yet  not  where  Gall, 

For  bumps  did  ever  look  ! 

And  rowing  with  his  legs  the  while. 

As  tars  are  apt  to  ride  ; 
With  every  kick  he  gave  a  prick, 

Deep  in  the  horse's  side  ! 


And  like  a  bird  was  singing  out, 
While  sitting  on  a  thorn 

But  soon  the  horse  was  well  avenged. 

For  cruel  smart  of  spurs. 
For,  riding  through  a  moor  he  pitched 

His  master  in  a  furze  ! 

Where  sharper  set  than  hunger  is 

He  squatted  all  forlorn  ; 
And  like  a  bird  was  singing  out 

While  sitting  on  a  thorn  ! 

Right  glad  was  he,  as  well  might  be, 

Such  cushion  to  resign  : 
*  Possession  is  nine  points,'  but  his, 

Seemed  more  than  ninety-nine. 


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354  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

Yet  worse  than  all  the  prickly  points 
That  entered  in  his  skin, 

His  nag  was  running  off  the  while 
The  thorns  were  running  in  ! 

Now  had  a  Papist  seen  his  sport 
Thus  laid  upon  the  shelf, 

Altho'  no  horse  he  had  to  cross, 
He  might  have  crossed  himself. 

Yet  surely  still  the  wind  is  ill 
That  none  can  say  is  fair  ; 

A  jolly  wight  there  was,  that  rode 
Upon  a  sorry  mare  ! 

A  sorry  mare,  that  surely  came 
Of  Pagan  blood  and  bone  ; 

For  down  upon  her  knees  she  went» 
To  many  a  stock  and  stone  ! 

Now  seeing  Huggins'  nag  adrift. 
This  farmer,  shrewd  and  sage, 

Resolved,  by  changing  horses  here, 
To  hunt  another  stage  I 

Thro'  felony,  yet  who  would  let 
Another's  horse  alone. 

Whose  neck  is  placed  in  jeopardy 
By  riding  on  his  own  ? 

And  yet  the  conduct  of  the  man 
Seemed  honest-like  and  fair ; 

For  he  seem'd  willing,  horse  and  all. 
To  go  before  the  inare  ! 

So  up  on  Huggins'  horse  he  got, 
And  swiftly  rode  away, 

While  Huggms  mounted  on  the  mare 
Done  brown  upon  a  bay  ! 

And  off  they  set,  in  double  chase. 
For  such  was  fortune's  whim, 

The  Farmer  rode  to  hunt  the  stag. 
And  Huggins  hunted  him  ! 

Alas  I  with  one  that  rode  so  well 
In  vain  it  was  to  strive  ; 

A  dab  was  he,  as  dabs  should  be  — 
All  leaping  and  alive  ! 

And  here  of  Nature's  kindly  care. 
Behold  a  curious  proof, 

As  nags  are  meant  to  leap  she  puts 
A  frog  in  every  hoof ! 


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HUMOROUS  SONGS  AND  PARODIES— HUNTING    355 

Whereas  the  mare,  altho'  her  share 

She  had  of  hoof  and  frog, 
On  coming  to  a  gate  stopp'd  short 

As  stiff  as  any  log  ; 

Whilst  Huggins  in  the  stirrup  stood 

With  neck  like  neck  of  crane, 
As  sings  the  Scottish  song — *  to  see 

The  gate  his  hart  had  gane.' 

And,  lo  I  the  dim  and  distant  hunt 

Diminjsh'd  in  a  trice  : 
The  steeds,  like  Cinderella's  team, 

Seem'd  dwindling  into  mice  ; 


But  tho'  there  was  no  loll  at  ail, 
They  could  not  clear  the  gate 


And,  far  remote,  each  scarlet  coat 

Soon  flitted  like  a  spark, — 
Tho'  still  the  forest  murmur'd  back 

An  echo  of  the  bark  ! 

But  sad  at  soul  John  Huggins  turn'd  : 

No  comfort  could  he  find  ; 
Whilst  thus  the  *  Hunting  Chorus '  sped 

To  stay  five  bars  behind. 

For  tho'  by  dint  of  spur  he  got 

A  leap  in  spite  of  fate — 
But  the'  there  was  no  toll  at  all. 

They  could  not  clear  the  gate. 


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356  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

And,  like  Fitzjames,  he  cursed  the  hunt, 
And  sorely  cursed  the  day, 

And  mused  a  new  Gray's  eleg>' 
On  his  departed  gray  ! 

Now  many  a  sign  at  Woodford  Town 

Its  Inn-vitation  tells  : 
But  Huggins,  full  of  ills,  of  course 

Betook  him  to  the  Wells. 

Where  Rounding  tried  to  cheer  him  up 
With  many  a  merry  laugh  : 

But  Huggins  thought  of  neighbour  Fig 
And  calPd  for  half-and-half. 

Yet,  spite  of  drink,  he  could  not  blink 
Remembrance  of  his  loss  ; 

To  drown  a  care  like  his,  required 
Enough  to  drown  a  horse. 

When  thus  forlorn,  a  merry  horn 
Struck  up  without  the  door, 

The  mounted  mob  have  all  retum'd, 
The  Epping  Hunt  was  o'er  ! 

And  many  horse  was  taken  out 

Of  saddle,  and  of  shaft ; 
And  men,  by  dint  of  drink,  became 

The  only  ^beasts  of  draught.^ 

For  now  begun  a  harder  run 
On  wine,  and  gin,  and  beer  ; 

And  overtaken  men  discuss'd 
The  overtaken  deer. 

How  far  he  ran,  and  eke  how  fast. 
And  how  at  bay  he  stood, 

Deerlike,  resolved  to  sell  his  life 
As  dearly  as  he  could  ; — 

And  how  the  hunters  stood  aloof, 

Regardful  of  their  lives. 
And  shunn'd  a  beast,  whose  ver>'  horns 

They  knew  could  handle  knives  I 

How  Huggins  stood  when  he  was  rubb'd 

By  help  and  ostler  kind. 
And  when  they  cleaned  the  clay  before, 

How  *  worse  remain'd  behind.' 

And  one,  how  he  had  found  a  horse 

Adrift — a  goodly  gray  ! 
And  kindly  rode  the  nag,  for  fear 

The  nag  should  go  astray  ; 


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Now,  Huggins,  when  he  heard  the  tale, 

Jump'd  up  with  sudden  glee  ; 
*  A  goodly  gray  !  why,  then,  I  say 

That  gray  belongs  to  me  ! 

'  Let  me  endorse  again  my  horse. 

Delivered  safe  and  sound  ; 
And,  gladly,  I  will  give  the  man 

A  bottle  and  a  pound  ! ' 


And  when  they  cleared  the  clay  before, 
How  •  worse  remained  behind  ' 


The  wine  was  drunk, — the  money  paid, 

Tho'  not  without  remorse. 
To  pay  another  man  so  much. 

For  riding  on  his  horse  ; — 

And  let  the  chase  again  take  place 

For  many  a  long,  long  year — 
John  Huggins  will  not  ride  again 

To  hunt  the  Epping  Deer  ! 

Moral 

Thus  Pleasure  oft  eludes  our  grasp. 

Just  when  we  think  to  grip  her  ; 
And  hunting  after  Happiness, 

We  only  hunt  a  slipper. 

T.  Hooi>,  The  F.pping  Hunt,  1829. 


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358  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

Song  to  the  New  Year 

Come  New  Year,  and  bring  with  thee 

All  true  sons  of  Venerie — 

Men  who  love  that  joyous  sound, 

The  challenge  of  the  eager  hound, 

When  the  wily  fox  is  found. — 

Men  who  shout  the  wild  halloo 

When  the  flying  fox  ihey  view — 

Men  who  love  the  merry  lass — 

Men  who  circulate  the  glass — 

All  true  sportsmen  bring  with  thee, 

Wrapt  in  the  garb  of  gaiety. 

Cast  behind  thee  sin  and  sorrow, 

Give  us  joy  to-day,  to-morrow  : 

Give  us  life's  choice  merriment, 

A  foremost  start,  and  blazing  scent. 

Banish  frost  and  banish  snow. 

Give  us  horses  that  can  go.  •* 

Sporting  Magazine,  July  1835.     Also  from  Iluntin^^ 
Journal  of  Sport  in  the  West, 

Song 


Stags  in  the  forest  lie,  hares  in  the  valley- o  ! 

Web-footed  otters  are  spear'd  in  the  lochs  ; 
Ueasts  of  the  chace  that  are  not  worth  a  Tally-ho  I 
All  are  surpassed  by  the  gorse-cover  fox  ! 
Fishing,  though  pleasant, 
I  sing  not  at  present. 
Nor  shooting  the  pheasant. 

Nor  fighting  of  cocks  ; 
Song  shall  declare  a  way 
How  to  drive  care  away, 
Pain  and  despair  away, 
Hunting  the  fox  I 

II 
Hulls  in  gay  Seville  are  led  forth  to  slaughter,  nor 

Dames,  in  high  rapture,  the  spectacle  shocks ; 
Hrighter  in  Britain  the  charms  of  each  daughter,  nor 
Dreads  the  bright  charmer  to  follow  the  fox. 
Spain  may  delight  in 
A  sport  so  exciting  ; 
Whilst  'stead  of  bull-fighting 

We  fatten  the  ox  ; 
Song  shall  declare  a  way,  &c. 


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JiUMOROUS  SONGS  AND  PARODIES— HUNTING    359 


III 


England's  green  pastures  are  graz'd  in  security, 
Thanks  to  the  Saxon  who  car'd  for  our  flocks  ! 

He  who  reserving  the  sport  for  futurity, 
Sweeping  our  wolves  away  left  us  the  fox. 


When  joviality 
Chases  formality, 
When  hospitality 

Cellars  unlocks  ; 
Song  shall  declare  a  way 
How  to  drive  care  away, 
Pain  and  despair  away, 

Hunting  the  fox. 


R.   E.   lUJERTON  WaRBUKTON,   1845. 


Some  Love  to  Ride 


(Parody  on  *  Some  love  to  roam  o'er  the  dark  sea  foam  ') 

Some  love  to  ride  o'er  the  flowing  tide, 

And  dash  thro'  the  pathless  sea  ; 
But  the  steed's  brave  bound,  and  the  opening  hound. 

And  the  rattling  burst  for  me. 


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36o  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

Some  track  the  deer  o'er  the  mountain  clear  ; 

But  though  wary  the  stalker's  eye, 
Be  it  mine  to  speed  o'er  the  grassy  mead, 

And  ride  to  a  scent  breast-high. 

Breast-high,  &c. 

There  are  those  that  love  all  the  joys  to  prove. 

That  crowd  in  the  mantling  bowl ; 
Who  bow  to  the  nod  of  the  Thracian  god, 

And  yield  him  up  their  soul. 
Some  speed  the  ball  thro'  the  lamp-lit  hall. 

With  music  and  revel  free  ; 
Or  woo  beauty's  glance  in  the  mazy  dance. 

But  the  joys  of  the  chase  for  me. 

For  me,  &c. 

W^hen  we  mount  and  away  at  the  break  of  day, 

And  we  hie  to  the  woodland  side  ; 
How  the  crash  resounds  as  we  cheer  our  hounds. 

And  still  at  their  sterns  we  ride. 
Then  at  dewy  eve,  when  our  sport  we  leave, 

And  the  board  we  circle  round, 
How  each  boasts  the  speed  of  his  fastest  steed. 

And  the  dash  of  his  favourite  hound. 

His  hound,  Ac. 

Then  those  that  will,  may  the  bumper  fill, 

Or  trace  out  the  dance  with  glee  ; 
But  the  steed's  brave  bound,  and  the  opening  hound. 
And  the  rattling  burst  for  me. 

For  me,  &c. 

Sporting  Magazine,  1850^ 

The  Good  Grey  Mare 

Dedicated  to  the  Hon.  Robert  Grimston^  in  kindly  rente mbrance- 
of  many  happy  days  and  pleasant  rides 

Oh  !  once  I  believed  in  a  woman's  kiss, 

I  had  faith  in  a  flattering  tongue, 
For  lip  to  lip  was  a  promise  of  bliss. 

When  lips  were  smooth  and  young. 
But  now  the  beard  is  grey  on  my  cheek, 

And  the  top  of  my  head  gets  bare, 
So  little  I  speak,  like  an  Arab  scheik, 

And  put  my  trust  in  my  mare. 

For  loving  looks  grow  hard  and  cold. 

Fair  heads  are  turned  away. 
When  the  fruit  has  been  gathered,  the  tale  been  told 

And  the  dog  has  had  his  day. 


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But  chance  and  change  'tis  folly  to  rue, 

Say  I,  the  devil  may  care  I 
Nor  grey  nor  blue  is  so  bonny  and  true 

As  the  bright  brown  eye  of  my  mare. 

It  is  good  for  the  heart  that's  chilled  and  sad 

With  the  death  of  a  vain  desire, 
To  borrow  a  glow  that  shall  make  it  glad 

From  the  warmth  of  a  kindred  fire. 
And  I  leap  to  the  saddle,  a  man  indeed  ! 

For  all  I  can  do  and  dare. 
In  the  power  and  speed  that  are  mine  at  need 

While  I  sit  on  the  back  of  my  mare. 

With  the  free,  wide  heaven  above  outspread, 

The  free,  wide  plain  to  meet, 
With  the  lark  and  his  carol  high  over  my  head, 

And  the  bustling  pack  at  my  feet, 
I  feel  no  fetter,  I  know  no  bounds, 

I  am  free  as  a  bird  in  the  air, 
While  the  covert  resounds  in  a  chorus  of  hounds 

Right  under  the  nose  of  the  mare. 

We  are  in  for  a  gallop  I     Away  !  away  ! 

I  told  them  my  beauty  could  fly. 
And  we'll  lead  them  a  dance  ere  they  catch  us  to-day, 

For  we  mean  it — my  lass  and  I  ! 
She  skims  the  fences,  she  scours  the  plain, 

Like  a  creature  winged,  I  swear. 
With  snort  and  strain  on  the  yielding  rein  ; 

For  I'm  bound  to  humour  the  mare. 

They  have  pleached  it  strong  ;  they  have  dug  it  wide  ; 

They  have  turned  the  baulk  with  the  plough. 
The  horse  that  can  cover  the  whole  in  its  stride 

Is  cheap  at  a  thousand,  I  vow  ! 
So  I  draw  her  together,  and  over  we  sail, 

With  a  yard  and  a  half  to  spare  ! 
Bank,  bull-finch,  and  rail,  it's  the  curse  of  the  Vale  1 

But  I  leave  it  all  to  the  mare. 

Away  !  away  I  they've  been  running  to  kill  ! 

With  never  a  check  from  the  find. 
Away  !  away  !  we  are  close  to  them  still, 

And  the  field  are  furlongs  behind  ! 
They  can  hardly  deny  they  were  out  of  the  game, 

Lost  half  *  the  Fun  of  the  Fair,' 
Through  the  envious  blame,  and  the  jealous  exclaim,. 

*  How  that  old  fool  buckets  his  mare  ! ' 


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362  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

Who-whoop  I     They  have  him  !     They're  round  him  ;  how 

They  worry  and  tear  when  he's  down  I 
'Twas  a  stout  hill-fox  when  they  found  him  ;  now 

Tis  a  hundred  tatters  of  bro\yn  I 
And  the  riders,  arriving  as  best  they  can, 

In  panting  plight  declare, 
*  That  first  in  the  van  was  the  old  grey  man 

Who  stands  by  the  old  grey  mare.' 

I  have  lived  my  life  ;  1  am  nearly  done  ; 

I  have  played  the  game  all  round  ; 
Hut  I  freely  admit  that  the  best  of  my  fun, 

I  owe  it  to  horse  and  hound. 
With  a  hopeful  heart  and  a  conscience  clear 

I  can  laugh  in  your  face,  Black  Care  ! 
Though  you're  hovering  near,  there's  no  room  for  you  here, 

On  the  back  of  my  good  grey  mare. 

(}.  J.  Whvtk-Mei.villi:,  Daily  s  Magazine,  November  1871. 


The  'lint 


Wot  makes  the  'untsman's  'cart  to  beat,  what  makes  'im  turn  so  pale  ? 
It  isn't  jumpin'  of  the  ditch,  nor  yet  the  post  and  rail  ; 
Hut  it's  cverlastin'  waitin'  on  the  everlastin'  rack 
For  the  'untsman  of  the  stag'ounds  and  the  yclpin'  stag'ound  pack. 
O  the  'unt  :  O  the  'unt  !  O  the  dancin',  prancin'  'unt ! 

With  all  the  boys  a-shoutin'  out  and  frightin'  of  the  deer. 
The  courage  as  was  keen  at  first  is  gettin  precious  blunt, 

The  cockles  of  the  'eart  is  chilled,  the  limbs  they  quakes  with 
fear. 

W^hat  makes  the  Master  swear  so  'ard  when  off  we  starts  at  last  ? 
And  he  is  like  pretendin'  of  to  make  a  sort  o'  cast. 
It  ain't  at  'alf  the  blessed  field  as  goes  a  skulkin'  round. 
But  at  them  fools  as  rode  the  scent,  and  one  as  rode  an  'ound. 
O  the  'un*  !  O  the  'unt  !  O  the  dashin',  slashin'  'unt  ! 

A  flyin'  and  a  nishin'  to  the  fray  ; 
W^ith  the  boasters  soon  be'ind  and  the  usual  ones  in  front, 
.•\n'  three  quarters  on  the  Queen's  'ighway. 

The  'ack  'orse  knows  above  a  bit,  the  young  un's  but  a  fool, 
The  thoroughbred's  a  gentleman,  the  cob's  a  useful  tool, 
Hut  most  of  these  will  think  they  bear,  afore  the  day  is  done, 
A  plaster-cast,  a  horse-marine,  and  tailor  rolled  in  one, 
O  the  'unt  I  ()  the  'unt  1  the  appallin',  fallin'  'unt  ! 

