THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES ADAM LINDSAY GORDON. POEMS BY ADAM LINDSAY GORDON. SEA SPRAY AND SMOKE DRIFT. BUSH BALLADS AND GALLOPING RHYMES. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. ASHTAROTH : A DRAMATIC LYRIC. THE ROLL OF THE KETTLEDRUM (ILLUSTRATED). IJlclbournc : A. H. MASSINA & CO. HOWEY STREET, OFF LITTLE COLLINS STREET (Brtween Swanstos and Elizaiirtii Strkkts). 1894. [Entered at Stationers' Hall, and Registered wider Copyright Ad.] &3p 3n flDcnioriani. (A. L. GORDON.) At rest ! Hard by the margin of that sea Whose sounds are mingled with his noble verse, Now lies the shell that never more will house The fine, strong spirit of my gifted friend. Yea, he who flashed upon us suddenly, A shining soul with syllables of fire, Who sang the first great songs these lands can claim To be their own ; the one who did not seem To know what royal place awaited him W^ithin the Temple of the Beautiful, Has passed away ; and we who knew him, sit Aghast in darkness, dumb with that great grief, Whose stature yet we cannot comprehend ; While over yonder churchyard, hearsed with pines, The night-wind sings its immemorial hymn. And sobs above a newly-covered grave. The bard, the scholar, and the man who lived That frank, that open-hearted life which keeps The splendid fire of English chivalry From dying out ; the one who never wronged A fellow-man ; the faithful friend who judged The many, anxious to be loved of him. By what he saw, and not by what he heard, As lesser spirits do ; the brave great soul That never told a lie, or turned aside To fly from danger ; he, I say, was one Of that bright company this sin-stained world Can ill afford to lose. l.mR*RV vi. IN MEMORIAM. They did not know, The hundreds who had read his sturdy verse, And revelled over ringing major notes, The mournful meaning of the undersong Which runs through all he wrote, and often takes The deep autumnal, half-prophetic tone Of forest winds in March ; nor did they think That on that healthy-hearted man theie lay The wild specific curse which seems to cling For ever to the Poet's twofold life ! To Adam Lindsay Gordon, I who laid Two years ago on Lionel Michael's grave A tender leaf of my regard ; yea I, Who culled a garland from the flowers of song To place where Harpur sleeps ; I, left alone. The sad disciple of a shining band Now gone ! to Adam Lindsay Gordon's name I dedicate these lines ; and if 'tis true That, past the darkness of the grave, the soul Becomes omniscient, then the bard may stoop From his high seat to take the offering, And read it with a sigh for human friends, In human bonds, and gray with human griefs. And having wove and proffered this poor wreath, I stand to-day as lone as he who saw At nightfall, through the glimmering moony mists. The last of Arthur on the wailing mere. And strained in vain to hear the going voice. HENRY KENDALL. PREFACE. The poems of Gordon have an interest beyond the mere personal one which his friends attach to his name. Written, as they were, at odd times and leisure moments of a stirring and adventurous life, it is not to be wondered at if they are unequal or unfinished. The astonishment of those who knew the man, and can gauge the capacity of this city to foster poetic instinct, is, that such work was ever produced here at all. Intensely nervous, and feeling much of that shame at the exercise of the higher intelligence which besets those who are known to be renowned in field sports, Gordon produced his poems shyly, scribbled them on scraps of paper, and sent them anonymously to magazines. It was not until he dis- covered one morning that everybody knew a couplet or two of "How We Beat the Favourite" that he consented to forego his anonymity and appear in the unsuspected character of a versemaker. The success of his republished "collected" poems gave him courage, and the unreserved praise which greeted "Bush Ballads" should have urged him to forget or to con- quer those evil promptings which, unhappily, brought about his untimely death. Adam Lindsay Gordon was the son of an officer in the English army, and was educated at Woolwich, in order that he might follow the profession of his family. At the time when he was a cadet there was no sign of either of the two great wars which were about to call forth the strength