With  the  "orseman  rollin'  over  on  the  ground. 
While  the  steed's  be'ind  the  'edge,  and  'is  rider  just  in  front, 
With  some  sparks  a  floatin  sweetly  round  an'  round. 


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HUMOROUS  SONGS  AND  PARODIES—HUNTING    363 

The  screw  upon  the  roads  is  lame  and  stumbles  awful  vile, 
You'd  'ardly  think  'e'd  ever  get  beyond  the  fust  'alf  mile, 
But  turn  'im  on  the  grass,  my  boy,  'e'll  think  o'  days  gone  by. 
And  gallop  with  the  bravest  though  'e  splits  'isself  and  die. 
O  the  'unt  I  O  the  'unt  !  O  the  bumptious,  scrumptious  'unt  I 
When  the  g^n  is  in  your  noddle  and  the  'edge  is  left  be'ind. 
And  the  jolly  open  country  is  a  stretchin'  right  in  front, 
With  the  chorus  of  the  bloomin'  dawgs  a  floatin'  on  the  wind. 

And  O  I  the  glorious  finish  when  the  deer  is  brought  to  book. 
And  is  bathin'  of  her  beauties  in  a  beastly  dirty  brook, 
W^hen  the  whips  'ave  cast  their  whips  aside  and  taken  rods  instead, 
And  are  fishin'  for  to  collar-of  the  poor  thing's  bobbin  'ead  I 
O  the  'unt  \  O  the  'unt  \  O  the  variegated  'unt  ! 

With  its  jumpin'  and  its  funkin'  and  its  fishin'  all  combined. 
When  the  red-coats  tug  be'ind  and  the  quarry  tugs  in  front. 
With*  a  rope  about  'er  little  neck  entwined. 

And  when  at  length  the  sport  is  o'er  and  night's  a  drawin'  nigh, 
And  we  jogs  along  together  and  uncarts  the  common  lie, 
Then  each  one  tells  of  what  'e  did  when  no  one  else  was  near. 
And  'ow  'e  jumped  that  six-barred  gate  with  not  a  thought  of  fear. 
O  the  'unt  !  O  the  'unt  1  O  the  lyin',  flyin'  'unt  .' 
That  we  all  can  boast  about  at  night  when  the  liquor's  movin* 
free  I 
Then  from  the  start  until  the  take  all  finds  they  rode  in  front, 
Though  'ow  the  deuce  it  came  about  I'm  blest  if  I  can  see  ! 


Bolts 


I've  a  head  like  a  violin-case  ;  I've  a  jaw  like  a  piece  of  steel  ; 

I've  a  mouth  like  india-rubber,  and  devil  a  bit  I  feel ; 

So  I've  had  my  fun  with  a  biped  thing  that  clambered  upon  my 

back, 
And  I'm  in  at  the  death,  though  I'm  panting  for  breath,  right  bang 

in  the  midst  of  the  pack. 

With  a  cockney  sportsman  mounted  on  top, 

That  has  hired  me  out  for  the  day, 
It's  the  moment  for  me  to  be  oflffor  a  spree 

In  a  new  and  original  way. 

In  my  own  most  original  way. 

Oats  I  but  my  spirits  were  gay  I 
When  I  betted  my  bit  that  my  rider  should  sit 

Somewhere  else  ere  the  close  of  the  day. 


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364 


THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 


I  started  a  gentle  canter  ;  I  felt  him  bob  about, 

His  spurs  went  in,  and  the  roots  of  sin,  they  whipped  my  hind  legs 

out. 
He  put  his  arms  around  my  neck,  'twas  kindly  meant,  I  swear, 
But  he  had  no  call  to  spoil  it  all  by  pulling  out  half  my  hair. 


They  whipped  my  hind  legs  out 

He  left  his  hat  in  a  puddle,  he  left  his  whip  on  a  gate. 
The  briars  knew  where,  but  1  don't  care,  the  bits  of  his  tunic  wait  ; 
He  bade  me  stay,  I  raced  away,  to  the  sound  of  the  huntsman's  horn, 
And  at  last  I  laid  him  gently  in  the  arms  of  a  bold  blackthorn. 

The  whip  waits  safe  in  the  harness-room,  the  groom  in  the  stable 

yard. 
It's  not  that  I  mind  a  tanning — my  hide's  grown  far  too  hard— 
But    that   tied   to  a  fly  I'm  safe  to  die,  and  on  chaff  and  straw 

abstain, 
For  sure  as  I  snort,  if  they  give  me  this  sort,  of  course  I  shall  do 

it  again. 


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nUMOROUS  SONGS  AND  PARODIES— HUNTING    365 

With  a  cockney  sportsman  mounted  on  top, 
That  has  hired  me  out  for  the  day, 
It's  the  moment  for  me  to  be  off  for  a  spree 
In  a  new  and  original  way. 


In  ihe  arms  of  a  bold  blackthorn 

In  my  own  most  original  way. 
Oats  !  but  my  spirits  were  gay  I 
When  I  betted  my  bit  that  my  rider  should  sit. 
Somewhere  else  ere  the  close  of  the  day. 


Great  Guns 

By  a  Member  of  the  Burstow  Hunt 

Scorning  the  thickest  of  cover,  scorning  the  closest  of  gorse. 
We  watch  the  keenest  of  sportsmen  riding  his  old  brown  horse  ; 
With  twenty  couple  around  him,  and  to  every  youngster  it's  clear 
That  only  the  pick  of  the  puppies  will  hunt  in  the  following  year. 


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366  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

Yet  they  all  love  the  Master— the  Master  he  loves  each  one  I 
And  if  there's  a  fox  in  the  cover  he*ll  show  us  the  way  to  the 
fun  ; 
It  may  send  in  its  brush  and  surrender,  or  choose  out  straight 

courses  or  rounds, 
It  may  go  where  it  please,  it  may  climb  up  the  trees,  but   it 
won't  get  away  from  the  hounds  ! 

He  sends  us  along  where  the  roads  are,  but  mostly  he  goes  where 

they  ain't, 
He  slips  from  each  cover  to  cover,  till  half  the  young  ladies  are 

famt ; 
But  when  the  fox  steals  to  the  open  he  welcomes  us  back  to  his 

side, 
And  the  gas-er  who  fancies  his  knowledge  grows  wiser  in  watching 

him  ride. 

If  a  man  plays  the  fool,  \\'h)',  he  whispers  and  teaches  him  how  to 
behave, 

If  a  bounder  comes  pressing  before  him,  to  show  that  he  isn't 
afraid, 

He'll  allow  him  to  lead  till  he's  sorry,  then  show  him  that  know- 
ledge and  sense 

Are  needed  by  every  rider  at  timber,  or  water,  or  fence. 

He's  the  friend  of  the  owner  and  tenant,  and  welcomes  them  all  to 

the  meet, 
But  woe  to  the  cockney  beginner,  who  doesn't  know  stubble  from 

wheat  I 
He'll   think   that  he's  found  out  a  short  cut,  and   is  gaining  an 

excellent  start, 
But  find  that  it  cuts  him  in  two  ways — and  one  in  the  pride  of  his 

heart. 

From  the  hour  of  the  meet  in  the  morning  to  the  time  of  the  fading 

of  light. 
We  follow  our  Master  contented,  whene'er  we  can  keep  him  in 

sight. 
And  a  view  of  his  coat  is  our  beacon,  the  sound  of  his  horn  is  our 

call. 
But  his  cheer  to  the  hounds  when  he's  near  us — ah  I  that  is  the 

sweetest  of  all  I 

Then  away  we  can  go  from  the  cover,  and  leaving  the  prickly 

gorse, 
Can  follow  that  keenest  of  sportsmen  riding  his  old  brown  horse  ; 
The  boaster  may  say  what  his  road  was,  or  how  the  great  hedges 

flew  past, 
I'm  thankful  to  mercies  vouchsafed  me,  if  only  I'm  in  at  the  last. 


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HUMOROUS  SONGS  AND  PARODIES— HUNTING    367 

For  you  all  love  the  Master— the  Master  he  loves  you  I 

And  when  the  fox  breaks  from   the  co^  er  o'  course  it'll  know 

what  to  do. 
Just  send  in  its  brush  and  surrender,  or  run  in  straight  courses 

or  rounds, 
It  may  go  where  it  please,  it  may  climb  up  the  trees,  but  it 

won't  get  away  from  the  hounds  I 


Jorrocks,  or  the  Sporting  Tomlinson 

Now  Jorrocks  went  to  sleep  one  night  and  dreamt  that  he  was 

dead, 
And  he  thought  a  spirit  was  standing  near  just  close  beside  his. 

bed. 
The  spirit  grinned  a  ghastly  grin,  as  a  fox  when  brought  to  bay, 
Then  slung  poor  Jorrocks  on  his  back,  and  bore  him  far  away. 


C£«, 


The  spirit  grinned  a  ghastly  grin 

Right  through  the  dripping   clouds  they  dipped  and  down  and 

down  they  fell, 
Till  at  last  they  came  to  a  roadside  inn,  the  half-way  house  to  HelL 
The  spirit  tied  our  hero  up  in  a  sack  which  would  not  fit, 
And  a  vixen  at  the  bar  did  laugh  and  giggled  till  she  split  ; 


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368  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

But  when  she  found  she'd  come  in  two,  she  had  a  little  cry, 
Then  swore  it  was  the  bag-man's  fault  and  the  spirit  answered 
'Ay!' 

*  The  coverts  of  sin,'  he  said,  '  were  thin,  and  the  Devil  had  bade 

him  go 
And  import  some  n\en  from  the  earth  above  and  carry  them  down 

below. 
Now  here's  one  understands  the  game,  a  good  old  hunting  sort, 
And  I  guess  when  the  hell-hounds  are  on  his  track  he'll  show  some 

pretty  sport.' 
At  this  he  filled  a  goblet  full  of  sparkling  liquid  flame 
And  bade  the  other  spirits  there  to  join  and  do  the  same. 
5o  very  soon  the  room  was  full  of  smoke  and  oaths  and  laughter. 
While  our  poor  hero  in  a  sack  hung  dangling  from  a  rafter. 
Then  Jorrocks  he  was  filled  with  wrath  and  he  began  to  bluster, 
Though  his  soul,  with  fear,  had  turned  as  white  as  a  housemaid's 

dirty  duster. 
•*  Tell  me,'   quoth  he,  *  I  pray  what  means  this  most  unseemly 

revel  '^. 
If  I  am  bound  for  Hell,  be  quick  and  take  me  to  the  Devil ! ' 

*  You're  bound  all  right,'  they  answered  him,  *  nor  will  you  soon 

get  back. 
For  though  you're  in  one  now,  down  there  they  never  give  the 

sack. 
It's  only  fair  you  should  have  rest  after  the  toil  and  strife, 
Since  you've  been  trotting  down  the  road  for  well  nigh  all  your 

life  ! ' 
Then  Jorrocks  peeping  through  a  hole  did  yammer,  *  Let  me  out  I ' 
But  the  fox-like  fiends   they  only  grinned   and   swung  the  bag 

about. 
At  last  they  seized  their  wretched  prey  whose  prayer  they  would 

not  heed, 
And  tied  the  sack  on  the  bony  back  of  a  big,  black,  bounding 

steed. 
From  his  place  of  doom,  as  they  bumped  along,  he  saw  the  stars 

at  play 
And  his  soul  was  turned  to  butter  as  they  churned  through  the 

milky  way. 
But  they  came  at  last  to  the  gate  of  Hell,  and  one  spoke  loud  and 

clear, 

*  Come,  tell  us  I   pray,  what  sort  of  game  you've  bagged  in  that 

sacking  there  }  * 
But  the  demon  horse  was  out  of  breath  and  could  not  make  reply. 
So  Jorrocks  thought  of  his  grammar  for  once,  and  answered  *  It 

is  I!' 
The  Devil  lifted  his  noble  brush,  and  the  little  foxes  fled, 
"'  Aha  ! '  quoth  he,  *  so  the  M.F.H.  of  the  Surrey  Hunt  is  dead  ! ' 
And  though  the  price  of  good  hell-hounds  is  rising  day  by  day, 
I'll  eat  my  mask  if  the  very  best  on  your  track  we  fail  to  lay. 


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Yea,  none  shall  tell  that  ere  it  fell,  that  I  once  suffered  scorn 
From  the  keenest  of  British  sportsmen  that  ever  in   tojvn  was 

bom. 
Sit  down,  sit  down  upon  the  slag,  while  we  are  getting  ready, 
A  ride  in  that  old  sack  would  make  a  ver>'  fox  unsteady  ! ' 
Then  did    our    sportsman    being    free,    look    up    and    up    and 

up; 
And  *  Sure  I '  said  he,  *  my  sorrow  is  o'erflowing  of  its  cup  I ' 
And   then  he  looked   all   round   and   round  and  loudly   uttered 

*  Zounds  I ' 


X^St^Jr^, 


A  big,  black,  bounding  steed 


For  Hell  seemed  overflowing  too  and  pouring  out  its  hounds 
Now  scenes  began  to  get  confused,  as  scenes  will  do  in  dreams. 
When  the  world  gets  topsy-turvy,  and  nought  is  as  it  seems. 
For  a  whisper  passed  and  at  its  sound  our  hero  he  did  run, 
*  The  sport  ye  go  to  two  and  two  ye  must  pay  for  one  by  one  ! ' 
He  saw  a  sight  that  well  might  fright  the  boldest  human  heart, 
Two  hundred  mounted  foxes  all  a-waiting  for  the  start  ! 
He  got  confused,  the  hounds  drew  near,  he  scanned  the  country 

round, 
But  not  a  sign  of  shrub  or  tree  could  anywhere  be  found  ; 

B  B 


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370  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

He  thought  again,  and  as  he  thought,  he  watched  his  trembhng 

knees, 
And  then  remembered  with  delight  that  boots  oft  covered  trees  : 
He  therefore  slipped  his  brown  tops  oflT,  but  found  the>''d  done  him 

drozt/n^ 
For  those  who  brought  him  here,   alas  I    had   left   the    /rees   in 

town. 
Then  through  his  brain  there  flashed  a  thought,  straight  as  a  well- 
sent  rocket, 
He  had  a  sporting  novel  put  within  his  great  coat  pocket  ; 
So  out  he  took  it,  and  in  haste  he  dived  beneath  the  caver, 
But  there  was  little  substance  there,  alack  I  he  did  discover. 
It  was  as  thin  as  thin  could  be,  no  deep  and  restful  places, 
And  so  he  turned,  in  his  despair,  and  thought  about  his  braces  ; 
A  brace  of  foxes  would  confuse  the  finest  hounds  he  knew, 
So  his  suspenders  he  took  off  and  tore  them  right  in  two. 
He  got  his  breeches  caked  with  mire,  as  onward  he  did  rush. 
Which  made  him  wonder  who  the  deuce  would  ever  get  his  brush. 
To  join  in  such  a  masquerade  he  found  a  gruesome  task 
And  stroked  his  whiskers  to  be  sure  he  still  had  on  his  mask. 
The  hounds  rushed  on,  he  felt  their  breath,  it  cut  him  as  a  knife, 
And  like  an  over-eaten  fox  he  bolted  for  his  life. 
The  Devil  blew  upon  his  horn  and  set  it  down  to  cool. 
Then  whipped  a  hell-bred  puppy  up  and  called  the  thing  a  fool. 
Now  Jorrocks  he  looked  to  and  fro,  but  there  was  little  grace. 
For  the  plains  of  Hell  seemed  endless,  a  desert  of  naked  space. 
And  still  they  come,  and  still  they  run,  the  hounds  seem  deuced 

fresh 
As  their  poor  prey  bore  on  his  way  a  ponderous  load  of  flesh. 
The  pace  he  felt  was  getting  hot,  *  In  such  a  prickly  heat,' 
He  said  *  no  man  would  come  with  joy  to  zny  game  or  meet ; 
\^\i'A^  flying  2\\  my  flesh  doth  crawly  I'm  blmvn  before  I  die, 
Kfly  's  laid  on  me,  how  I  wish  they'd  lay  me  on  ayfj'.' 
Still  o'er  the  coal  they  chased  his  soul  and  round  and  round,  and 

round 
Till  at  last,  in  a  tomb,  he  found  just  room  to  burrow  and  go  to 

ground. 
The  fiendish  crew  now  nearer  drew,  and  cried  in  tones  of  ire, 
'  Did  we  not  pay  some  fool  to-day  to  stop  up  these  with  fire  ?' 
The  Devil  he  bowed  his  head  in  his  fur  and  yapped  out  sharp  and 

clear 
*  CiO  forth  and  say  I  want  to-day  some  graveyard  diggers  here. 
For  close  he  lies  and  deep  he  lies,  and  if  we  give  him  grace, 
I  fear  this  Surrey  hunting  man  might  flout  me  to  the  face. 
He'd  call  my  pack  a  half-bred  crew,  and  me  a  wretched  stag-man, 
If  I  should  fail  to  see  the  end  of  such  a  bloated  bag-man  I* 
The  diggers  came,  the  diggers  dug,   and   one   gripped  Jorrocks 

tightly, 
All  covered  as  he  was  with  mud,  for  once  he  looked  unsightly, 


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u 

o 


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HUMOROUS  SONGS  AND  PARODIES— HUNTING  371 

Then  to  the  master  him  they  brought,  a  simple  mould  of  clay, 
And  said,  *  The  brush  he  must  have  had  he's  bartered  clean  away. 
We've  looked  him  o'er,  behind,  before,  and  turned  him  round  and 

round, 
But  only  two  he  must  have  stole  could  anywhere  be  found. 
We  have  handled  him,  we  have  dandled  him,  and  traced  his  spinal 

bone, 
But  sure  if  tooth  and  nails  shew  truth,  he  has  no  brush  of  his 

own  I ' 
The  Devil  blew  a  lood  too-too,  and  took  his  prey  with  care. 

*  You  have  scarce  the  fang  of  a  man,'  said  he,  *  but  the  roots  of 

some  are  there.' 
Then  Jorrocks  whispered  in  his  ear,  *  What  mean  you  with  that 

knife .' 
Are  you  about  to  take  my  mask,  before  you  take  my  life  } ' 
The   huntsman  blushed   a   rosy   pink,   his   heart   was  filled  with 

shame, 
To  think  that  he'd  quite  forgotten  a  rule  of  the  grand  old  game. 
'  I'm  all  o'er-sib  to  Adam's  breed,  that  1  should  gi\e  you  pain, 

*  But  I  do  not  see  the  way,'  said  he,  *  to  start  you  ofif  again. 

Go  hence,  go  hence  to  the  upper  land,  for  my  companions  wait. 
There's  no  more  time  for  a  run  to-day,  it's  getting  far  too  late.' 
To  answer  this  poor  Jorrocks  failed,  the  argument  it  beat  him. 
The  knife  went  in,  and  'whoop  ! '  he  heard,  *now  tear  'im  up  and 

eat  'im.' 
The  steel  drove  through  his  quivering  lips  a  very  piercing  scream 
Which,  penetrating  slumber  sound,  cut  up  his  mangled  dream. 


The  Young  British  Sportsman 

When  the  sporting  young  cockney  comes  out  for  a  ride 
He  acts  like  a  fool,  and  he  shows  too  much  side, 
And  he  thinks  men  admire  when  they  only  deride 
The  form  that  he  shows  as  a  sportsman. 

Now  all  you  young  mashers  out  hunting  to-day. 
Stop  cracking  your  lashes  and  hark  to  my  lay, 
And  I'll  sing  you  a  sportsman,  as  far  as  I  may, 

A  sportsman  that's  fit  for  a  sportsman. 

Y'wsX  mind  you  keep  clear  of  the  breakfast  some  give, 
For  your  wisdom's  not  great,  and  as  sure  as  you  live 
The  liquor  will  wash  it  away  through  your  sieve. 

And  you'll  need  all  you've  got  as  a  sportsman. 

When  the  funk  takes  your  heart — as  it  will  past  a  doubt — 
Keep  your  hand  from  the  flask  that  )()u  long  to  take  out, 
For  when  whiskey  goes  in  there'll  be  folly  about, 

And  it  muddles  the  brain  of  a  sportsman. 

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372  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

But  the  worst  of  your  foes  is  the  pride  in  your  pate. 
And  to  seem  not  to  know  is  the  thing  that  you  hate, 
If  you  try  to  show  off  you  will  meet  with  the  fate 

Of  fools  who  would  like  to  be  sportsmen  ! 

As  you're  riding  to  cover  don't  look  for  a  rail, 
When  you  clear  it,  men  call  you  an  ass,  if  you  fail 
You  will  miss  a  day's  fun,  and  you'll  find  that  the  tale 
Will  cling  to  your  back  as  a  sportsman. 

In  choosing  a  hunter  take  care  she  is  old, 
A  knowing  old  hack  is  the  best  1  am  told, 
She'll  keep  you  from  being  too  shy  or  too  bold. 

And  teach  you  the  work  of  a  sportsman. 


The  language  is  strong  that  some  give  to  the  young  British  sportsman 

But  if  she  refuse,  then  to  press  her  be  loath, 

She  knows  better  than  you  do,  of  that  take  your  oath, 

And  to  jump  might  mean  often  a  fall  for  you  both 

Which  might  crumple  the  limbs  of  a  sportsman. 

But  when  she  is  willing  just  give  her  her  head, 
Stick  close  to  your  saddle  and  go  where  you're  led, 
And  when  you  fall  off  do  not  fancy  you're  dead, 

For  the  mud  is  made  soft  to  the  sportsman. 

If  you  see  the  fox  sneak  from  the  cover  and  go 
Away  from  the  open,  just  lie  precious  low- 
Close  up  to  the  cover,  don't  shout  *  Tally-ho  I ' 
For  it  ruins  the  run  of  a  sportsman. 


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HUMOROUS  SONGS  AND  PARODIES— HUNTING  m 

If  you  fancy  you  know  that  the  huntsman  is  wrong, 

And  think  that  the  fox  has  some  other  way  gone, 

Keep  the  thought  to  yourself,  for  the  language  is  strong 

That  some  give  to  the  young  British  sportsman. 

And  remember  this  rule,  if  you  want  to  be  right. 
That  the  sport,  not  the  riding,  should  be  your  delight ; 
You  are  mounted  to  see  it,  so  keep  well  in  sight 

Of  the  hounds  who  are  really  the  sportsmen. 

And  when  you  ride  home  at  the  end  of  the  day 
Don't  brag  of  your  doings  the  whole  of  the  way, 
You'll  be  judged  by  your  deeds,  not  the  words  that  you  say, 
And  the  boaster  is  seldom  a  sportsman. 


Au    Revoir 

There's  a  feel  in  the  air,  and  a  look  of  don't  care. 

On  the  riders  half-baked  in  the  sun. 
And  the  hounds  seem  asleep,  and  the  scent  it  won't  keep, 
So  we  know  that  our  hunting  is  done. 

We  have  had  too  much  of  the  eastern  wind. 
And  the  ground  has  cried  for  the  rain. 
But  it  seems  very  hard  from  a  run  we're  debarred, 
When  we  cannot  go  hunting  again  I 

So  it's  now  good-bye  to  you  all,  dear  boys. 

We've  seen  the  season  through, 
For  it's   time  to  shut  up  the  old  sport,  our  own  sport,  the 
grand  sport, 
Yet  the  time  will  appear,  ere  the  end  of  the  year,  for  the 
sport  that  is  always  new. 

We  may  go  right  away  for  our  work  or  our  play, 

And  float  round  the  Earth  while  we  live, 
We  may  try  every  resort  of  amusement  or  sport, 

But  we  shan't  find  what  England  will  give. 

When  the  leaves  fall  off  from  the  trees,  dear  boys, 

And  the  meadows  are  steeped  in  dew, 
We  shall  turn  once  more  to  the  old  sport,  our  own  sport,  the 
grand  sport, 
Together  we'll  come  and  we'll  join  in  the  fun  of  the  sport 
that  is  always  new. 

In  the  days  that  seem  cold  to  the  weak  and  the  old, 

When  the  twice  breathed  air  blows  damp, 
What  a  joy  we  shall  find  in  the  kiss  of  the  wind. 

As  off  to  the  meet  we  can  tramp. 


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374  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

There's  a  joy  in  the  thought  of  the  time,  dear  boys, 

When  the  days  of  the  summer  are  through, 
And  our  thoughts  go  back  to  the  old  sport,  our  own  sport,  the 
grand  sport. 
When  we  meet  once   again,  though  it  sleet  or  it  rain,  for 
the  sport  that  is  always  new. 

There  are  plenty  of  sorts  of  what  people  call  sports, 

There's  the  way  of  a  man  with  a  maid, 
There  is  hunting  the  hare,  but  for  that  1  don't  care, 
And  of  Polo  Pm  somewhat  afraid. 

There's  one  of  them  only  for  us,  dear  boys. 

Whatever  the  world  may  do. 
If  there's  only  a  chance  of  the  old  sport,  our  own  sport,  the 
grand  sport. 
We  let  the  rest  bide  and  together  we'll  ride  in  the  sport  that 
is  always  new. 

There's  a  game  that  some  play  for  the  whole  of  the  day. 

Of  putting  a  ball  in  a  hole. 
And  men  grin  with  delight  if  they  hit  it  aright 
With  a  stick  that  they  cannot  control. 

Some  say  they  left  hunting  for  this,  dear  boys, 

But  before  we  believe  it  is  true. 
We  must  see  them  out  once  at  the  old  sport,  our  own  sport, 
the  grand  sport, 
Then  perhaps  we  may  say,  why  they  wandered  away  from 
the  sport  that  is  always  new. 

For  wherever  I've  been,  or  whatever  I've  seen 

Of  rider  or  fox-hound  or  horse, 
If  you  gave  them  their  way  they  would  hunt  every  day 
And  ask  for  no  other  resource. 

For  whatever  they  do  in  the  summer,  dear  boys. 

Beneath  all  its  mystical  blue, 
In  the  autumn  they'll  turn  to  the  old  sport,  our  own  sport, 
the  grand*  sport. 
Yes,   you'll   find  they"  11  arrive  if  they're  only  alive,  for  the 
sport  that  is  always  new. 

There  is  only  one  fear  that  will  ever  come  near 

The  sportsman  with  terrible  dread, 
That  misfortunes  may  fold  him  and  bind  him  and  hold  him, 
From  hunting  before  he  is  dead. 

But  I  wish  you  a  better  luck,  dear  boys — 

Though  your  steed  should  be  only  a  screw — 
Than  longing  in  vain  for  the  old  sport,  our  own  sport,  the  grand 
sport, 
Or  tearing  your  hair  in  a  fit  of  despair  for  the  sport  that  is 
always  new. 


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HUAfOROUS  SONGS  AND  PARODIES— HUNTING  Z7S 

I  am  breaking  my  heart  that  so  soon  we  must  part, 

But  what  happens  is  often  the  best, 
For  after  this  season  I'm  sure  there's  good  reason 

For  giving  our  horses  a  rest. 

You  can  hear  the  call  of  the  final  horn, 

So  why  should  we  still  remain. 
You  have  heard  my  song  which  is  far  too  long, 

Farewell,  till  we  meet  again. 

Heaven  knows  where  we  shall  go,  dear  boys, 

And  the  deuce  knows  what  we  shall  do, 
Till  we're  back  once  more  at  the  old  sport,  our  own  sport,  the 
grand  sport, 
Till  the  time  comes  again,  as  it  will,  dear  boys,  for  the  sport 
that  is  always  new. 

S.  F.  OUTWOOD. 


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VARIOUS 


Saint  Patrick 

No  doubt,  St.  Patrick  was  an  Angler 

Of  credit  and  renown,  Sir, 
And  many  a  shining  trout  he  caught, 

Ere  he  built  Dublin  town,  Sir. 
Old  story  says,  (it  tells  no  lies) 

He  fish'd  with  bait  and  line.  Sir, 
At  every  throw  he  had  a  bite, 

Which  tugg'd  and  shook  the  twine.  Sir. 

In  troubled  streams  he  lov'd  to  fish. 

Then  salmon  could  not  see,  Sir, 
The  trout,  and  eels,  and  also  pike, 

Were  under  this  decree,  Sir, 
And  this,  perhaps,  may  solve  a  point. 

With  other  learn'd  matters.  Sir, 
Why  Irishmen  still  love  to  fish 

Among  troubled  waters,  Sir. 

Some  likewise  say,  and  even  sware. 

He  was  a  godly  saint,  Sir, 
And  made  '  loose  fish '  for  all  the  land. 

And  trout  as  red  as  paint.  Sir. 
And  as  a  relic  of  his  power. 

It  was  his  ardent  wish.  Sir, 
That  dear  old  Erin  should  always  have, 

A  number  of  *  odd  fish,'  Sir. 

Written  at  Trinity  College,  Dublin,  i8iow 
From  The  Anglers  Song  Book.     Compiled  and  edited  by 
Robert  Blakey.     1855. 


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HUMOROUS  SONGS  AND  PARODIES— VARIOUS  yjl 


Heredity 


Treat  children's  sport  with  laughter, 

Or,  if  you  will,  with  tears  ; 
Such  joy  comes  not  hereafter, 

Through  all  our  later  years. 
We  scarcely  now  can  measure 

By  backward  cast  of  thought. 
The  ecstasy  of  pleasure 

Crushed  from  the  lees  of  sport. 

Though  years  may  rend  in  sunder — 

And  what  will  time  not  rend  ? — 
The  bright  thin  line  of  wonder. 

With  mystery  at  the  end  ; 
Yet  passion's  quenchless  ember 

Is  with  us  even  yet ; 
Through  children  we  remember 

What  else  we  might  forget. 

We  watch  the  eager  glances 

By  keen  expectance  cast, 
To  where  the  light  float  dances 

In  every  playtul  blast. 
Below,  what  hidden  treasure 

May  now  be  hovering  near, 
Pausing,  to  add  to  pleasure 

A  spice  of  groundless  fear. 

See  how  the  forms  so  soundless 

Now  quicken  into  life. 
Hope  pours  forth  measure  boundless 

On  the  approaching  strife, 
Ah,  should  that  rod  dismember, 

What  sorrow  and  regret 
'Twill  be  but  to  remember. 

Yet  harder  to  forget. 

Now  from  those  hidden  places — 

The  carp's  soft  well-loved  home — 
Watched  for  by  eager  faces 

At  last  he  has  to  roam. 
In  vain  his  fits  of  leisure, 

In  vain  his  angry  strain, 
For,  through  the  gills  of  pleasure 

Has  passed  the  hook  of  pain. 


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378  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

Fain  would  he  now  unbidden 

Return  the  tempting  bait, 
In  which  was  deftly  hidden 

The  deadly  barb  of  Fate. 
He'll  fast  till  next  December 

Should  he  escape  the  net, 
Or,  anyway  remember 

Until  he  shall  forget. 

Each  tug  of  consternation 

Gives  zest  to  careful  play, 
When  eager  expectation 

Is  held  in  caution's  sway. 
But  any  violent  measure, 

Or  any  sudden  strain, 
Might  change  the  foam  of  pleasure 

To  froth  of  fretful  pain. 

Now  is  the  battle  ending. 

And  firmness  skill  must  lake, 
For  though  the  rod  is  bending 

It  will  not  lightly  break. 
Children  can  scarcely  measure 

The  strength  of  line  as  yet, 
And  by  each  loss  remember 

The  fish  they  failed  to  get. 

The  net  is  waiting  ready 

Its  prize  to  safely  fold, 
Keep  eye  and  hand  both  steady, 

Nor  slacken  now  your  hold. 
Grant  but  a  scanty  measure 

Of  line,  lest  he  regain 
His  earlier  flower  of  pleasure, 

Your  latter  leaf  of  pain. 

'Tis  done.     Among  the  rushes 

His  glittering  body  lies. 
Excitement  throbs  in  blushes. 

Light  dances  in  the  eyes. 
1  feel  the  dying  ember 

Of  sport  burns  in  me  yet. 
What  childhood's  days  remember 

Age  scarcely  will  forget. 

From  a  MS.     No  datf,  but  cvidemh  after  one  of  Swinburne's  Ballads. 


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"  The  net  is  waitinglready." 


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HUMOROUS  SONGS  AND  PARODIES— VARIOUS  379 

Going  out  a  Shooting 

Some  friends  of  mine  for  mirth  and  glee, 
Fix'd  on  a  day  to  have  a  spree, 
When  'twas  agreed  upon  that  we, 

Should  all  go  out  a  shooting. 
There  was  Will  Smith  and  Stephen  Shore, 
.With  Harr>'  Blunt  and  Bobby  Blower, 
Besides  old  Muggins  and  Dickey  Moore, 
I  think  in  all  full  half  a  score. 
Towards  the  autumn's  dreary  close, 
When  frost  begins  to  nip  the  toes, 
These  friends  of  mine  they  did  propose, 

We  should  go  out  a  shooting. 

With  powder,  wadding,  dog,  and  gun, 

Up,  sportsmen,  up  I  the  day's  begun, 

I  never  shall  forget  the  fun 

We  had  when  going  a  shooting. 

Twas  at  old  Muggins'  house  we  met, 
All  ripe  for  fun,  a  jovial  set, 
We  had  cigars,  and  just  a  wet. 

Before  we  went  a  shooting. 
Old  Muggins  he  a  musket  had, 
Which  was  his  father's  when  a  lad. 
While  Bobby  Blower  made  a  fuss 
About  his  uncle's  blunderbuss. 
Determined  all  things  should  be  right, 
We  primed  and  loaded  over  night, 
Some  full  four  hours  before  'twas  light 

We  were  to  start  a  shooting. 

As  off  down  Fenchurch-street  we  set. 
Towards  St.  George's  Church  to  get, 
A  lot  of  the  New  Police  we  met. 

As  we  went  out  a  shooting. 
The  Searjeant  quick  did  collar  me, 
The  rest,  as  they  the  guns  did  see. 
Sung  out,  *  Lads,  here's  a  burglary  I 
What's  in  those  bundles — Come,  let's  (see?)' 
With  that  a  dreadful  fight  arose. 
And  Muggins  got  a  broken  nose, 
So  off  we  to  the  Station-house  goes. 

Instead  of  out  a  shooting. 
At  length,  by  paying,  something  each, 
As  we  for  freedom  did  beseech, 
We  did  contrive  to  mend  the  breech, 

And  started  off  a  shooting. 


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38o  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

Every  thing  then  went  on  right  well, 
No  pleasure  sure  could  ours  excell, 
Until  we  came  to  Camberwell, 
When  we  a  precious  fog  did  smell ; 
So  thick  and  in  such  clouds  arose, 
Like  cobwebs  it  hung  on  our  clothes, 
None  saw  an  inch  before  his  nose, 

As  we  went  out  a  shooting. 
Disasters  still  did  follow  nigh. 
For  as  we  crossed  o'er  Peckham  Rye, 
Bob  poked  his  gun  in  Bill  Smith's  eye, 

As  (we)  went  out  a  shooting. 

At  length  so  dreadful  came  the  fog. 

Poor  Muggins  fell  into  a  bog  ; 

His  gun  went  off,  and  shot  his  dog 

As  dead  as  any  wooden  log  ; 

And  when  he  again  on  dry  ground  stood, 

We  laughed,  though  forced  to  chew  the  cud. 

To  see  his  mouth  stuffed  full  of  mud, 

Through  going  out  a  shooting. 
We  halted  just  about  day  break, 
As  all  our  heads  began  to  ache. 
And  thought  we  would  some  breakfast  take. 

Ere  we  commenced  our  shooting. 

Upon  a  stile  then  nicely  moored, 
We  had  of  meat  a  perfect  hoard. 
The  gin  and  water  we  had  stored. 
Into  our  tumblers  then  we  poured. 
But  it  seems,  misfortune  never  halts, 
For  Muggins'  wife  who  had  her  faults, 
Instead  of  gin  had  packed  up  Salts, 

For  him  to  take  a  shooting. 
We  every  step  through  rain  did  come, 
At  last  we  saw  poor  Muggins  home. 
Who  vows  he  ne'er  again  will  roam, 

At  least  to  go  a  shooting. 