of English arms, and, like many other men of his day, he quitted his prospects of service, and emigrated. He went to South Australia and viii. PREFACE. started as a sheep farmer. His efforts were attended with failure. He lost his capital, and, owning nothing but a love for horsemanship and a head full of Browning and Shelley, plunged into the varied life which gold-mining, " overlanding," and cattle-driving affords. From this experience he emerged to light in Melbourne as the best amateur steeplechase rider in the colonies. The victory he won for Major Baker in 1868, when he rode Babbler for the Cup Steeplechase, made him popular, and the almost simultaneous publication of his last volume of poems gave him welcome entrance to the houses of all who had pretensions to literary taste. The repu- tation of the book spread to England, and Major Whyte Melville did not disdain to place the lines of the dashing Aus- tralian author at the head of his own dashing descriptions of sporting scenery. Unhappily, the melancholy which Gordon's friends had with pain observed increased daily, and in the full flood of his success, with congratulations pouring upon him from every side, he was found dead in the heather near his home with a bullet from his own rifle in his brain. I do not purpose to criticise the volumes which these few lines of preface introduce to the reader. The influence of Browning and of Swinburne upon the writer's taste is plain. There is plainly visible also, however, a keen sense for natural beauty and a manly admiration for healthy living. If in " Ashtaroth " and " Bellona " we recognise the swing of a familiar metre, in such poems as the "Sick Stockrider" we perceive the genuine poetic instinct united to a very clear perception of the loveliness of duty and of labour. 'Twas merry in tlie glowing morn, among the gleaming grass, To wander as we've wandered many a mile, And blow the cool toljaeco cloud, and watch the white wreaths pass, Sitting loosely in tlje saddle all tlie while ; 'Twas merry 'mid tlie blackwoods, when we spied the station roofs, To wheel the wild scrub cattle at the yard, With a running fire of stockwhips, and a fiery run of hoofs, Oh! the liardest day was never then too hard ! PREFACE. ix. Aye! we liail a glorious gallop after "Starliglit" and his gang. When tliey bolted from Sylvester's on the flat ; How the sun-(lrieil reed-beils crackled, how the flint-strewn ranges rang To tlie strokes of "Mountaineer" and ''Acrobat;"' Hard behind them in the timber, harder still across the heath, Close beliind them through the tea-tree scrub we dash'd ; And the golden-tinted fern leaves, how they rustled underneath ! And the hoiiej-suckle osiers, how thej' crash'd ! This is genuine. There is no "poetic evolution from the depths of internal consciousness" here. The writer has ridden his ride as well as written it. The student of these unpretending volumes will be repaid for his labour. He will find in them something very like the beginnings of a national school of Australian poetry. In historic Europe, where every rood of ground is hallowed in legend and in song, the least imaginative can find food for sad and sweet reflection. When strolling at noon down an English country lane, lounging at sunset by some ruined chapel on the margin of an Irish lake, or watching the mists of morning unveil Ben Lomond, we feel all the charm which springs from association with the past. Soothed, saddened, and cheered by turns, we partake of the varied moods which belong not so much to ourselves as to the dead men who, in old days, sung, suffered, or conquered in the scenes which we survey. But this our native or adopted land has no past, no story. No poet speaks to us. Do we need a poet to interpret Nature's teachings, we must look into our own hearts, if perchance we may find a poet there. What is the dominant note of Australian scenery ? That which is the dominant note of Edgar Allan Poe's poetry — Weird Melancholy. A poem like " L' Allegro " could never be written by an Australian. It is too airy, too sweet, too freshly happy. The Australian mountain forests are funereal, secret, stern. Their solitude is desolation. They seem to stifle, in their black gorges, a story of sullen despair. No tender senti- ment is nourished in their shade. In other lands the dying