For  my  part  I  can  only  say 

I  never  spent  so  sad  a  day, 

And  as  to  birds,  black,  white,  or  grey, 

We  did  not  see  one  all  the  way. 

Now  Muggins  sits  at  home  and  crams, 

And  sells  his  butter,  eggs,  and  hams. 

But  as  for  sporting  fairly  d s 

The  day  he  went  a  shooting. 
With  jwwder,  wadding,  &c. 


Rallad. 

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t>0 

o 
o 


c 

1" 


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HUMOROUS  SONGS  AND  PARODIES—VARIOUS  381 


Don't  talk  of  September 

Don't  talk  of  September  ! — a  lady 

Must  think  it  of  all  months  the  worst  I 
The  men  are  preparing  already 

To  take  themselves  off  on  the  first  : 
I  try  to  arrange  a  small  party, 

The  girls  dance  together,— ^how  tame  I 
I'd  get  up  my  game  of  ^cart6, 

But  they  go  to  bring  down  their  game. 

Last  month,  their  attention  to  quicken, 

A  supper  I  knew  was  the  thing  ; 
But  now  from  my  turkey  and  chicken 

They're  tempted  by  birds  on  the  wing. 
They  shoulder  their  terrible  rifles, 

(It's  really  too  much  for  my  nerves  .') 
And  slighting  my  sweets  and  my  trifles^ 

Prefer  my  Lord  Yi^xxy's  preserves^ 

Miss  Lovemore,  with  great  consternation, 

Now  hears  of  the  horrible  plan. 
And  fears  that  her  little  flirtation 

Was  only  a  flash  in  the  pan  ! 
Oh  I  marriage  is  hard  of  digestion, 

The  men  are  all  sparing  of  words  ; 
And  now,  'stead  oi popping  the  question^ 

They  set  off*  to  pop  at  the  birds. 

Go,  false  ones,  your  aim  is  so  horrid, 

That  love  at  the  sight  of  you  dies  ; 
You  care  not  for  locks  on  the  forehead, — 

The  locks  made  by  Manton  you  prize  I 
All  thoughts  sentimental  exploding^ 

Like^«/j  I  behold  you  depart : 
You  heed  not,  when  priming  and  loading. 

The  load  you  have  left  on  my  heart. 

They  talk  about  patent  percussions. 

And  all  preparations  for  sport, 
And  these  double  barrel  discussions 

Exhaust  double  bottles  of  port  ! 
The  dearest  is  deaf  to  my  summons, 

As  off  on  his  pony  he  jogs  ; 
A  doleful  condition  is  woman's  ; 

The  men  are  all  gone  to  the  dogs, 

Thomas  Haynes  Bayly,  The  Sportstnan,  1833. 


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382  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

The  Double  Barrel 

When  round  the  Sportsman's  festive  board 

The  sparkling  bumper  passes, 
With  joyous  toasts  each  flask  is  stored, 
*  The  Queen  I '  and  *  Ail  good  Lasses ." 
The  Tur/^  the  Stubble^  P^ox^  or  Stag^ 
The  Harriers^  or  some  winning  Nagy 

The  *  Long  Dogs '  or  the  Race  ! 
Some  drink  a  favorite  Pointer^  some 

The  *  Patrons  of  the  Chace: 
Next  Shootings  Coursing^  Anglings  come 

The  flowing  bowl  to  grace  ; 
But  ever,  while  we  Hve, 
The  ''Barrel.'^  let  us  give, 

With  three  times  three,  huzza  I 
For  we  hoop  the  Barrel  9Sidifill  the  Barrel^ 
And  tap  the  Barrel  and  swill  the  Barrel^ 
We  load  the  Barrel  and  prime  the  Barrel^ 
Present  the  Barrel  zxAfire  the  Barrel y 
And  shoulder  the  Barrel  and  bottle  the  Barrel ^ 

And  rt^r/>7>t  and  yfn?  away  I 

CHORUS 

We  shoulder  the  Barrel  and  ^^///^  the  Barrel^ 
And  ^rzV;^  andy?r.f  away  I 

For  table  sports  there's  Meux's  Entire, 

And  Barclay  mixed  with  Perkins, 
And  Hanb'r/s  Barrels  full  oifire^ 

While  Trueman  warms  their  workings. 
When  shooting  wagers  Sportsmen  lay 
An  Egg  or  Manton  they  display, 

To  bring  the  coveys  down. 
And  bag  some  dozen  brace  a-day, 

To  feed  their  friends  in  Town. 
Percussion  cap  and  ramrod  gay, 

And  Barrel  nicely  brown  ; 
Then  ever  while  you  live, 
The  Barrel  let  us  give, 

With  three  times  three,  huzza  I 

For  we  hoop^  &c. 

The  Sporting  Farmer's  Harvest  Night 

The  Barrets  value  prizes  ; 
And  Old  October  makes  more  bright 

Fairs,  Races,  or  Assizes. 


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HUMOROUS  SONGS  AND  PARODIES— VARIOUS  383 

The  soldiery  who  at  Waterloo 
Or  Egypt^  reap'd  the  harvest  due, 

Where  British  arms  prevail, 
The  Barrel  gaily  broach'd,  when  full 

His  spirits  to  regale  ; 
And  f;lass  or  trigf^er^  took  a  pull 

At  powder  or  of  ale. 
Then  ever  while  we  live, 
The  Barrel  let  us  give, 

With  three  times  three,  huzza  ! 
For  we  hoop^  &c. 

And  may  good-natured  Johnny  Bull^ 

His  friends  while  entertaining, 
Fill  all  their  jolly  Barrels  full, 

And  yet  have  store  remaining  ; 
And  Cellar,  Orchard,  House  and  Field, 
Old  English  cheer  superior  yield, 

And  plenty  be  his  lot  ! 
Ne'er  may  he  want  for  gold  or  game 

Or  be  by  friends  forgot  : 
And  all  he  marks  with  honest  aim 

Turn  out  a  lucky  shot. 
And  let  us  while  we  live. 
The  Barrel  boldly  give 

With  three  times  three,  huzza  I 
For  we  hoop^  &c. 
T.  DiBDlN,  The  Sportsman ,  August  1839. 

Sonnet 

TO   LORD   WHARNCLIFFE,   ON    HIS   (JAMK    BILL 

I'm  fond  of  partridges,  I'm  fond  of  snipes, 

I'm  fond  of  black  cocks,  for  they're  very  good  cocks — 

I'm  fond  of  wild  ducks,  and  I'm  fond  of  woodcocks, 

And  grouse  that  set  up  such  strange  moorish  pipes. 

I'm  fond  of  pheasants  with  their  splendid  stripes  - 

I'm  fond  of  hares,  whether  from  Whig  or  Tory— 

I'm  fond  of  capercailzies  in  their  glor)% — 

Teal,  widgeons,  plovers,  birds  in  all  their  types  : 

All  these  are  in  your  care.  Law-giving  Peer, 

And  when  you  next  address  your  Lordly  Babel, 

Some  clause  put  in  your  Bill,  precise  and  clear, 

With  due  and  fit  provision  to  enable 

A  man  that  holds  all  kinds  of  game  so  dear 

To  keep,  like  Crockford,  a  good  (iaming  Table. 

Thomas  H(X)D,  Poetical  Works,  Boston  1856. 


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384  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 


Elegy   in  the    Kennels 

The  rising  mist  foretells  the  opening  day, 
The  foxhounds  slowly  move  toward  the  meet. 

The  huntsman  onward  plods  his  weary  way 
And  leaves  me  ti-rapt  in  meditation  sweet. 

Now  fades  the  glimmering  warmth  that  once  he  felt, 
And  all  his  flesh  a  biting  stillness  knows, 

Save  when  the  welcome  flask  the  ice  may  melt, 
And  pleasant  trickling  lull  his  dreary  woes. 

Save  when  from  yonder  well-conducted  pack 

Some  foolish  pup  will  riot  on  the  way, 
Needing  a  warming  influence  on  its  back, 

The  biting  line  which  severs  sport  from  play. 

Beyond  those  leafless  elms  and  laurels'  shade 

The  turrets  of  a  noble  mansion  peep  ; 
Beneath,  the  master  of  the  pack  is  laid 

Still  wrapt  in  deep  and  most  melodious  sleep. 

The  muffled  calls  of  soft,  mist-laden  morn 
Have  o'er  his  dreams  a  fitful  influence  shed, 

The  cock's  shrill  clarion  seems  an  echoing  horn, 
He  hunts  in  dreams  and  takes  his  rails  in  bed. 

For  him  now  soon  the  blazing  hearth  shall  bum, 
And  busy  housemaids  ply  their  morning  care. 

The  patient  hack  awaits  her  sportless  turn 
And  envies  much  her  brother  hunter's  share. 

Oft  in  her  earlier  days  she  too  has  known 
The  early  start,  the  wild  and  glad  delight 

Of  maddening  speed,  and  now  she  must  atone 
For  too  great  joy  by  but  a  passing  sight. 

Let  not  young  blood  bursting  with  pride  of  sport 
Mock  at  her  lot  or  scorn  her  present  state, 

Nor  thoroughbreds  with  a  disdainful  snort 
Think  they  are  destined  for  a  nobler  fate. 

The  boast  of  pedigree,  the  pomp  of  power, 

The  matchless  speed,  the  leap  that  knows  no  bounds, 

Await  alike  the  inevitable  hour, — 

The  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the  hounds. 

And  you,  ye  proud  young  hunter,  think  no  scorn 
If  memory  of  their  deeds  retains  no  proof. 

Or  if  to  yonder  hall  shall  ne'er  be  borne 
The  silver-mounted  relic  of  their  hoof. 


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HUMOROUS  SONGS  AND  PARODIES— VARIOUS  385 

Can  pin-stored  cushion  or  an  inkstand  bring 

Back  to  its  stall  the  dear  departed  steed  ; 
Can  honour's  voice,  engraved  upon  the  thing, 

Call  back  the  pleasure  of  some  bygone  deed  ? 

Perchance  to  this  forsaken  spot  is  brought 

Some  mare  upon  whose  fading  lines  we  trace 
Points,  that  to  wiser  owners  would  have  taught 

Her  marvellous  capacity  to  race. 

But  knowledge,  to  some  souls,  its  ample  store 

Rich  with  the  spoils  of  time  can  ne'er  impart ; 
Her  foolish  owner  lives  but  to  deplore 

His  sixteen  stone  that  broke  her  eager  heart. 

Full  many  a  horse  of  purest  blood,  I  ween 

Of  man's  blind  ignorance  must  bear  the  stab  ; 
Full  many  a  racer  has  to  blush  unseen 

Between  the  blinkers,  in  a  London  cab. 

Some  Isinglass  that  once  with  matchless  speed 

Might  well  have  heard  victorious  shouts  of  joy 
Is  deemed  by  ignorance  a  worthless  weed, 

And  gallops  round  the  Row  a  lad/s  toy. 

Far  from  the  madding  crowd's  more  noble  strife 

His  sober  wishes  never  learned  to  stray, 
But  round  the  ring  of  fashionable  life 

He  keeps  the  even  canter  of  his  way. 

The  thoughtless  world  to  victory  may  bow. 

Exalt  the  winner,  idolise  success ; 
But  in  these  precintcs  I  would  wander  now 

i'o  those  whom  fortune  ne'er  conspired  to  bless. 

And  I,  who  mindful  of  th'  unhonour'd  dead, 

Do  in  these  notes  their  woeful  lot  relate. 
Am  by  this  spot's  associations  led 

To  meditate  thus  sadly  on  their  fate. 

The  good  and  bad,  when  death  gives  place  to  strife. 
Have  hounds  alike  for  tombstone  and  for  tomb  ; 

The  hunter  mocks  the  vanity  of  life, 

And  still  pursues  the  emblem  of  his  doom. 

Can  he,  when  hounds  race  o'er  some  distant  mead, 
See  them,  as  scattered  tombstones,  fleck  the  green, 

And  on  each  one  a  different  writing  read 
In  memory  of  misfortunes  that  have  been  1 

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386  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

Epitaph 
Here  rests  a  comrade  who,  upon  this  earth, 

Had  neither  fame  nor  happy  fortune  known, 
They  worked  and  starved  him  from  his  very  birth 

And  left  us  nothing  but  his  skin  and  bone. 

AiNON. 

Limerick  Races 

I  am  a  simple  Irish  lad,  I've  resolv'd  to  have  some  fun,  sirs, 
So  to  satisfy  my  mind,  to  Limerick  town  I  come,  sirs  ; 
Oh,  murther  I  what  a  precious  place,  and  what  a  charming  city. 
Where  the  boys  are  all  so  free,  and  the  girls  are  all  so  pretty. 
Musha  ring  a  ding  a  da, 

Ri  too  ral  laddy  O, 

Musha  ring  a  ding  a  da, 

Ri  too  ral  laddy  O. 

It  was  on  the  first  of  May  when  I  began  my  rambles, 
When  everything  was  there,  both  jaunting  cars  and  gambols  ; 
I  looked  along  the  road  what  was  lined  with  smiling  faces, 
All  driving  off  ding-dong,  to  go  and  see  the  races. 

So  then  I  was  resolved  to  go  and  see  the  race,  sirs. 

And  on  a  coach-and-four  I  neatly  took  my  place,  sirs, 

When  a  chap  calls  out,  *  behind  I '  and  the  coachman  dealt  a  blow, 

sirs. 
Faith,  he  hit  me  just  as  fair  as  if  his  eyes  were  in  his  poll,  sirs. 

So  then  I  had  to  walk,  and  make  no  great  delay,  sirs, 
Until  I  reached  the  course,  where  everything  was  gay,  sirs  ; 
It's  then  I  spied  a  wooden  house  and  in  the  upper  story, 
The  band  struck  up  a  tune,  called,  *  Garry  Owen  and  glor>'.' 

There  was  fidlers  playing  jigs,  there  was  lads  and  lasses  dancing, 
And  chaps  upon  their  nags  round  the  course,  sure,  they  were 

prancing  ; 
Some  was  drinking  whisky  punch,  while  others  bawl'd  out  gaily. 
Hurrah,  then  for  the  shamrock  green,  and  the  splinter  of  shillelah. 

There  was  betters  to  and  fro,  to  see  who  would  win  the  race,  sirs. 
And  one  of  the  sporting  chaps  of  course  came  up  to  me,  sirs  ; 
Says  he,  *  I'll  bet  you  fifty  pounds,  and  I'll  put  it  down  this  minute,* 
'Ah,  then,  ten  to  one,'  says  I,  *  the  foremost  one  will  win  it.' 

When  the  players  came  to  town,  what  a  funny  set  was  they, 
I  paid  my  two  thirteens  to  go  and  see  the  play  ; 
They  acted  kings  and  cobblers,  queens,  and  everything  so  gaily, 
But  I  found  myself  at  home  when  they  struck  up  Paddy  Carey. 
Musha  ring  a  da,  &c. 

Crampton  Ballads. 


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HUMOROUS  SONGS  AND  PARODIES^VARIOUS  387 

The  Dirge  of  the  Defaulter 

A   FRAGMENTARY   PARODY 

Comrades,  leave  me  here  a  little,  while  as  yet  the  place  is  still  ; 
Leave  me  here,  and  when  you  want  me,  whistle  'twixt  your  fingers 

shrill. 
'Tis  the  place  and  all  around  it,  *  as  it  used  to  was  to  be  ; ' 
Sweeping  wildly  o'er  the  Downs,  career  the  breezes  fresh  and  free  ! 
Epsom  Downs  that  in  the  distance  overlook  the  smiling  plain, 
And  the  smoky  crown  of  London  brooding  over  dome  and  fane. 
Many  a  time  from  yon  enclosure,  with  a  palpitating  heart, 
Did  I  watch  the  Derby  horses  sloping  downwards  to  the  start ; 
Many  a  time  I  saw  the  war-cloud  sweeping  round  the  dreaded 

curve, 
Where  the  game  'uns  make  their  effort,  and  the  craven  coursers 

swerve  ; 
There  about  the  Ring  I  wandered,  filling  up  with  anxious  care 
That  tiny-pencilled  volume,  not  as  yet  beyond  *  compare  ; ' 
When  the  *  centuries '  before  me,  like  a  glorious  vision  shone. 
And  I  stuck  to  every  dead  'un  like  a  limpet  to  a  stone  ; 
When  I  dipt  into  the  future,  far  as  human  pluck  could  dip, 
Ere  as  yet  the  weights  were  published,  or  the  public  had  the  tip  : 
In  the  spring  a  fuller  scarlet  gleams  on  Martin  Starling's  back — 
In  the  spring  the  wanton  master  to  his  trainer  gives  the  sack — 
In  the  spring  a  livelier  chorus  at  the  Sporting  Clubs  is  met — 
In  the  spring  a  young  man's  *  fancy'  slightly  turns  his  thought  to 

bet. 
Then  his  cheek  was  rather  redder  than  it  was  before  he  dined. 
And  I  fully  thought  to  fathom  all  the  secrets  of  his  mind  : 
And  I  said,  *  My  lovely  William,  speak  and  tell  the  truth  to  me  ; 
People  say  that  you've  a  dead  'un — shall  I  take  it  so  to  be?  * 
O'er  the  trainer's  crimson'd  visage  came  a  deeper  shade  of  red. 
Such  as  I  have  seen  in  beetroot,  or  a  vernal  rhubarb-bed  ; 
And  he  turned,  his  bosom  shaken  with  a  simulated  sigh. 
And  methought  I  twig^''d  a  twinkle  in  the  corner  of  his  eye  ; 
Saying,  *  I  have  hid  his  failings,  fearing  they  should  knock  him 

out  ; ' 
Saying,  *  Do  they  back  him,  Joey  ?'     I  replied,  *  Without  a  doubt.' 
Up  I  took  my  betting-book,  and  laid  against  him  like  a  man. 
Every  time  I  wrote  his  name,  my  hand  in  'golden  numbers'  ran. 
Yet  I  kidded  as  I  betted,  and  I  tipped  my  friends  aright ; 
*  Costermonger  for  the  Derby— Coster  beats  'em  out  of  sight.* 
Many  a  morning  at  the  Comer  did  I  ring  the  corpse's  knell, 
And  my  pulse  beat  rather  higher  to  accommodate  a  swell ; 
Many  an  evening  at  the  *  Albert '  did  I  watch  the  market's  tone. 
And  my  spirits  rose  exulting  when  I  found  he  hadn't  *  gone.' 

c  c  2 


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388  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

O  my  William,  false  and  shallow,  thief  and  liar,  rogue  and  rip, 

O  my  addle-pated  rashness  in  relying  on  your  tip  I 

Falser  than  a  Wclsher's  promise,  frailer  than  a  fallen  dove, 

Puppet  of  a  robber  gang,  and  servile  to  a  Jewish  love  ! 

Can  you  have  the  face  to  greet  me  ? — having  known  you,  I  decline 

To  continue  the  acquaintance,  or  be  any  pal  of  thine. 


Had  I  dipt  into  the  future,  what  a  vision  had  I  seen 
(Ere  as  yet  my  days  were  blighted,  and  my  life  was  all  serene)  — 
Seen  'the  Hiir  in  revel  rolling,  argosies  of  tiny  broughams. 
Temporary  brides  of  pleasure  with  their  dissipated  grooms  ; 
Heard  the  millions  roar  '  They're  coming,'  where  I  tremulously  sat, 
While  a  nation  for  the  moment  dofPd  the  m^ny-fashioned  hat. 
Far  and  wide  a  mighty  murmur  through  the  craning  myriads  ran, 

*  Costermongcr  for  a  monkey,'  and  I  watched  him  in  the  van 
Till  the  frenzy  had  subsided,  and  his  number*  on  the  rope 
IJrought  conviction  to  my  bosom,  and  I  thought  it  time  to  slope  ; 
For  the  common  sense  of  most  had  backed  him  on  his  public  form. 
And  I  stood  a  trifle  over,  and  had  caught  it  rather  warm. 

So  I  cut  it :  the  exertion,  quite  unwonted,  left  me  dry, 

Like  to  one  who  calls  for  *  soda,'  leering  with  a  bloodshot  eye  ; 

Eyes   to   whose    lack-lustre   vision     everything   seems     whirling 

round 
And  from  out  the  throat's  Sahara  grates  an  incoherent  sound. 
Quickly  rose  the  angry  chorus  of  my  creditors  in  wrath, 
But  I  saw  it  would  be  madness  to  attempt  to  cross  their  path  ; 
Yet  I  doubt  not  had  I  paid  them  but  a  shilling  in  the  pound 
They  had  spared  my  injured  carcase  as  it  lay  upon  the  ground. 
What  is  that  to  me  who  wander,  with  the  hounds  upon  my  track, 
On  from  cover  unto  cover,  like  a  fox  before  the  pack  ? 
Fain  I'd  fly,  but  lacking  courage,  here  I  wander  as  before, 
Still  a  soft  infatuation  binds  me  to  the  scenes  of  yore. 
Fain  I'd  fly,  but  whither,  whither  should  my  doubting  footsteps 

tend. 
Moving  on  through  all  the  world  without  a  sixpence  or  a  friend  ? 
Hark  !  my  comrades  whistle  shrilly,  they  to  whom  my  tale  of  tears 
Is  a  butt  for  their  amusement  and  a  target  for  their  jeers. 
Shall  it  not  be  shame  to  me  to  herd  with  such  a  rabble  rout — 
Needy  nobbier,  seedy  sharper,  and  imaginative  tout — 
No  !  'twere  surely  better  far  to  pocket  all  my  senseless  pride, 

*  Put  a  beggar  on  to  horseback,  to  the  devil  he  will  ride.* 
So  together  let  us  travel,  birds  of  one  ill  omcn'd  birth, 
Better  revel  with  the  devil  than  be  ciphers  on  the  earth. 

Here,  at  least,  I'm  no  one — nothing.     Oh  !  for  some  secure  retreat 

Midst  the  advertising  tipsters,  in  that  unpretending  street 

Where  of  tremulous  delirium  my  father  hopp'd  the  twig, 

And  I  was  left  to  hunger,  or  to  borrow,  or  to  prig. 

Oh  to  seek  some  desert  island,  there  to  wander  far  and  wide 

With  my  gun  upon  my  shoulder — not  *  the  bayonet  by  my  side  I ' 


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HUMOROUS  SONGS  AND  PARODIES— VARIOUS  389 

Nothing  to  remind  of  England  ;  *  mellow  peers,'  or  penny  shies, 
Croups  of  lords  and  legs  in  friendly  cluster,  cards,  and  leaded  dice. 
Never  knocks  the  midnight  bailiff,  or  the  creditor  at  noon, 
Nips  the  'possum  up  a  gum-tree,  grins  the  everlasting  'coon  : 
No  comparing,  no  defaulting,  never  comes  the  settling  day 
When  the  winners  draw  the  rhino  but  the  losers  keep  away. 
There  I  think  I  might  be  happy,  rather  than  a  loafer  here 
In  the  dirty-parlour'd  pot-house  from  the  sight  of  those  I  fear  ; 
There  the  ruling  master- passion  would  have  scope  and  breathing 

space, 
I  will  train  the  cassowar}-^,  teach  the  dodo  how  to  race  ; 
There  across  the  boundless  prairie  they  shall  race  and  they  shall 

run. 
With  a  chorus  of  gorillas  to  applaud  the  screaming  fun  : 
I  myself  the  handicapper,  clerk  of  course,  and  referee. 
Shall  lay  the  odds  *  to  monkeys'  to  the  plunging  chimpanzee  ! 
Fool,  to  maunder  thus  and  drivel  !     Don't  I  know  it  can't  be  so  ? 
Conscience  whispers,  *  Not  for  Joseph,  if  he  knows  it ;  Oh  dear  no  I  * 
I  to  make  a  book  on  dodos  I     I  who  managed — very  near — 
To  cop  a  hundred  thousand  in  Caractacus's  year  ! 
How  could  I  through  desert  places  tamely  rest  content  to  rove — 
I,  the  'cutest  blade  in  London,  and  the  most  designing  cove? 
I,  that  rather  held  it  better  to  perform  upon  the  dead 
Than  be  troubled  by  the  living,  and  be  beaten  by  a  head  ? 
Is  there  nothing  I  tan  turn  to  ?  nothing  worth  a  happy  toss  ? 
Let  the  shilling  spin  decisive  of  my  profit  or  my  loss  ; 
Heads — I  start  the  tipping  business,  k  la  Youatt  William  Gray  ; 
Tails— I  tout  for  shilling  swindles  '  in  a  quiet  sort  of  way.' 
Some  disinterested  party,  with  a  hundred  pounds  to  lend, 
Pay  my  bills,  and  square  the  bailiff— be  the  poor  defaulter's  friend  ! 
Ah  !  methinks  1  see  an  opening- but  the  future  shall  disclose 
All  my  plan  of  operations,  see  the  limit  of  my  woes. 
Howsoever  these  things  be,  a  long  farewell  to  Epsom  Downs, 
Now  the  lists  are  full  against  me,  now  on  me  the  bagman  frowns. 
Comes  a  Steward  of  the  Meeting,  black  as  '  Day  and  Martin's  '  best, 
Scowling,  motions  me  to  mizzle,  and  I  follow  his  behest. 
Let  me  cut  from  Epsom  Downs,  in  rain,  or  hail,  or  fire,  or  snow, 
For  a  mighty  crowd  surrounds  me  roaring  *  Welsher,' and  I  go. 
'  Ampiiion,'  Baily's  Magazine,  March  1868. 


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390 


THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 


Bookey 

( With  apologies  to  *  Tommy ') 

I  went  toward  the  Members'  stand,  my  patrons  to  be  near, 
The  keeper  at  the  gate,  sez  he,  *  We  want  no  Bookeys  here  ; ' 
The  swells  a-passin'  through  they  grinned  and  sniggered  fit  to  die 
I  paid  the  sum  for  Tattersall's,  and  to  myself  sez  I  : 


A  bawlincj  odds 


O  it's  Bookey  this,  and  Bookey  that,  and  '  Bookey,  go  away  ; 
We're  far  too  swell  to  have  you  near,  so  by  the  railings  stay  ; 
Behind  the  railings  is  your  place,  so  please  behind  them  stay. 
And  when  we  want  you  we  will  come.'     So  there  I  had  to 
stay. 

I  looked  above  the  iron  rails,  as  patient  as  could  be, 
I  saw  they'd  room  for  titled  rogues,  though  they  had  none  for  mc  ; 
We  are  not  fit  to  mix  with  them — our  calling's  far  too  low — 
But  if  we  stopped  away,  I  guess,  they'd  find  it  precious  slow. 


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HUMOROUS  SONGS  AND  PARODIES— VARIOUS  391 

For  it's   Bookey  this,  and   Bookey  that,  and  *Bookey,  keep 

away  ; ' 
But  there's  safety  in  the  Bookey  when  the  time  comes  round 

to  pay ; 
When  the  lime  comes  round  to  pay,  my  lords,  the  lime  comes 

round  to  pay ; 
You  feel  safest  with  the  Bookeys  when  the  time  comes  round 

to  pay. 

Yes,  making  mock  of  those  you  use,  and  for  your  pleasure  keep. 
Is  cheaper  far  than  honour — and  with  some  that's  deuced  cheap  ; 
And  betting  with  a  Bookey,  on  a  certain  tip  you've  got. 
Is  safer  far  than  it  would  be  with  some  of  your  own  lot. 

Then  it's  Bookey  this,  and  Bookey  that,  and  *  Bookey,  don't 

come  near ; ' 
But  it's  *  Where's  my  good  friend  Dickey  Jones?'  when  the 

numbers  do  appear ; 
When  the  numbers  do  appear  at  last,  the  numbers  do  appear  ; 
O  it's  *  Where's  my  best  of  Bookeys?'  when  the  numbers  do 
appear. 

We  ain't  all  whitewashed  angels,  nor  we  ain't  all  blacklegs,  too. 
But  men  as  fancies  betting,  most  remarkable  like  you  ; 
And  if  you  find  our  language  not  always  to  your  mind, 
A-bawling  odds  through  railings  don't  make  voices  too  refined. 
While  it's  Bookey  this,  and  Eookey  that,  and  *  Bookey,  fall 

behind  ; ' 
But  they  come  and  look  us  up  at  times,  when  tips  are   in  the 

wind  ; 
When  tips  are  in  the  wind,  my  boys,  when  tips  are  in  the 

wind  ; 
They  come  upon  the  strict  q.t.  when  tips  are  in  the  wind. 

They  talk  about  reforming  us,  but,  if  they  wish  to  try. 

They'd  better  sweep  the  top-floor  first,  for  dirt  will  downward  fly. 

It's  little  use  our  clearing  up  before  they  make  a  start. 

For  we  shall  always  be,  as  now,  their  lower  counterpart. 

For  it's  Blackleg  this,  and  Blackleg  that,  and  '  Chuck  him  out, 
the  cad  I ' 

If  we,  like  other  folks  get  broke,  or  trot  oif  to  the  bad  ; 

And  it's  Bookey  this,  and  Bookey  that,  and  treat  him  as  you 
please  ; 

But  Bookey  ain't  a  blooming  ass — you  bet  that  Bookey  sees. 

S.  V.  OUTWOOl). 


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392  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 


The  Laws  of  the  Road 

The  Laws  of  the  Road  are  a  paradox  quite, 

For  when  you  are  travelling  along, 
If  you  keep  to  the  LEFT  you'll  be  sure  to  be  RIGHT, 

If  you  keep  to  the  RIGHT  you'll  be  WRONG. 

Sporting  Magazine,  September  1793. 

To  Ride  or  not  to  Ride? 

To  ride  or  not  to  ride  ?  that  is  the  question  : 

Whether  'tis  nobler  in  the  mind  to  suffer 

The  jeers  and  scoffs  of  hare-brain'd  jockies, 

Or  boldly  mount  the  prancing  steed, 

And  by  advent'rous  gallop  end  them  ? 

To  ride,  to  walk  no  more  ;  and  by  a  horse 

Of  stout  abilities,  to  say  we  end 

The  heart-ache,  and  the  thousand  weary  strides 

The  London  cockney  takes,  'tis  a  consummation 

Devoutly  to  be  wished.     To  ride— to  fall — 

Perchance  to  break  one's  neck  ;  aye,  there's  the  rub, 

For  in  that  ride  what  various  ills  may  come. 

When  we  have  trotted  on  some  few  score  miles, 

Must  give  us  pause — there's  the  respect 

That  makes  the  unwilling  walker  bear 

The  painful  toil  of  padding  all  his  life. 

For  who  would  bear  the  whips  and  taunts  of  coachmen, 

The  horse-dealer's  wrong,  the  jockey's  contumely, 

The  jokes  of  country  girls,  the  buck's  assurance, 

The  insolence  of  chairmen,  and  the  spurns 

Of  brawny  porters  in  the  crowded  streets. 

When  he  himself  might  his  quietus  make 

Upon  a  gentle  pony?  who  would  fardels  bear, 

To  groan  and  sweat  under  a  heavy  load  ? 

But  that  the  dread  of  ev'17  untried  horse. 

Whose  undiscovered  humours  and  whose  tricks 

No  traveller  returns  well  pleased  to  tell, 

And  makes  us  rather  walk  in  clouted  shoes 

Than  fly  to  horses  that  wc  know  not  of 

Thus  horror  does  make  cowards  of  us  all ; 

And  thus  the  resolution  of  our  riding 

Is  sicklied  o'er  with  the  pale  cast  of  fear, 

And  beaux  and  cits,  of  genteel  life  and  taste, 

With  this  regard,  from  Tattersall's  turn  away, 

And  lose  the  name  of  horsemen. 


Sporting  Magazine,  March  1815. 
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HUMOROUS  SONGS  AND  PARODIES— VARIOUS  393 


The  Sporting  Philosopher;  or,  The 
Loser  s  Consolation 

In  every  sport,  I  wish'd  by  all, 

Top  sawyer  to  be  reckon'd  ; 
And  tho'  \n  fight  no  principal^ 

I've  often  been  a  second.' 
If  on  the  Turf  no  first-rate  Swell, 

Prime  Sportsman,  or  Head  Buck, 
With  me  brother  Whip  can  tell, 

Tis  all  the  fault  of  iuck  ! 
But  win  or  lose,  whate'er  my  lot, 

I've  learnt  in  Fortune's  school, 
That  come  Life's  crosses  e'er  so  hof^ 

'Tis  best  to  take  things  cool ! 

I've  follow'd  luck  at  Easter-tide 

W^ith  City  Pack  so  nice, 
Because  in  three  days'  dashing  ride 

I  ne'er  was  thrown  but  twice  ! 
With  red  or  line^  with  spur  or  boot^ 

Whene'er  my  chance  I  try. 
The  game  I  neither  catch  nor  shoot, 

I've  cash  enough  to  buy. 

Then  win  or  lose,  &c.  &c. 

One  day  with  neat  percussion  Cap 

I  gently  took  my  aim, — 
The  barrel  burst — I  got  a  rap — 

So  luck  preserv'd  the  dame  ! 
With/««/,  like  patience  in  a  boat. 

Another  time  I  fish'd, 
When  two  mad  Bleak  jump'd  down  my  throat, 

And  I  was  nearly  dish'd  ! 
Yet  win  or  lose,  &c.  &c. 

A  game  at  Whist  I  love  to  play. 

But  'tis  an  awkward  joke. 
That,  through  ill  litck^  as  some  folks  say, 

I  now  and  then  revoke  / 
At  Cricket  when  we  try  a  match. 

It's  luck  beyond  a  doubt — 
For  when  the  game  I'm  safe  to  catch, 

They're  sure  to  catch  me  out  I  I 
Yet  win  or  lose,  &c.  &c. 


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394  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

I've  play'd  a  knowing  knife  and  fork, 

And  bet  on  what  I  eat  ; 
'Gainst  Time  a  wager  I  can  walk, 

And  yet  in  both  am  beat : 
For  eating  Hasty  Pudding  hot, 

Or  thro'  Horse  Collar  grin, 
Or  jump  in  sacks — no  matter  what — 

My  rivals  always  win. 

Yet  win  or  lose,  &c.  <S:c. 

A  Lotfry  Ticket  once  I  found — 

Such  luck  had  1  to  thank 
Next  number  to  ten  thousand  pound! 

'Twas  drawn  and  proved — a  blank  !  I 
I  won  a  Race  ;  when  ask'd  to  pay. 

The  black-legg'd  loser  fled  ; 
And,  what  was  worse,  he  ran  away 

With  Her  I  meant  to  wed  1 
Yet  win  or  lose,  whate'er  my  lot, 

I've  learnt  in  Fortune's  school. 
Come  loss  or  crosses  e'er  so  hot^ 

'Tis  best  to  take  things  cool ! 

T.  DnmiN,  The  Sportsman ,  August  1839. 


Bowling 


The  rudiments  of  sciences 
In  bowling  may  be  found  ; 

For  'tis  in  vain  to  think  to  bowl. 
Till  you  first  know  the  ground. 


The  fickleness  of  fortune 

In  emblem  here  is  seen  ; 
For  often  those  that  touch  the  block 

Are  thrown  out  of  the  green. 

Of  courtiers  and  of  bowlers, 
The  fortune  is  the  same  ; 

Each  jostles  t'other  out  of  place. 
And  plays  a  sep'ratc  game. 


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HUMOROUS  SONGS  AND  PARODIES-^VARIOUS  395 

In  bowling,  as  in  battle, 

The  leader's  apt  to  claim 
The  glory  to  himself  alone, 

Tho'  the  followers  get  the  game. 

The  jack  is  like  a  young  coquet ; 

Each  bowl  resembles  man  ; 
They  follow  wheresoe'er  she  leads 

As  close  as  e'er  they  can. 