X. PREFACE. year is mourned, the falling leaves drop lightly on his bier. In the Australian forests no leaves fall. The savage winds shout among the rock clefts. From the melancholy gum strips of white bark hang and rustle. The very animal life of these frowning hills is either grotesque or ghostly. Great grey kangaroos hop noiselessly over the coarse grass. Flights of white cockatoos stream out, shrieking like evil souls. The sun suddenly sinks, and the mopokes burst out into horrible peals of semi-human laughter. The natives aver that, when night comes, from out the bottomless depth of some lagoon the Bunyip rises, and, in form like monstrous sea-calf, drags his loathsome length from out the ooze. From a corner of the silent forest rises a dismal chant, and around a fire dance natives painted like skeletons. All is fear-inspiring and gloomy. No bright fancies are linked with the memories of the moun- tains. Hopeless explorers have named them out of their sufferings — Mount Misery, Mount Dreadful, Mount Despair. As when among sylvan scenes in places Made greeu with the running of rivers, And gracious witli temperate air, the soul is soothed and satisfied, so, placed before the frightful grandeur of these barren hills, it drinks in their sentiment of defiant ferocity, and is steeped in bitterness. Australia has rightly been named the Land of the Dawning. Wrapped in the midst of early morning, her history looms vague and gigantic. The lonely horseman riding between the moonlight and the day sees vast shadows creeping across the shelterless and silent plains, hears strange noises in the primeval forest, where flourishes a vegetation long dead in other lands, and feels, despite his fortune, that the trim utilitarian civilisation which bred him shrinks into insignificance beside the contemptuous grandeur of forest and ranges coeval with an age in which European scientists have cradled his own race. PREFACE. xi. There is a poem in every form of tree or flower, but the poetry which lives in the trees and flowers of Austraha differs from those of other countries. Europe is the home of knightly song, of bright deeds and clear morning thought. Asia sinks beneath the weighty recollections of her past magnificence, as the Suttee sinks, jewel-burdened, upon the corpse of dead grandeur, destructive even in its death. America swiftly hurries on her way, rapid, glittering, insatiable even as one of her own giant waterfalls. From the jungles of Africa, and the creeper-tangled groves of the islands of the South, arise, from the glowing hearts of a thousand flowers, heavy and intoxicating odours— the Upas-poison which dwells in barbaric sensuaHty. In Australia alone is to be found the Grotesque, the Weird, the strange scribblings of nature learning how to write. Some see no beauty in our trees without shade, our flowers without perfume, our birds who cannot fly, and our beasts who have not yet learned to walk on all fours. But the dweller in the wilderness acknowledges the subtle charm of this fantastic land of monstrosities. He becomes familiar with the beauty of lone- liness. Whispered to by the myriad tongues of the wilderness, he learns the language of the barren and the uncouth, and can read the hieroglyphs of haggard gum-trees, blown into odd shapes, distorted with fierce hot winds, or cramped with cold nights, when the Southern Cross freezes in a cloudless sky of icy blue. The phantasmagoria of that wild dreamland termed the Bush interprets itself, and the Poet of our desolation begins to comprehend why free Esau loved his heritage of desert sand better than all the bountiful richness of Egypt. MARCUS CLARKE. GENERAL CONTENTS. -o- (Translated from the Spanish) In Memoriam. By Henry Kendall Preface. By Marcus Clarke . . Publishers' Preface . . A Basket of Flowers A Dedication After the Quarrel A Fragment . . A Hunting Song A Legend of Madrid An Exile's Farewell Ars Longa. (A Song of Pilgrimage) . . Ashtaroth : A Dramatic Lyric A Song of Autumn . . Banker's Dream Bellona Borrow'd Plumes. (A Preface and a Piracy) .. By Flood and Field. (A Legend of the Cottiswold) By Wood and Wold. (A Preamble) .. Cito Pede Preterit .