For  tho'  in  other  gaming 

A  blockhead  be  in  jest, 
Who  gets  nearest  to  the  block-head, 

In  bowling  is  the  best. 

[Part  of  an  old  song,) 

Cricket 

Tune :  *  The  Fine  Old  English  Cientleman ' 

You  ask  a  song,  and  'twould  be  wrong  to  disappoint  your  call, 
Yet  what  was  once  thought  passable  will  now  scarce  pass  at  all ; 
Our  songs  are  all  call'd  vaudevilles^  our  games  are  AcsLvta^ 
And,  except  a  match  at  cricket,  very  few  know  how  to  play 
At  any  good  old  English  sports  which  made  our  fathers  gay. 

Chorus — At  any  good,  &c. 

At  fairs  and  wakes,  though  tabors,  pipes,  and  fiddles  were  the 

thing. 
Our  modern  l'At;ANiNi  dows  now  play  but  on  one  string, 
And  baited  Bulls  and  Bears  who  liked  the  sport,  now  think  it 

strange, 
That  with  lame  Ducks  they  only  are  allow'd  to  sport  and  range^ 
With  jobbers,  underwriters,  and  good  Peoples  upon  'Change. 

Chorus— With  jobbers,  &c. 

Then  since  we  yet  have  Cricket  left,  in  which  we  can  rejoice, 
I  only  wish  my  muse  could  praise  it  with  a  crickefs  voice  ; 
And  if  your  critics  catch  me  outy  I've  only  this  to  say. 
My  pen,  though  worn  by  many  years,  is  ready  to  make  play. 
And  guard  my  wicket,  merrily,  and  boldly  bowl  away. 

Chorus— And  guard,  &c. 

Old  England  is  a  type  of  what  good  cricketers  intend, 
Our  constitution  is  the  post  true  batsmen  will  defend  ; 
Our  enemies  may  give  us  bcUlSy  and  glory  in  their  guns, 
While  we  stand  firm  and  stop  'em  all,  for  John  Bull  never  runs, 
For  as  his  fathers  bravely  fought,  so  fight  his  gallant  sons  ! 

Chorus — For  as  his,  &c. 


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396  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

Among  our  modern  Cricketers^  'tis  whimsical  to  find 

What  matches  have  been  made  among  the  lame^  and  deaf^  and 

blind  I 
Sometimes  a  set  of  one-arm' /i  men  into  the  lists  have  jump'd. 
And  one-eyed  men  have  taken  arms,  and  their  opponents  thump'd. 
For,  what  they  could  not  ca/cA  or  doTv/,  they  very  neatly  siuntpd! 

Chorus— For  what,  &c. 

Your  politicians  play  a  game  that  varies  ev'ry  hour  ; 
The  ins  look  out,  while  to  get  in  the  outs  try  all  their  pow'r  ; 
Yet  whig  or  tory,  in  or  out,  Welch,  English,  Irish,  Scotch, 
Whene'er  they  for  their  country  play,  have  ne'er  yet  made  a  botch, 
Hut  scorn'd  to  let  the  foes  of  freedom  score  a  single  notch  ! 

Chorus— But  scorn'd,  &c. 

Then  prosper  long  our  cricketers,  and  prosper  long  our  QUEF.X  ! 
And  prosper  Alhkrt  I  and  the  bond  form'd  him  and  her  between  ! 
And  should  old  foes  again  oppose  our  commerce  or  our  fame, 
Old  England  will  in  gallant  style  support  her  honour'd  name  ; 
And,  any  odds  'gainst  all  the  world,  she'll  fairly  win  the  game  ! 
Chorus — And  any  odds  'gainst  all  the  world,  she'll  win  a  glorious 
game  ! 

T.  DiBDiN,    The  Sportsman,  November  1840. 

A  Fragment 

Beloved  brotherhood  of  Sportsmen,  heed  I 

Earth,  ocean,  air,  combine  as  ministers 

To  pour  their  treasures  forth  for  our  delight. 

While  dewy  morn,  and  odorous  noon  and  eve 

Through  varied  seasons  bring  their  various  gifts. 

Autumn,  with  sounds  of  thunder  through  the  woods 

And  Winter,  filling  all  the  hills  and  dales 

With  noise  of  tramping  steeds  and  mellow  horns 

Which  bid  the  sleeping  echoes  to  awake  ; 

In  Spring  voluptuous  pantings  fill  the  breast. 

As  passing  by  some  hmpid  stream  we  see 

Deep  down  beneath  its  surface  teeming  hosts 

Of  glittering  forms  waiting  the  angler's  skill ; 

Whilst  Summer's  heat,  by  some  strong  impulse,  draws 

Our  steps  to  the  sea-shore.    A  boat  is  there  ; 

W"e  drink  inspiring  radiance,  as  the  wind 

Sweeps  strongly  from  the  shore,  rippling  the  waves. 

Following  our  eager  souls,  we  climb  on  deck. 

And  bid  the  sleeping  sails  be  spread  athwart 

The  barren  mast.     Then  seated  side  by  side 

We  feel  the  boat  speed  o'er  the  tranquil  sea. 

Like  a  white  cloud  borne  by  the  summer  breeze. 

Thus  does  the  shimmering  heat  of  lengthening  days 


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HUMOROUS  SONGS  AND  PARODIES- VARIOUS  397 

Likewise  entice,  by  soul-inspiring  spell, 

Youths  to  disport  amid  the  froth-specked  waves. 

And  their  smooth  bodies  lave  within  the  flood. 

The  waters  part  before  the  hidden  strength 

Of  limbs  braced  by  a  cool  and  briny  touch, 

As  plunging  headlong  from  the  neighbouring  rock 

Into  the  deep,  the  swimmers  onward  speed. 

Spirit  of  Sport  !  enlivener  of  our  world  ! 

Favour  my  joyous  song,  for  I  have  loved 

Thee  ever,  and  thee  only.     I  have  watched 

Thy  changes,  and  the  growing  of  thy  power. 

And  my  hand  ever  stretches  forth  to  grasp 

At  thy  developments.     1  have  tried  my  skill 

Even  on  tennis  courts,  where  maidens  fair 

Keep  records  of  the  trophies  won  from  me. 

Hoping  to  learn  the  hidden  mysteries 

Of  thee  and  thine  by  forcing  some  fair  maid. 

Thy  messenger,  to  teach  me  how  to  check 

My  too,  too  frequent  love.     In  leisure  hours. 

When  nought  attracts  me  more,  have  I  gone  forth 

Like  an  inspired  and  desperate  Northerner, 

To  drive,  if  it  might  be,  some  snow-white  orb 

Through  the  blue  vault  of  heaven  ;  and  have  used 

Such  magic  as  compelled  my  brass  topped  wand 

To  part  in  twain  ;  or  in  some  fitful  mood 

Have  forced  my  star  of  hope  to  take  at  last 

The  comet's  orbit,  tending  oft  alas  ! 

To  some  deep  unknown  pit,  from  whence  I  see 

A  tail  of  unilluminating  woe. 

I  wait  thy  breath  great  Spirit  I  that  my  skill 

May  modulate  with  method  more  precise. 

With  motions  more  in  harmony  with  rule  ! 

Then,  only  then,  shall  I  have  power  to  grasp 

The  glories  of  thy  all-absorbing  sway, 

And  weave  them  into  song. 

From  MS.      No  date.    A  little  after  the  style  of  P.  B.  Shelley. 

The  Chicken ;  or,  My  First   Introduction 
to  the  Ancient  Game  of  Golf 

{A  Trifle  aficr  '  The  Ravar) 

Once  upon  a  day  most  dreary,  I  was  wandering  weak  and  weary, 
Thinking  I  had  very  seldom  seen  so  drear  a  looking  moor  ; 
For  the  stillness  was  unbroken  by  a  single  sign  or  token, 
That  a  voice  had  ever  spoken  ;  when  I  felt  upon  my  jaw 
Something  hit  me  without  warning,  nearly  breaking  through  my  jaw, 
And  from  pain  I  knew  no  more. 


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398 


THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 


Ah,  distinctly  I  remember,  that  it  was  a  chill  November 

When  I  stood  thus  watching  faintly,  divers  sparks  to  Heaven  soar  ; 

Then  two  awful  men  came  stealing,  while  with   pain    I    still  was 

reeling. 
Plainly  I  recall  the  feeling,  as  they  kept  on  shouting  *  Fore  !  ' 
But  I  moved  not  in  my  horror,  while  they  still  kept  shouting '  Fore  ! ' 
Feeling  pain  and  nothing  more. 


Feeling  pain  and  nothing  more 


But   fierce   danger   still    was   pending,    for    I    still    with    anguish 

bending 
Heard  the  sound  of  ether  rending,  as  an  object  through  it  tore. 
And  beside  me  there   alighted   something   that  was   round  and 

whited, 
Looking  like  a  star  affrighted,  that  had  shone  in  days  of  yore, 
There  it  lay,  a  grim  and  ghastly  whitewashed  wreck  of  days  of  yore. 
Round  and  white  and  nothing  more. 

Presently  my  soul  grew  stronger,  hesitating  then  no  longer, 
•  Sirs,'  said  I  to  these  two  strangers,  *  tell  me  this  I  do  implore, 


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HUMOROUS  SONGS  AND  PARODIES— VARIOUS  399 

By  the  red  coats  ye  are  wearing,  by  the  weapons  ye. are  bearing, 
Know  ye  whence  these  things  came  tearing — are  they  meteoric 

ore? 
One  has  wounded  me  severely,  and  seems  hard  as  any  ore.' 
But  they  laughed  and  nothing  more. 

Then,  into  their  faces  peering,   long    I    stood   there   wondering, 

fearing  ; 
Fighting  frantic  fears  no  mortal  ever  had  to  fight  before  ; 
They  had  laughed  when  i  had  spoken,  and  I  guessed  by  this  same 

token 
Thiey  were  idiots  who  had  broken,  doubtless,  through  the  asylum 

door, 
Idiots  who'd  escaped  from  Earlswood,  having  broken  through  the 

door. 

This  alas  !  and  nothing  more. 

But  while  I,  half  bent  on  flying,  still  within  my  mind  was  trying, 
To  think  out  how  them  in  safety  to  their  home  I  might  restore  ; 
One  man  broke  the  pause  by  saying  that  'twas  *  cussed  nonsense 

playing 
If  fools  would  continue  staying  even  when  they  halloed  "  Fore  I  " 
Staying  mooning  on  the  hazard   while  four  lungs  were  bellowing 

"Fore!"' 

Then  he  swore  and  said  no  more. 

Now  through  all  my  mind  came  stealing  quite  a  different  kind  ot 

feeling, 
As  I  thought  I'd  heard  some  speaking  of  a  game  like  this  before  ; 
So,  by  way  of  explanation,  I  delivered  an  oration 
Of  a  suitable  duration,  which  I  think  they  thought  a  bore  ; 
And  I  said,  *  I'll  watch  your  playing,'  but  they  muttered  'Cussed 

bore  ! ' 

Just  these  words  and  nothing  more. 

Then  I  seemed  to  see  quite  plainly,  two  boys  near  in  clothes  un- 
gainly, 
Waiting  by  us  bearing  weapons  —such  a  curious,  endless  store  ! 
And  I  said,  *  You'll  be  agreeing  that  no  earthly,  living  being 
Ever  yet  was  blessed  by  seeing  such  queer  things  as  these  before  ? 
Hooks  and  crooks  of  all  descriptions  such  as  ne'er  were  seen  before.' 
*  Clubs  be  they,  and  nothing  more.' 

Thus  spoke  one  they  called  a  caddie,  though  he  spoke  more  like  a 

Paddy, 
And  I  said  whilst  slowly  following,  *  Tell  their  names  I  do  implore  I ' 
Then  these  words  he  seemed  to  utter  in  a  most  uncivil  mutter, 
'  Driver,  cleek,  spoon,  brassey,  putter,'  till  he  reached  about  a  score, 
Muttering  thus  he  still  continued,  till  he  reached  at  least  a  score. 
Or  may  be  a  trifle  more. 


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400  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

Soon  the  boy,  when  some  one  halloed,  went  ahead  while     till   I 

followed. 
Wondering  much  to  see  how  quickly  he  across  the  bracken  tore  : 
Fiister  still  he  flew  and  faster  to  his  most  unhappy  master. 
Who  had  met  with  some  disaster,  which  he  seemed  to  much  deplore. 
For  his  ball  was  in  a  cart-rut,  this  alone  he  did  deplore, 
Only  this  and  nothing  more. 

Here  he  cried,  *  Do  try  and  be  quick  I  don't,  you  see  I  want  niy 

niblick  ? 
Curse  these  deep  and  muddy  places  which  one's  balls  will  quite 

immure.' 
Then  the  mud  so  fierce  did  lash  he,  that  his  garments  soon  were 

splashy 
And  he  called  out  for  his  mashie  and  he  very  loudly  swore, 
Mashing,  splashing,  did  not  aid  him,  nor  did  all  the  oaths  he  swore, 
The  ball  sank  in  and  nothing  more. 

Whilst  I  was  engaged  in  thinking  how  deep  down  the  thing  was 

sinking. 
Listening  to  the  flow  of  language  that  from  out  his  lips  did  pour  ; 
Suddenly  he  dived   and   sought   it,  and  from   out   the   mud    he 

brought  it, 
Tossed  it  to  the  boy  who  caught  it,  then  he  counted  up  his  score, 
Said  if  he  at  first  had  tee'd  it,  he'd  have  saved  quite  half  his  score, 
Now  he'd  tr)'  the  hole  no  more. 

So  I  thought  the  game  was  ended,  but  their  talk  was  so  much 

blended 
With  a  language  unfamiliar  which  1  had  not  heard  before  ; 
For  in  argument  quite  stormy  they  disputed  about  *  dormie,' 
And  the  word  it  clean  did  floor  me,  though  I  thought  it  deeply  o'er. 
Tried  to  sift  its  derivation,  but  while  still  I  thought  it  o'er 
It  perplexed  me  more  and  more. 

*  Players,'  said  I,  *  sure  I'm  dying  just  to  send  that  ball  a-flying, 
Let  me  show  you  how  I'd  make  it  up  into  the  heavens  soar  I ' 
And  one  answered  *  Come  and  try  it  I  we  should  like  to  see  you 

sky  it  ! 
Here's  a  club,  six  bob  will  buy  it,  I  have  plenty  at  the  store.' 
'Twas  the  man  who  teaches  golfing,  and  who  keeps  clubs  in  a  store, 
Just  himself  and  nothing  more. 

Then  the  other,  who  was  playing,  said  he  did  not  mind  delaying 
Just  to  see  me  make  a  something,  of  a  record  of  a  score. 
So  unto  the  Tee  they  led  me,  and  of  six  good  bob  they  bled  me, 
And  with  flattery  they  fed  me,  but  the  ball  it  would  not  soar  ; 
So  they  said  I  must  *  address '  it,  but  no  language  made  it  soar, 
It  just  rolled  and  nothing  more. 


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o 

B 


o 

c 

-a 

c 


^ 


CQ 


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HUMOROUS  AND  PARODIES— VARIOUS         401 

*  Ball,'  I  said,  *  thou  thing  of  evil  !     Emblem  of  a  slippery  devil ! 
White  thou  seemest,  yet  I  reckon  thou  art  black  right  to  the  core  ; 
On  thy  side  I  see  a  token  of  the  truth  that  I  have  spoken, 
And  a  gash,  that  I  have  broken,  shows  thee  to  be  whitened  o'er  ; 
Shows  thy  true  self  'neath  the  varnish  with  which  thou  art  covered 
o'er, 

Only  black  and  nothing  more  ! 

Then  with  rage  I  took  my  driver,  smiting  at  this  foul  survivor 
Of  the  devil  very  fiercely,  but  the  turf,  alas,  I  tore, 
And  an  awful  crash  resounding  as  of  splintered  timber  sounding 
Heard  I,  as  the  head  went  bounding,  and  my  club  broke  to  the 

core ; 
Just  a  stick  I  held  all  broken,  broken  right  across  the  core. 
But  a  stick  and  nothing  more. 

And  the  ball,  no  thought  of  flitting,  still  was  sitting,  still  was  sitting. 
Quietly  on  its  little  sandheap,  just  as  it  had  sat  of  yore  ; 
I  was  greatly  aggravated  and  I  very  plainly  stated 
That  the  game  was  overrated,  as  I've  heard  men  say  before  ; 
So  I'd  swore  I'd  chuck  the  game  up,  as  some  others  have  before, 
And  would  play  it  never  more  ! 

S.    F.   OUTWOOD. 


D  D 


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INDEX 

OF 

AUTHORS   AND  COLLECTIONS  OF  POETRY 


PAOB 

Adamson,  William  (?      -1639),  The  Muses  Threnodie     •         •         .  55 
Amphion(publ.  1868),  The  Dirge  of  the  Defaulter      .         .         .387 

Angler's  Song  Book  (publ.  1855),  Saint  Patrick      ....  376 
Anon  : 

A  Fragment       .          \                    ^      .....     .  396 

Elegy  in  the  Kennels  j-  Copyright  - 384 

Heredity    .         .          )                    I 377 

Syr  Eglamoure  of  Artoys        .......  34 

The  Goff 113 

The  Squyr  of  Low  Degre         .......  36 

Armstrong,  John  (1709- 1 779),  Art  of  Preserving  Health     .          .     .  116 

Bai/y  s  Magazt  fie  {Copy  right ;  hy  permissiofi  of  Messrs.  Vinton  <s^  Co.)-. 

A  Dartmoor  Fox 228 

Otter-Hunting  on  the  Enne 235 

Spring  Hunting      .........  229 

The  Dirge  of  the  Defaulter 387 

The  Galloping  Squire 233 

The  Good  Grey  .Mare  ........  360 

The  Lord  of  the  Valley 232 

The  Otter  King 225 

I)  I)  2 

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404  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 

PAGE 

Ballads  : 

A  Hunting  Song 169 

A  New  Hunting  Song 181 

A  New  Fox-hunting  Song .     .  183 

Away  to  the  Stubbles,  away    .         . 274 

Bonny  Beeswing 316 

Cricketing's  All  the  Rage 289 

Going  out  a  Hunting 338- 

Going  out  a  Shooting 379 

Hark  Forward's  the  Cry i6i 

Limerick  Races 386 

Poor  Old  Horse 171 

Poor  Old  Mike 324 

Princely  Diversion 140 

Southerly  Wind  and  a  Cloudy  Sky 156 

Surry  Triumphant 29& 

Syr  Eglamoure  of  Artoys 34 

Tally  Ho  !  Hark  Away 176 

The  Death  of  the  Stag 167 

The  Dusky  Night 161 

The  Fox  Chase 154 

The  Gal  way  Sportsman 174 

The  Game  of  Cricket 290 

The  High-mettled  Racer 321 

The  Hunting  of  the  Hare 1 5& 

The  Jolly  Angler 244 

The  Jolly  Huntsman 169- 

The  Killruddery  Fox  Chace 177 

The  King  and  the  Forrester 315 

The  Lincolnshire  Poacher  .         .         .                           .         .     .  318 

The  Old  English  Squire 204 

The  Squyr  of  Lowe  Degre 3^ 

The  White  Hare 163 

Three  Jovial  Huntsmen 155 

When  Bucks  a  Hunting  go 161 

Baxter,  Nathaniel  (publ.  1606),  Ourania 44 

Bayly,  Thomas  H.  (1797-1839),  Don't  talk  of  September        .         .  381 

Beaumont,  Francis  (1584-1616),  Beggars  Bush  .  .  .  .  .  62 
Bloomfield,  Robert  (1766-1823),  The  Dawning  of  Day  .  .  .212 
Boke  of  St.  Albans  (publ.  i486) : 

A  Good  Dog*s  Points 19 

Beasts  of  Sport 19 

Brandreth,  Henry  (publ.  1833),  Away  !  to  the  Woodlands  Away  !  .  281 


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INDEX  OF  AUTHORS  405 

I'AGE 

Brooke,  Henry  (1 703- 1 783),  The  Fox  Chase 114 

Browne,  William  (1 59 1- 1 643?),  Britannia's  Pastorals      ...  54 

Bryant,  William  CuUen  (1794-1878),  The  Hunter's  Legend         .     .  218 

Bunyan,  John  (1 628-1688),  Groping  Trout 250 

BUrger,  G.  A.,  The  Chase  (trans,  by  Sir  Walter  Scott)                  .     .  186 
Burns,  Robert  (1759-1796) : 

A  Wounded  Hare 276 

My  Heart's  in  the  Highlands i8o 

Byron,  George,  Lord  (i  788-1824) : 

Don  Juan 132 

The  Deformed  Transformed 133 

The  Two  Foscari        .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .     .  132 

Caledonian,  7)4^  (publ.  182 1),  Jolly  Curlers 326 

Campbell,  Major  Calder : 

A  Song  for  the  Sportsman 334 

Otters 220 

Chatto,  William  Andrew  (1799-1864),  The  Fisher's  Call    .         .     .  256 

Chaucer,  Geffray  (1340?- 1400) : 

The  Boke  of  the  Duchesse 30 

Prologue  to  the  Canterbury  Pilgrims 33 

The  Knyghtes  Tale 33 

Chettle,  Henry  ( ?        -1607  ?) : 

Death  of  Robert,  Earle  of  Huntington 270 

The  Pleasant  Comodie  of  Patient  Grisill 43 

Combe,  William  (1741-1823),  Tour  of  Dr.  Syntax      .         .         .     .  340 

Comic  Songster  (publ.  1783),  The  Goddess  of  the  Chace  .         .185 

Complete  Gamester  (publ.  1680),  Rules  of  Billiards    .                  .     .  310 

Cowper,  William  (1731-1800),  Epitaph 277 

Crampton  Ballads : 

Fox  Chase 154 

Limerick  Races 386 

Southerly  Wind  and  a  Cloudy  Sky 156 

Dance.     See  Love 

D'Avenant,  Sir  William  (1606- 1668),  Gondibert        .         .         .     .  65 

Decker,  Thomas  (1 570?- 1 64 1?),  The  Sun's- Darling        ...  63 

Denham,  John  (1615-1669),  Coopers  Hill 71 

Dennys,  John  (  ?        -1609),  The  Secrets  of  Angling  .241 

Dibdin,  Charles  (1745-1814),  The  Skaiter's  March     .         .         .     .  322 
Dibdin,  Thos.  (1771-1841) : 

Cricket 395 

The  Double  Barrel 382 

The  Sporting  Philosopher 393 


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4o6  THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 


FACE 


Doubleday,  Thomas  (1790- 1870)  : 

Auld  and  Young 258 

The  Morning  Airly 259 

Drayton,  Michael  (1563-1631)  : 

Polyolbion 57 

Muses  Elizium 59 

Dr}'den,  John  (1631-17CX)) : 

Epistle 81 

The  Secular  Masque 169 

England's  Helicon  (publ.  1614),  The  Passionate  Fisher       .         .     .  239 

Feist,  Charles  (publ.  1836),  The  Chase  !  The  Chase  !      .         .         .217 

Fishing  and  Shooting  (publ.  1720),  The  Tennis  Court         .         .     .  317 

Fletcher,  John  (1579-1625),  Beggars'  Bush 62 

Fletcher,  Phineas(  1 582- 1650),  Brittain's  Ida 62 

Ford,  John  (1586-1640?)  : 

Perkin  Warbeck 63 

Sun's-Darling 63 

Freeth,  John  (publ.  1790) : 

Diversion  of  Quoit  Playing  .         .         .  .         .318 

Ciame  of  Fives  ..........  320 

Gascoigne,  George  (1525?-! 577),  The  Arte  of  Venerie   ...  37 
Gay,  John  (1685-1732) : 

Rural  Sports 97 

The  Hound  and  the  Huntsman 106 

Goethe,  Johann  Wolfgang  (1749-1832),  The  Angler   .         .         .     .  253 

Gower,  John  (1325-1408),  Confessio  AmantLS          ....  29 

Graves,  John  Woodcock  (1795- 1890),  John  Peel         .                  .     .  199 

Green,  Matthew  (1696-1737),  The  Spleen 107 

Grey,  Sandie  (publ.  1841),  Song  of  the  Old  English  Falconer      .     .  336 
(irylls,  James  Willyam,  The  Song  of  the  Hunter     .         .         .         .221 

Hamilton,  William  (1704- 17 54),  Bonny  Heck 311 

Harington,  Sir  John  (1561-1612),  Orlando  Furioso          ...  42 
Hawke,  Hon.  Martin  (publ.  1840)  : 

The  Criterion  Coach 332 

Epitome  of  the  Seasons  ........  334 

Heber,  Bishop  Reginald  (1 783-1826),  Hunting  Song.                  .     .  206 

Heraans,  Felicia  (1793- 1835),  The  Angler 253 

Hogg,  James  (1770  ?- 1835),  Madoc  of  the  Moor          .         .         .     .  206 


Digitized  by  LjOOQ IC 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS  407 

FACE 

Hood,  Tom  (1799-1845) : 

Epping  Hunt 344 

Sonnet  to  Lord  Wharncliffe 383 

Howard.     See  Surrey 

Johnson,  Samuel  (1709-1784),  Verses  on  Skating        .                  .     .  117 

Jonson,  Ben  (1573-1637) : 

Cynthia's  Revells 1 52 

Pans  Anniversarie 1 52 

The  Forrest 54 

Time  Vindicated 54 

Kingsley,  Charles  (i  819- 1875)  K^opy^ght ;  by  permission  of  Messrs. 
Mac m Ulan  ^  Co,)  \ 

Lorraine,  Lorraine,  Lorr^e 337 

My  Hunting  Song      .........  224 

South  Wind 260 

The  Find 224 

Knowles,  James  Sheridan  (1784-1862),  The  Love  Chase                   •  ^35 

Langland,  William  (1 330?- 1400?),  Vision  of  Piers  Plowman      .     .  21 
Leyden,  John  (1775-1811) : 

Birds  in  Scotland 279 

Invisible  Deer  Hunting 197 

Llewellyn,  Martin  (1616-1682)  : 

Men  Miracles 243, 310 

Love,  James,  n^  Dance  (1722- 1774),  Cricket 291 

Lovelace,  Richard  (1618-1658),  The  Falcon 73 

Lydgate,  John  (1370 ?- 1 45 1?),  Satirical  Description  .                  .     .  20 

Maidment,  James  (1795?- 1879),  A  Book  of  Scottish  Pasquils  (publ. 

1868) 147 

Marston,  John  (1575  ?- 1634),  Satyres 25 

Masque,  The  (publ.  1768),  Song 175 

Mickle,  William  J.  (1 735-1 788),  Sir  Martyn 250 

Moore,  Thomas  (1779- 1852) : 

Cephalus  and  Procris 287 

Wind  thy  Horn 221 

Motherwell,  William  (i  797- 1835),  The  Forester's  Carol .  .281 

Munday,  Anthony  (1553- 1633) : 

Death  of  Robert,  Earl  of  Huntington 270 

Metropolis  Coronata 270 


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A'ht/ .S]^r/iw^  A/iz^az/w^,  The  First  Day  of  the  Season    .  .213 

Outwood,  S.  F.  (Copyright) : 

Au  Revoir 373 

Bolts 363 

Bookey 390 

Great  Guns 365 

Jorrocks 367 

The  Chicken 397 

The  'Unt 362 

The  Young  British  Sportsman 371 

Pamell,  Dr.  Thomas  (1 679- 17 18),  Health  .              ....  82 

Peacock,  Thomas  Love  (1785-1866),  Maid  Marian's  Song  .         .     .  209 

Piscator  (publ.  1819),  Trout  Hall 251 

Pope,  Alexander  (1 688-1 744),  Windsor  Forest 95 

Prior,  Matthew  (1664- 1 72 1),  Henry  and  Emma     ....  83 
Pye,  Henry  James  (1745-1813): 

An  Elegy 275 

Farringdon  Hill 121 

Quarles,  Francis  (1592-1644)  : 

Divine  Fancies •  •     .  63 

Emblemes 64 

Ralegh,  Sir  Walter  (1552-1618),  The  Country's  Recreations        .     .  238 

Ramsay,  Allan  (1686-1758) : 

Health 96 

Royal  Company  of  Archers 272 

Randolph,  Thomas  (1605-1635) : 

Annalia  Dubrensia 68 

Ode  to  Mr.  Anthony  Stafford 69 

Ravenscroft,  Thomas  (1592  ?-i635  ?) : 

A  Hunts  up 151 

Country  Pastimes 307 

Hawking  for  the  Partridge       .......  306 

Ring-Ouzel : 

A  Dartmoor  Fox 228 

Otter-Hunting  on  the  Erme 235 

Spring  Hunting         .........  229 

Roxburghe  Ballads : 

A  New  Fox-hunting  Song 183 

A  New  Hunting  Song 181 


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INDEX  OF  AUTHORS  409 

PACE 

Roxburghe  Ballads : 

Princely  Diversion 164 

The  Hunting  of  the  Hare 158 

The  King  .and  the  Forrester 3^3 


Scott,  Sir  Walter  (1771-1832)  : 

Hunting  Song I93 

Lady  of  the  Lake 123,197 

Marmion 128 

TheChace 186 

The  Death  of  Keeldar I94 

Sedley,  Sir  Chailes  (1639-1701),  Song  A-la-mode  .         .  .316 

Shakspere,  William  (i  564-1616) : 

Antony  and  Cleopatra .  48 

As  You  Like  It 45 

Henry  VI 47 

Julius  Caesar 48 

Love's  Labour  Lost 49 

Midsummer  Night's  Dream 47 

Taming  of  the  Shrew 46 

Tempest 48 

Venus  and  Adonis 49 

Shelley,  Percy  Bysshe  (1792- 1822),  CEdipus  Tyrannus    .  -134 

Ship  of  Fools  (publ.  1508) 147 

Shirley,  James  (1 594?- 1 666),  Hide  Parke     .  -70,309 

Sill,  George  G.  (publ.  1840),  Hawking 331 

Somervile,  William  (1677-1743)  i 

Hunting  Song 179 

TheChace 84 

Songs  of  the  Chace  (publ.  181 1) : 

Boy  in  Yellow 323 

Hunting,  Love,  and  Wine 198 

Spenser,  Edmund  (1553  ?-i599)  - 

Astrophel . 40 

Faerie  Queene 24, 41 

Mother  Hubberd's  Tale 40 

Sonnet 39 

Visions  of  Petrarch .         •     •  39 

Sporting  Magazine : 

Epigram  on  Archery 278 

Hunting  Song 172 

Oh  won't  you  let  me  go,  Papa  ? 215 


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PAGE 

Sporting  Magazine : 

Snipe  Shooting       .........  278 

Some  Love  to  Ride 359 

Song  to  the  New  Year 358 

Song  of  the  Old  English  Falconer 336 

Steeple  Chases 327 

The  Chase  !  The  Chase  ! 217 

The  Criterion  Coach 332 

The  First  of  September 282 

The  Grouse-shooter's  Call •  283 

The  Highland  Moors          ...                  ....  285 

The  Joys  of  Sporting 210 

The  Laws  of  the  Road 392 

The  Skaiter's  March 322 

To  Ride  or  not  to  Ride  ? 392 

Sporting  Review  : 

Epitome  of  the  Seasons 334 

Sportsmofi : 

A  Song  for  the  Sportsman 334 

Away  !  to  the  Woodlands  Away  ! 28 1 

Cricket 395 

Don't  talk  of  September 381 

Hawking 331 

My  Old  Horn 215 

Otters 220 

The  Double  Barrel 382 

The  Hunter's  legend 218 

The  Jolly  Old  Squire 219 

The  Sporting  Philosopher  ........  393 

T/ie  Sportsmati's  Vocal  Cabinet  (publ.  1830) : 

Calm  the  Winds      .........  201 

Hunting  Song    ......*...  199 

Otter  Hunting         .........  202 

Pigeon  Shooting 327 

Tally  Ho 201 

The  Bowman's  Song  .........  279 

Stirling,  William  Alexander,  Earl  of  (1 580-1640)   Doomesday          ,  56 
Stoddart,  Thomas   Tod  (1810-1880)  (C(?/^r/;f//^;  by  permission  of 
Miss  Stoddart)  : 

A  Peck  o'  Troubles 266 

My  Fisher  Lad 265 

Our  Choice 264 


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INDEX  OF  AUTHORS  411 

PAGE 

Stoddart,  Thomas  Tod  : 

Sonnet 260,  264 

The  Angler's  Grave        ........  269 

The  Eden 269 

The  Heron-Lake 268 

The  Pirate  of  the  Lakes 263 

The  Taking  of  the  Salmon                261 

Surrey,  Henry  Howard,  Earl  of  (1517-1547),  Songesand  Sonettes  .  23 

Sweet  Polly's  Garland,  The  Hunting  Song 163 

Syr  Eglamoure  of  Artoys  (publ.  1570) 34 

The  Goff(publ.  1743) 113 

The  Man  of  Ton  (publ.  1828), •         .     .'  325 

The  Squyr  of  Lowe  Degre  (publ.  1550) 36 

The  Wisbech  Cock  Fight  (publ.  1660) 76 

Thompson,  William  (?-i736),  An  Hymn  to  May        .         .         .     .  251 
Thompson,  William  Gill  (publ.   1838),  Summer  Rambles         .         .256 

Thomson,  James  (1 700- 1 748),  The  Seasons 108 

Tickell,  Thomas  (1686-1740),  Hunting 118 

Turbervile,  George  (1530?- 1594)  : 

Epitaphs 24 

The  Huntsman's  Blazon 38 

Vaughan,  Henr}-  (1621-1695),  On  the  Present  of  a  Sahnon          .     .  248 

Waller,  Edmund  (1605-1687),  On  the  Head  of  a  Stag    .  -153 

Walton,  Izaak  (1 593- 1683),  The  Angler's  Song          .         .         .     .  247 
Warburton,  R.  E.  Egerton  (1804-1891) : 

Hawkstone  Bow- Meeting .  284 

Song 358 

The  Dead  Hunter 214 

The  Little  Red  Rover 213 

The  Tanti\7  Trot 329 

Warton,  Thomas  (1 728-1790),  Sonnet  on  Bathing      .         .  322 

Watson,  Thomas  (  ?        -1592  ?),  Tears  of  Fancie  .         ...  43 

Watts,  W.  (publ.  1836),  Trolling 254 

Westminster  Drollery  (publ.  1671) 146 

Whitney,  John  (publ.  1700)  The  Genteel  Recreation  .  -77 

Whittaker,  John  (1 735-1808)  History  of  Manchester  .120 

Whyte-MelviUe,  G.  J.  (1821-1878)  : 

The  Galloping  Squire          ........  233 

The  Good  Grey  Mare 360 

The  Lord  of  the  Valley 232 


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PAGE 


Wilson,  Professor  John  (i 785-1854),  Address  to  a  Wild  Deer     .     .  222 

Wordsworth,  William  (i  770- 1830) : 

The  Excursion 130 

The  Prelude 131 

Wotton,  Sir  Henry  (l  568-1639),  Fishing 246 

Wyatt,  Sir  Thomas  (1 503-1 542),  Sonet 151 


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INDEX   OF    FIRST    LINES 


PAGE 

A  birr  !  a  whirr  !  a  salmon's  on      ......         .  261 

A  blessed  lot  is  yours 130 

A  grehounde  shulde  be  heded  like  a  snake       .         .  .19 

A  hunter  once  in  that  grove  reclined 287 

A  monk  ther  was,  fair  for  the  maistre 33 

About  fifty  years  ago  when  old  George  the  third  was  King  .         .     .  204 

Accept  the  Salmon  that  with  this  I  send 248 

Again  the  Year  returns  the  Day 272 

Alas,  alas,  quo*  bonny  Heck .         .         .         .         .         .         .         •  311 

All  were  like  Hunters  clad  in  cheerfull  green 65 

And  as  I  lay  thus,  wonder  lowde .  30 

And  as  the  hound  that  men  the  tumbler  name 42 

And  in  the  frosty  season,  when  the  sun  .         .         .         .         .         •  131 

And  lothefull  idlenes  he  doth  detest 40 

And  now  all  Nature  seem*d  in  Love       ......  246 

And  yee  my  clubs,  you  must  no  more  prepare 55 

Anglers  !  ye  are  a  heartless,  bloody  race          .....  269 

Are  you  ready  for  your  steeplechase  .......  337 

As  God  hJfhselfe  declares,  the  life  of  man  was  lent  .  -37 

As  hagard  hauke  presuming  to  contend       .         .         .         .         .     .  41 

As  inward  love  breeds  outward  talk 247 

As  quick  as  thought,  there  see  approach 332 

As  when  a  Greyhound  (of  the  rightest  straine)          •         •         •         •  55 

Away,  away,  to  the  woods  with  me 336 

Back  to  its  icy  cave  again       ........  229 

Behold,  my  friend  I  the  rosy-finger'd  morn 179 


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414 


THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 


Being  one  day  at  my  window  all  alone 
Beleeve  me  Lxjrds,  for  flying  at  the  Brooke 
Beloved  brotherhood  of  Sportsmen,  heed  ! . 
Both  of  howndes  and  hawkes  game 
Bright  blazed  the  fire  of  crackling  wood     . 
But  active  Hilaris  much  rather  loves 
But  can  you  waft  across  the  British  tide 
But  the  hound  bayeth  loudly . 
By  this  she  heares  the  hounds  are  at  a  bay*. 