^Etas. (A Philosophical Dissertation) Confiteor Credat Judaeus Apella Cui Bono Delilah. (From a Picture) De Te Discontent . . Doubtful Dreams " Early Adieux " "Exeunt" Ex Fumo Dare Lucem. ('Twixt the Cup and the Lip) Fauconshawe. (A Ballad) Finis Exoptatus. (A Metaphysical Song) Fragmentary Scenes from the Road to Avernus From Lightning and Tempest From the Wreck Gone PAGE. V. vii. XV. 224 147 187 228 243 75 239 116 249 211 134 92 72 49 48 62 99 131 90 107 171 179 191 241 189 139 80 66 179 no 159 43 (Translation from Horace) (An Allegorical Interlude) (The Philosophy of a Feast) GENERAL CONTENTS. Hippodromania; or, Whiffs from the Pipe. (In Five Parts) How We Beat the Favourite. (A Lay of the Loamshire Hunt Cup) In the Garden In Utrumque Paratus. (A Logical Discussion Laudamus Lex Talionis. (A Moral Discourse) No Name Pastor Cum. Podas Okus . Potter's Clay. Qaare Fatigasti Rippling Water Sunlight on the Sea. Ten Paces Off The Fields of Coleraine The Last Leap "The Old Leaven." (A Dialogue) The Rhyme of Joyous Garde The Roll of the Kettledrum. (lUustrated) The Romance of Britomarte . . The Sick Stockrider . . The Song of the Surf The Swimmer The Three Friends. (From the French) Thick-headed Thoughts Thora's Song (" Ashtaroth ") . . To a Proud Beauty. ("A Valentine") To My Sister Two Exhortations Unshriven Visions in the Smoke Whisperings in Wattle-Boughs Wolf and Hound Wormwood and Nightshade . . Ye Wearie Wayfarer, hys Ballad. (In Kigln ^u der edlen Yagd. (A Treatise on Trees) yttes) xin. I'.UIE. 124 174 185 54 222 58 165 73 37 61 121 87 103 188 129 iig 233 196 ^7 212 151 95 155 207 245 205 244 229 180 46 124 97 167 III 48 52 PUBLISHERS' PREFACE. Some of the poems included in this volume were first published in the Australasian newspaper, and are inserted by the kind permission of the proprietors. We have also to acknowledge our indebtedness to many personal friends of the late Author for their kindness in placing at our disposal some poems which were not included in his published works. This edition of Gordon's Poems is embellished by the illustration of the "Roll of the Kettledrum," which, for this reason, has been made the introductory poem in the book. Lieut. -Colonel Marshman, late Major H.M. 28th Regiment, an artist of very high degree, as proclaimed by experts who have seen these original drawings, conceived the idea of illustrating this poem, of which he had a strong professional admiration and artistic ability sufficient to demonstrate its beauty. The suggestion was gladly accepted by us, with the result as shown. His drawings have been reproduced by the best processes known, and are faithful copies of the originals. We have no doubt that all lovers of Gordon will admit the additional charm these excellent pictures lend his works. A. H. MASSINA & CO. 1st June, 1804. ZlK IRoK of the Ikcttlebrum ; OR, Z\K Xav> of the %aet il]m\Ki\ X, " Spreading before us their cavaliy lay, Squadron on squadron, troop upon troop ; We were so few, and so many were they — Eagles wait calmly the sparrow-hawk's stoop.' " One line of swart profiles, and bearded lips dressing, One ridge of bright helmets, one crest of fair plumes. One streak of blue sword blades ail bared for the fleshing, One row of red nostrils that scent battiefunies." THE ROLL OF THE KETTLEDRUM ; OK, THE LAY OF THE LAST CHARGER. "You have the Pyrrhic dance, as yet, Where is tlie Pyrrhie plialaiix gone ? Of two sucli k'.ssoMri, why for^'et The nobler and the manlier one T'—Jlyron. One ]iiR'()f swart pi-ofiles, and l)earded lips dressiiifr, Onu I'ido-o of LriuJit liclmets, one crest (if I'nii- Illumes, One streak oF l.lue s\vord-l)lades all bared fnr the Heshino", One row of red nostrils that scent hatth'-ruiiics. Forward ! the trumpets were soundinn- the char<^as The roll of the kettledrum i-apidly ran, That iiiusic, like wild-fire spreaatted my neck, said, "Old fellow, good- 1 I" hy(> ' And (lro})})(;d oil' me gently, and lay wlicie he dropp'd ! TEE ROLL OF TLIE KETTLEDRUM. 