39 

47 
396 

20 
251 

96 
120 

133 

52 


Calm  the  winds,  the  distant  ocean 

Cocke  a  doodle-doe,  'tis  the  bravest  game  . 

Come  all  you  Foxhunters  wherever  you  be 

Come  all  you  jolly  sportsmen  of  high  and  low  degree 

Come,  country  Goddess,  come  ;  nor  thou  suffice 

Come,  I'll  show  you  a  country  that  none  can  surpass 

Come,  jump  into  your  saddles,  boys 

Come  listen  all  you  sportsmen  gay     . 

Come  live  with  me,  and  be  my  deere 

Come  Mu^es  all  that  dwell  nigh  the  fountaine 

Come  New  Year,  and  bring  with  thee    . 

Come,  shall  we  goe  and  kill  us  venison  ?    . 

Come  !  where  the  heather  bell         .... 

Comrades,  leave  me  here  a  little 


201 

310 

181 

316 

82 

233 
228 
172 
239 
309 
358 
45 
283 
387 


Diana  and  her  nimphs  in  silvane  brooke 
Don't  talk  of  September  !  — a  lady 
Durham  City  has  been  dull  so  long 
D'ye  ken  John  Peel  with  his  coat  so  gray  ? 


Earl  Walter  wfnds  his  bugle  horn  . 

Ere  since  of  old,  the  haughty  thanes  of  Ross 

Fair  Princesse  of  the  spacious  Air 

Farewell  to  the  Dane  and  the  Weaver  !  . 

First  to  the  north  direct  your  roving  eyes   . 

For  hark  !  hark  !  hark  !  the  dog  doth  bark 

For  ray  profession  then,  and  for  the  life  I  lead    . 

For  once,  upon  a  Rawe  and  Gustie  day  . 

For  these  nocturnal  Thieves,  Huntsman,  prepare 

Forward  I  Hark  forward's  the  cry  ! 

Foure  maner  bestys  of  venery  there  are 


43 
381 
289 
199 

1S6 
197 

n 
284 
121 
209 
59 
48 

224 

«9 


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INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 


415 


Gaily  rock  the  lily  beds  .... 

(jay  companions  of  the  bower    , 

Gi'e  me  ma  gaud,  ma  guid  auld  gaud 

Give  me  mine  Angle,  weele  to  ih'  River  there 

Give  round  the  word — *  Dismount !  dismount  I 

God  prosper  long  our  harvest  work     . 

Goe  one  of  you,  finde  out  the  Forrester  . 

Goff,  and  the  Man,  I  sing,  who,  em'lous,  plies 

Good  ev'n  my  honest  friends .... 

Good  friends  I  pray  you  list  to  me     . 

Great  John  at  all  adventure  and  grave  Jockey 


Hark,  hark,  jolly  sportsmen,  awhile  to  my  tale  . 
Hark  !  hark  !  the  joy-inspiring  horn 
Hark  forward  !  away,  my  brave  boys,  to  the  chase 
Haste,  ranger,  to  the  Athol  mountains  blue  !  . 

He  jure  postliminii  did  transub 

He  tolde  me  and  my  maydens'  hende 

*  Here,  in  my  shade,'  methinks  he*d  say     . 

Here  lies  one,  who  never  drew       .... 

Here's  to  the  old  ones,  of  four-in-hand  fame 

Here's  your  right  ground  :  Wagge  gently  ore  this  Black 

Here  the  rude  clamour  of  the  sportsman's  joy     . 

High  on  the  downs  the  awful  ring  is  made 

His  joy  was  not  in  musiques  sweete  delight 

His  sire  from  the  desert,  his  dam  from  the  north 

Horses  and  hounds,  their  care,  their  various  race 

How  are  we  park'd  and  bounded  in  a  pale  ?   . 

How  many  a  time  have  I 

How  sweet  is  the  horn  that  sounds  in  the  morn 
Hunters  are  fretting,  and  hacks  in  a  lather 

Hunting  I  reckon  very  good 

Huntsman  I  charge  thee,  tender  wel  my  hounds 
Huntsman,  rest  !  thy  chase  is  done 
Hurrah  !  once  again  for  September  ! . 


263 

279 
266 

48 
185 
298 

47 
113 

62 

70 

177 
175 
162 
206 
147 
34 
128 
277 

329 

64 

109 

325 
62 

214 
118 

47 
132 
161 
232 
107 

46 
197 
274 


I  am  a  simple  Irish  lad,  I've  resolv'd  to  have  some  fun,  sirs 

I  am  the  Hunle,  whiche  rathe  and  earely  ryse    . 

I  knew  it  should  not  misse     ...... 

I  lo'e  my  ain  wee  fisher-boy 

I'm  fond  of  partridges,  I'm  fond  of  snipes 

I've  a  head  like  a  violin-case ;  I've  a  jaw  like  a  piece  of  steel 

I  was  reared  in  Doncaster  some  forty  years  ago 


38s 

63 
26s 

383 
363 
324 


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PACK 

I  went  towards  the  Members'  stand,  my  patrons  to  be  near         .     .  390 

If  haply  thou  to  Lethe's  shore 235 

Impertinence  at  first  is  bom       .         .                  .         .                  .     .  106 

In  autumne,  at  the  Partrich  makes  a  slight      .         .         '         •         •  54 

In  every  sport,  I  wished  by  all 393 

In  wrestling  nimble,  and  in  renning  swift 40 

Inhuman  man  !  curse  on  thy  barb'rous  art 276 

Into  the  Pit  they're  brought,  and  being  there 76 

It  is  a  sylvan  scene  I     A  mountain  lake 22a 

It's  late,  my  Lad,  to  tak*  the  Gad 259 

It's  Mayday  this  ;  the  wale  o'  days 25S 

It's  near  Maxfield  town  bo3rs  as  I  heard  them  tell    ....  163 

It  was  on  the  first  of  March,  in  the  year  of  thirty-three                 .     .  176 

John  Huggins  was  as  bold  a  man 344 

Last  Evening  Lad,  I  met  a  noble  Swayne 68 

Let  us  our  steps  direct  where  Father  Thames 251 

Loiterer,  rise  !  the  mom  hath  kept 282 

Loke  you  so  Strang  my  hiarts,  to  see  our  limbes      .         .        .         -43 

Look,  look  !  brother  Bob,  to  the  meadows  below        .         .         .     .  202 
Looke  when  a  Painter  would  surpasse  the  life          .         .                 -51 

Lusty  Hearts  !  to  the  wood 281 

Lyke  as  a  huntsman  after  weary  chace    .         .                  •         •         •  39 

Man  is  a  Tenis-court  :  His  Flesh,  the  Wall 63 

Mankind  will  their  favourite  pleasures  pursue 318 

My  hawk  is  tired  of  perch  and  hood 128 

My  heart's  in  the  Highlands,  my  heart  is  not  here  .  .180 

My  name's  John  Bull ;  I  am  a  famous  hunter 134 

Nay  my  good  Lord,  let  me  ore- rule  you  now 49 

No  doubt,  St.  Patrick  was  an  Angler          .         .         .         .         .     .  376 

Now  as  an  Angler  melancholy  standing  ......  54 

Now  Jorrocks  went  to  sleep  one  night 367 

Now  wend  we  together,  my  merry  men  all 270 

Now  when  the  first  foul  Torrent  of  the  Brooks 108 

Now  winding,  wandering  pensively 225 

O  blessed  drums  of  Aldershot  ! 260 

O  let  me  rather  on  the  pleasant  Brinke 241 

O  the  jolly  angler's  life  is  the  best  of  any 244 

O'er  crackling  ice,  o'er  gulphs  profound 117 

O'er  the  Desert,  cross  the  Meadows 315 


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INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES  417 

PACK 

Of  a'  the  games  that  e'er  I  saw 326 

Of  all  delights  that  Earth  doth  yeekl 158 

Of  all  the  Beasts  which  we  for  our  veneriaU  name  .  .         -57 

Of  huntyng  she  beryth  the  greet  pryse 20 

Of  Pan  we  sing,  the  best  of  singers  Pan 152 

Oh  !  once  I  believed  in  a  woman's  kiss 360 

Oh,  won't  you  let  me  go,  papa  ? 215 

Once  upon  a  day  most  dreary,  I  was  wandering  weak  and  weary  397 

One  Labour  yet  remains,  celestial  Maid  ! 92 

One  Valentine's  Day  in  the  Morning 140 

Or,  when  atop  the  hoary  western  hill 250 

Ours  is  the  skie         ..........  69 

Queene  and  Huntresse,  chaste,  and  faire 152 

Quivering  fears,  Heart- tearing  cares 238 

Say,  what  is  wealth  without  delight 198 

Scorning  the  thickest  of  cover,  scorning  the  closest  of  gorse          .     .  365 

See  seated  round  the  winter's  fire 199 

See  the  course  throng'd  with  gazers 321 

Sir  he  may  live      ..........  48 

Sith  Sickles  and  the  sheering  Sythe,  hath  shornc  the  Feiids  of  late  .  306 
So  we  some  antique  Hero's  strength        .         .                   •••153 

Some  friends  of  mine  for  mirth  and  glee 379 

Some  love  to  ride  o'er  the  foaming  tide 359 

Sorrow,  sorrow,  bring  it  green  ! 269 

Southerly  wind  and  a  cloudy  sky    .         .         .         .                   ...  156 

Sprightly  Sons  of  manly  Sport  ........  320 

Stags  in  the  forest  lie,  hares  in  the  valley — O  !         .         .         .         .  358 

Stand  back,  my  friends,  our  first  attempt  be  here        .  254 

Take  two  stronge  men  and  in  Temes  cast  hem   .         .                  .     .  21 

The  breeze  is  on  the  Heron-lake     .......  268 

The  Chase  !  the  Chase  !  the  glorious  Chase  I 217 

The  chearful  morn  beams  o'er  the  hills 116 

The  craftie  Foxe  which  Numbers  doth  deceave 56 

The  days  of  palmy  Chivalry  are  o'er 327 

The  destenye  and  the  mynister  generall 33 

The  dewdrop  is  clinging         .         .         .  .213 

The  dusky  night  rides  down  the  sky .                                      .         .     .  i6i 

The  fellow -anglers  of  my  youthful  days 264 

The  grey  eye  of  morning  was  dear  to  my  youth 212 

The  harmles  hunter,  with  a  ventrous  eye 25 

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THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 


The  Highland  Moors  I  the  Highland  Moors  ! 
The  Horn  sonorous  calls  ;  the  Pack  awak'd 

The  hounds  arc  all  out 

The  hunt  is  up,  sing  merrily  wee    .... 

The  lakes  and  mountains  swarm  with  copious  game 

The  Laws  of  the  Road  are  a  paradox  quite 

The  Leading-ball  the  upper  end  mayn't  hit 

The  leaves  o'er  the  lea  are  careering 

The  mellow  Autumn  came,  and  with  it  came 

The  moor-cock  is  crowing      .... 

The  op'ning  morn  disi>els  the  night    . 

The  rising  mist  foretells  the  opening  day 

The  rudiments  of  sciences 

The  senting  Houndes  pursude 

The  Squire,  the  old  Squire,  is  gone  to  his  rest 

The  'Squire  with  half-smok\l  pipe  in  hand     . 

The  Stag  at  eve  had  drunk  his  fill 

The  sturdie  plowmen  lustie,  strong  and  bold  . 

The  Sun  from  the  East  tips  the  Mountains  with  Clohl 

The  sun  has  just  j^ep'd  his  head  o'er  the  hills 

The  toils  are  pitched,  and  the  stakes  are  set 

The  world  is  amazingly  full  of  deceit 

Then  sometime  in  a  dusky  evening  late 

There  Faunus  and  Sylvanus  keepe  their  Courts 

There  is  a  spirit  in  the  chase      .... 

There  was  a  gentle  Angler     .... 

There  were  three  jovial  huntsmen 

There  were  three  Ravens  sat  on  a  tree    . 

There's  a  feel  in  the  air,  and  a  look  of  don't  care 

There's  no  rural  sport  surpasses 

This  Acceon,  as  he  wcl  myght  .... 

This  snell  and  frosty  morning 

Thomson  !  this  quiet  stream,  the  song  of  thought 

Thou  hadst  bin  gone  (quoth  she)  sweet  boy  ere  this 

Thou  that  hast  loved  so  long  and  well 

Though  toil  hath  somewhat  worn  thy  frame 

Thro'  the  castle  gates  first  ride  they  forth   . 

Thus  all  (uir  life  long  we  are  fnjlick  and  gay 

Thy  bold  antlers  call  cm  the  hunter  afar 

'Tis  come  !-  -  'tis  come     my  gallant  steed 

'Tis  pleasant  now,  when  sunlight  fills 

To  live  a  life,  free  from  gout,  pain,  and  j)hthisic 

To  ride  «»r  not  to  ride  ?  that  is  the  question 


PAGE 

285 

84 

169 

281 
256 
384 

394 

24 

219 

340 
"23 
147 
163 
154 
127 
201 
77 
71 
210 

253 
155 
307 

ni 
327 

29 
322 
269 

49 
253 
215 

331 
146 
222 

213 
256 
290 
392 


Digitized  by  LjOOQ iC 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 


419 


To  morowe  ye  shall  on  hunting  fare 

Treat  children's  sport  with  laughter 

Turne— Hunters  then  agen        .... 

Two  Grey-hounds,  swift  and  white  as  whitest  snow 

Up  rose  the  sun,  o'er  moor  and  mead 

Upon  a  rock  that  high  and  sheer    .... 


Wake  !  wake  !  wake  to  the  hunting  ! 

Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay  .... 

We  are  off  once  more!— for  the  summer's  o'er 

Weepe,  weepe,  ye  wod-men,  waile 

What  shall  he  have  that  kild  the  Deare  ?     . 

When  as  the  hand  at  Tennis  plays . 

When  dark  December  glooms  the  day 

When  Emma  hunts,  in  huntsman's  habit  dresl 

When  first  I  strove  to  win  the  prize   . 

When  gelid  frosts  encrust  the  faded  ground 

When  I  was  a  young  horse         .... 

When  I  was  bound  apprentice  in  fair  Lincolnshire 

When  late  the  trees  were  strippt  by  winter  pale . 

When  round  the  Sportsman's  festive  board 

When  summer  bids  us  seek  the  shade 

When  the  rosy  dawn  just  breaketh 

When  the  s|K)rting  young  cockney  comes  out  for  a 

When  the  still  night  withdrew  her  sable  shroud 

Where  torrents  foam  .         .         .         . 

While  fair  Thalestris  pois'd  the  shaft 

While  others  soaring  on  a  lofty  Wing 

Whilst  Rockingham  was  heard  with  these' Reports  to  ring 

Who,  so  list  to  hount,  I  knowe  where  is  an  hynde 

Wind  thy  horn,  my  hunter  boy 

Winde,  jollie  Hunts-men  your  neat  Bugles  shrilly    . 
With  crowds  attended  of  your  ancient  race 
With  early  horn  salute  the  morn         .... 
With  Horns  and  with  Hounds,  I  waken  the  Day     . 
With  silver  droppes  the  meade  yet  spred  for  ruth 
Worthy  .«jir,  souls  attract  souls         ..... 
Wot  makes  the  'untsman's  'eart  to  l)eat 


ride 


Ye  hardy  sons  of  Chace  give  ear     .... 
Ye  vig'rous  Swains  !  while  youth  ferments  your  blood 
Yon  sound's  neither  sheep-l)ell  nor  bark 


PACK 

36 

377 

54 

44 

194 
218 

206 

193 

221 

270 

46 

317 
129 

83 
323 
278 

171 
318 
322 
382 
334 
334 
371 
275 
264 
278 
291 
57 
151 
221 

63 
81 
169 
169 
23 
135 
362 

183 
95 


224 

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420 


THE  POETRY  OF  SPORT 


PAGE 

You  ask  a  song,  and  'twould  be  wrong  to  disappoint  your  call     .     .  395 
You  county  Gal  way  men,  Hibernia's  noble  kin                 .         .         .174 

You  see  the  ways  the  Fisher-man  doth  take        .....  250 

You  subjects  of  England,  come  listen  a  while          .         *        .         •  313 

You  that  fish  for  Dace  and  Roches     .......  243 

You,  who  the  Sweets  of  Rural  Life  have  known      .                  *        •  97 

Young  Marcus  with  the  lark  salutes  the  morn      .    -     •         .         .     .  114 


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