27 Ah, me ! after all, they may call lis diiml) creatures— I tried hard to neigli, hut the stjhs took my l)reath, Yet I guessed, gazing ilown at those still, ([uiet features, He was never more happy in life than in death. ****** Two years back, at Aldershot, Elriugton mentioned My name to our colonel one iield-day. He said, "'Count,' 'Steeltrap,' and 'Challenger' ought to be pensioned ;" "Count" dietl the same week,anted and power, From the meet on the hlll-slde, the horn-blast, the And, The burst, the long gallop that seems to devour The champaign, all obstacles flinging behind.'' {Sni)i ) 34 THE ROLL OF THE KETTLEDRUM. I've borne one through perils where many have seen us, No tyrant, a kind friend, a patient instructor, And I've felt some strange element flashing between us, Till the saddle seem'd turn'd to a lio-htninof con- ductor. Did he see ? could he feel through the faintness, the numbness. While linger'd the spirit half-loosed from the clay, Dumb eyes seeking his in their piteous dumbness, Dumb quivering nostrils, too stricken to neigh ? And what then ? the colours reversed, the drums muffled, The black nodding plumes, the dead march, and the pall. The stern faces, soldier-like, silent, unruffled. The slow sacred music that floats over all ! Cross carbine and boarspear, hang bugle and banner, Spur, sabre, and snaffle, and helm — Is it well ? Vain 'scutcheon, false trophies of Mars and Diana, Can the dead laurel sprout with the live immor- telle ? It may be, — we follow, and tliough we inhej-it Our strength for a season, our' pride for a span. Say ! vanity are they ? vexation of spirit ? Not so, since they serve for a time horse and man. THE MOLL OF TEE KETTLEDRUM. 36 They serve for a time, and they make life worth living, In spite of life's troubles — 'tis vain to despond ; Oh, man ! we at least, we enjoy, witli tlianksgiving, God's gifts on this earth, thougli we look not beyond. Yon sin, and you suffer, and we, too, find sorrow. Perchance through yoiir sin — yet it soon will be o'er ; We labour to-day, and we shnuber to-morrow, Strong horse and bold rider ! — and who knoweth more 1 ****** In our barrack-square shouted Drill-sergeant M'Cluskie, The roll of the kettledrum rapidly ran, The colonel wheel'd short, speaking once, dry and husky, "Would to God I had died with your master, old man Sea Spra^ anb Sinohc 2)i1ft PODAS 0KU8. Am I wakino- ? Was I slooping ? Dearest, ai-e you watchino- yet ? Traces on your cheeks of weeping Glitter, 'tis in vain you fret: Drifting ever ! drifting onward ! In the glass the hright sand runs Steadily and slowly downward ; Hushed are all the Myrmidons. Has Autoniedon been banish'd From liis post beside my bed ? Where has Agamemnon vanished ? Where is warlike Diomed ? Where is Nestor ? where Ulysses ? Menclaus, where is he ? Call them not, more dear youv kisses Than tlieir prosings are to nie. Daylight fades and night nuist follow ; Low, where sea and sky combine, Droops the orb of great Apollo, Hostile god to me and mine. Through the tent's wide entrance streaming, In a flootl of glory i-are. Glides the golden sunset, glcamiiig On your golden, gleaminu' li.iir. 38 POD AS OKUS. Chide him not, the leech who tarries, Surest aid were all too late ; Surer far the shaft of Paris, Winged by Phcebus and by fate ; Wlien he crouch'd behind the gable, Had I once his features scann d, Phcebus' self had scarce been able To have nerved his tremblins;' hand. Blue-eyed maiden ! dear Athena ! Goddess chaste, and wise, and brave, From the snares of Polyxena Thou would'st fain thy favourite save. Tell me, is it not far better That it should be as it is ? Jove's behest we cannot fetter. Fate's decrees are always his. Many seek for peace and riches. Length of days and life of ease ; I have sought for one thing, which is Fairer unto me than these. Often, too, I've heard the story. In my boyhood, of the doom Which the fates assign'd me — Glory, Coupled with an early tomb. Swift assault and sudden sally Underneath the Trojan wall ; Charge, and counter-charge, and rally. War-cry loud, and trumpet call ; Doubtful strain of desp'rate battle, Cut and thrust and grapple fierce. Swords that ring on shields that rattle, Blades that gash and darts that pierce POD AS OEUS. 39 I have done with these for ever; By the loud resounding sea, Where the reedy jav'lins quiver, There is now no place for me. Day by day our ranks diminish. We are falling day by day ; But our sons the strife will finish, Where man tarries man must slay. Life, 'tis said, to all men sweet is. Death to all nnist bitter be : Wherefore thus, oh, mother Thetis! None can baffle Jove's decree ? I am ready, I am willing, To resign my stormy life ; Weary of this long blood-spilling. Sated with this ceaseless strife. Shorter doom I've pictured dimly. On a bed of crimson sand ; Fighting hard and dying grimly, Silent lips, and striking hand; But the toughest lives are brittle. And the bravest and the best Lightly fall— it matters little; Now I only long for rest. 1 have seen enough of slaughter. Seen Scamander's torrent red, Seen hot blood poured out like water, Seen the champaign heap'd with dead. Men will call me unrelenting, Pitiless, vindictive, stern ; Few will raise a voice dissenting, Few will better thinors discern. 40 FOB AS OKUS. Speak ! the fires of life are reeling, Like the wildfires on the marsh, Was I to a friend unfeeling ? Was I to a mistress harsh ? Was there nought save bloodshed thro1)l)n-ig In this heart and on this hrow ? Whisper! girl, in silence sobbing! Dead Patroclus ! answer thou! Dry those violet orl)s that glisten barling, I have had my 'm\ he envy such ending ? 'twere hard to say ; Had he cause to envy such ending ? No ! Can the spirit feel for the senseless clay When it once has gone where we all must go ? What matters the sand or the whitening chalk. The blighted herbage, the black'ning log, The crooked beak of the eagle-hawk. Or the hot, red toncjue of the nativ(! doo- ? That couch was rugged, those sextons i-ude, Yet, in spite of a leaden shroud, we know That the liravest and fairest are eartli-woi-ms' food, When once they've gone where we all must go. With the pistol clenched in his failing hand, With the death mist spread o'er his fading eyes, He saw the sun go down on the sand. And he slept, and never saw it rise ; 'Twas well ; he toil'd till his task was done, Constant and calm in his latest throe, The storm was weathered, the battle was won, When he went, my friends, where we all nuist go. God grant that whenever, soon or late. Our course is run and our goal is reach'd, We may meet our fate as steady and straight As he whose bones in yon desert bleach'd ; No tears are needed — our cheeks are dry, Wc; have none to waste upon living woe ; Shall we siu'li for one who has ceased to sio-ji Having gone, my friends, where we all must go? GO:^E. 45 We tarry yet, we are toiling still, He is gone and he fares the best, He fought against odds, he struggled u]i hill, He has fairly earned his season of rt'st ; No tears are needed —fill out the wine. Let the goblets clash, and the grape juice How ; Hoi pledge me a death-drink, comrade mine, To a brave man ijfone where we all mu.st cfo. UNSHRIVEN. Oh ! the sun rose on the lea, and the bird sang merrilie, And the steed stood ready harness'd in the hall, And he left his lady's bower, and he sought the eastern tower, And he lifted cloak and weapon from the wall. " We were wed luit yester-noon, must we- separate so soon, " Must you travel unassoiled and, aye, unshriven, " With the blood stain on your hand, and the red streak on \^our brand, "And your guilt all unconfess'd and unforgiven ?" "Tho' it were but yester-even we were wedded, still unshriven, " Across the moor this morning I must ride ; " I must gallop fast and straight, for my errand will not wait : " Fear naus^ht, I shall return at eventide." " If I fear, it is for thee, thy weal is dear to me, " Yon moor with retribution seemeth rife ; "As we've sown so must we reap, and I've started in my sleep " At the voice of the avenger, ' Life for life.' " " My arm is strong, I ween, and my trusty blade is keen, " And the courser tliat I ride is swift and sure, "And I cannot break my oath, though to leave thee I am loth, " There is one that I must meet upon the moor." ITKSHRIVE]^. 47 Oh ! the sun shone on the lea, and tlie bird sang inerrilie, Down the avenue and tln^ough the iron gate, Spurr'd and belted, so he rode, steel to draw and steel to goad. And across the inoor he gallop'd fast and straight. jif. .jt*. 2k, jk. Alt Oh ! the sun shone on the lea, and the bird sang full of glee, Ere the nnsts of evening gather'd chill and grey ; But the wild bird's merry note on the deaf ear never smote. And the sunshine never warmed the lifeless clay. Ere the sun began to droop, or the mist began to stoop. The youthful bride lay swooning in the hall ; Empty saddle on his Ijack, broken bridle hanging slack, The steed returned full gallop to the stall. Oh ! the sun sank in the sea, and the wind wailed di'earilie ; Let the bells in yonder monastery toll, For the night rack nestles dark round the body stiff and stark, And unshri\cii to its Maker flics the soul. YE WEARIE WAYFARER. Hys Ballad. IN EIGHT FYTTES. Fytte I. BY WOOD AND WOLD. [a preamble.] '■ Beneatli tlie greenwood buugli." — )!'. Hi-oit. Lightly the breath of the spring wind hlows,. Though la(k'n with faint perfume, 'Tis the fragrance rare that the bush man knows, The scent of the wattle bloom. Two-tliirds of our journey at least are done, Old horse ! let us take a spell In the shade from the glare of the noon-day sun, Thus far we have travell'd well ; Your bridle I'll slip, your saddle ungirth. And lay tliem beside tliis log, For you'll roll in that track tjf reddish earth, And sliake like a water-dog. Upon yonder rise there's a clum[) (^f trees — Their shadows look cool and broad — Yon can crop tin; grass as fast as you please, Whik' I stretch my limbs on the sward 'Tis pleasant, I ween, witli a leafy screen O'er the weary head, to lie On the mossy carpet of emerald green, 'Neath the vault of tlie azure sky ; Thus all alone l)y the wood and wold, I yield myself once again To the memories old that, like tales fresh told. Come llittinij: across tlic b]-ain. YE WE ARTE WAYFARER. 49 Fytte II.— by flood and FIELD. [A LEGEND OF THE COTTISWOLD.] " Tliey have saddled a hundred milk-white steeds, They have bridled a hundred black."— OM Ballad. "He turned in his saddle, now follow who dare. I ride for my country, quoth * * ." — Lawrence. I re:\iember the lowering wintry morn, And the mist on the Cotswold hills, Where I once heard the blast of the huntsman's horn, Not far from the seven rills. Jack Esdale was there, and Huoh St. Claii-, Bob Chapman, and Andrew Kerr, And big George Griffiths on Devil-May-Care, And — black Tom Oliver. And one who rode on a dark brown steed, Clean jointed, sinewy, spare. With tlie lean game head of the Blacklock breed And the resolute eye that loves the lead. And the quarters massive and square — A tower of strength, with a promise of speed (There was Celtic blood in the pair). I remember how merry a start we got, When the red fox broke from the fforse, In a country so deep, with a scent so hot, That the hound could outpace the liorse ; I remember how few in the front rank show'd, How endless appeared the tail, On the brown liill side, where we cross'd tlie road, And headed towards the \i\\q. 50 YE WEARIE WAYFARER. The dark brown steed on the left was there, On the right was a dappled grey, And between the pair, on a chestnut mare. The duffer who writes this lay. What business had " this child " there to ride ? But little or none at all ; Yet I held my own for a while in " the pride That goeth before a fall." Though rashness can hope for but one result. We are heedless when fate draws nisfh us, And the maxim holds good, " Queon perdere vult Deus, dementat pinus." The right hand man to the left hand said, As down in the vale we went, " Harden your heart like a millstone, Ned, And set your face as flint ; Solid and tall is the rasping wall That stretches before us yonder ; You must have it at speed or not at all, 'Twere better to halt than to ponder, For the stream runs wide on the take-off side, And washes the clay bank under; Here goes for a pull, 'tis a madman's ride, And a broken neck if you blunder." No word in reply his comrade spoke. Nor waver'd, nor once looked round. But I saw him shorten his horse's stroke As we splash'd through the marshy ground ; I remember the laugh that all the while On his quiet features play'd : — So he rode to his death, with that careless smile. In the van of the " Light Brigade ;" YJ'J WE ABIE WAYFAREPi. 51 So stricken by Russian grape, the cheer Rang out, while he toppled back, From the shattered lungs as merry and clear As it did when it roused the pack. Let never a tear his memory stain. Give his ashes never a sigh, One of many who perished, not in VAIN, As A TYPE OF OUR CHIVALRY — I remember one thrust he gave to his hat, And two to the flanks of the brown, And still as a statue of old he sat. And he shot to the front, hands down ; I remember the snort and the stag-like bound Of the steed six lengths to the fore. And the lauijch of the rider while, landing sound. He turned in his saddle and glanced around ; I remember — but little more, Save a bird's-eye gleam of the dashing stream, A jarring thud on the wall, A shock and the blank of a nightmare's dream — I was down with a stunninsr fall. YU WEARIE WAYFARER. Fytte III.— ZU DER EDLEN YAGD. [A TREATISE ON TREES — VINE-TREE V. SADDLE-TREE.] " Now, welcome, welcome, masters mine, Thrice welcome to the noble chase. Nor earthly sport, nor sport divine, Can take such honourable place." — Ballad of the Wild Huntsman. (Free Translation.) I REMEMBER some words my father said, When I was an urchin vain ; — God rest his soul, in his narrow bed These ten long years he hath lain. When I think one drop of the blood he bore This faint heart surely must hold, It may be my fancy and nothing more, But the faint heart seemeth bold. He said that as from the blood of grape, Or from juice distilled from the grain. False vigour, soon to evaporate, Is lent to nerve and brain, So the coward will dare on the gallant horse What he never would dare alone. Because he exults in a borrowed force, And a hardihood not his own. And it may be so, yet this difference lies 'Twixt the vine and the saddle-tree. The spurious courage that drink supplies Sets our baser passions free ; But the stimulant which the horseman feels When he gallops fast and straight, To his better nature most appeals, And charity conquers hate, YJ'J WE Aim: WAYFARER. 53 As the kindly sunshine thaws the snow, E'en malice and spite will yield, We could almost welcome our mortal foe, , In the saddle by flood and field ; And chivahy dawns in the merry tale That " Market Harborough " writes, And the yarns of " Nimrod " and "Martingale" Seem legends of loyal knights. Now tell me for once, old horse of mine. Grazing round me loose and free, Does your ancient equine heart repine For a burst in such companie. Where "the Poivers that be" in the front rank ride, To hold your own with the throng, Or to plunge at " Faugh-a-Ballagh's " side, In the rapids of Dandenong ? Don't tread on my toes, you're no foolish weight, So I found to my cost, as under Your carcase I lay, when you rose too late. Yet I blame you not for the blunder. What! sulky old man, your under lip falls! You think I, too, ready to rail am At your kinship remote to that duller at walls, The talkative roadster of Balaam. 54 YE WEARIE WAYFARER. Fytte IV— tn utrumque paratus. [A LOGICAL DISCUSSION.] "Then hey for boot ami horse, lad! And round the world away ! Young blood will have its course, lad! And every dog his daj'!"— C. Kinysley. There's a formula which the west country clowns Once used, ere their hlows fell thick, At the fairs on the Devon and Cornwall downs In their bouts with the single-stick. You may read a moral, not far amiss, If you care to moralise. In the crossing-guard, where the ash-plants kiss. To the words " God spare our eyes." No game was ever yet worth a rap For a rational man to play, Into which no accident, no mishap, Could possibl}^ lind its way. If you hold the willow, a shooter from Wills May transform you into a hopper. And the football meadow is rife with spills. If you feel disposed for a cropper : In a rattling gallop with hound and horse You may chance to reverse the medal On the sward, with the saddle your loins across, And your hunter's loins on the saddle ; In the stubbles you'll find it hard to frame A remonstrance firm, yet civil, When oft as " our nnitual friend " takes aim, Long odds may be laid on the rising game, And against your gaiters level ; rU WEARIE WAYFARER. There's rlano-er even where fish are caught To those who a wettino- fear ; For what's worth having must aye be bought, And sport's like life and life's like sport — " It ain't all skittles and beer." The honey bag lies close to the sting, The rose is fenced by the thorn. Shall we leave to others their ofatherinof, And turn from clustering fruits that cling To the garden wall in scorn ? Albeit those purple grapes hang high, Like the fox in the ancient tale. Let us pause and try, ere we pass them by. Though we, like the fox, may fail. All hurry is worse than useless ; think On the adage, " 'Tis pace that kills ;" Shun bad tobacco, avoid strong drink, Abstain from Holloway's pills ; Wear woollen socks, they're the best you'll find ; Beware how you leave off flannel ; And, whatever you do, don't change your mind When once you have picked your panel ; With a bank of cloud in the south south-east, Stand ready to shorten sail ; Fight shj^ of a corporation feast ; Don't trust to a martiu