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 Mmm
 
 OF 
 
 SPORTS Ax\D PASTIMES 
 
 EDITED BY 
 
 HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF BEAUFORT, K.G. 
 ASSISTED BY ALFRED E. T. Wi.l-ny 
 
 THE 
 
 POETRY OF SPORT
 
 THE BADMINTON LIBRARY. 
 
 28 Volumes. Crown 8vo. ids. 6d. each Volume. 
 
 ARCHERY. By C. J. Longman, Col. 
 
 H. Walrond, &c. 195 Illustrations 
 
 and 2 Maps. 
 ATHLETICS AND FOOTBALL. By 
 
 Montague Shearman. 51 Illustra- 
 tions. 
 BIG GAME SHOOTING. By C. 
 
 Phillipps-Wolley, &c. 
 Vol. I.— Africa and America. 77 
 
 Illustrations. 
 Vol. II. — Europe, Asia, and the 
 
 Arctic Regions. 73 Illustrations. 
 
 BILLIARDS. By Major W. Broad- 
 foot, R.E. 29 Illustrations and 
 numerous Diagrams. 
 
 BOATING. By W. B. Woodgate. 49 
 Illustrations. 
 
 COURSING AND FALCONRY. By 
 Harding Cox and the Hon. Gerald 
 Lascelles. 76 Illustrations. 
 
 CRICKET. By A. G. Steel and the 
 Hon. R. H. Lyttelton. 64 Illustra- 
 tions. 
 
 CYCLING. By the Farl of Albe- 
 marle and G. Lacy Hillier. 59 
 Illustrations. 
 
 DANCING. By Mrs. Lilly Grove, 
 F.R.G.S., &c. 131 Illustrations. 
 
 DRIVING. By the Duke of Beaufort. 
 65 Illustrations. 
 
 FENCING, BOXING, AND WREST- 
 LING. By Walter H. Pollock, 
 F. C. Grove, C. Prevosp, &c. 42 
 Illustrations. 
 
 FISHING. By H. Cholmondeley- 
 Pknnell. 
 Vol. 1.— Salmon, Trout, and Gray- 
 ling. 158 Illustrations. 
 Vol. II.— I'iKEand other Coarse Fish. 
 132 Illustrations. 
 
 GOLF. By Horace Hutchinson, the 
 Right Hon. A. J. Balfour, M.P., 
 &c. 89 Illustrations. 
 
 HUNTING. By the Duke of Beau- 
 fort, K.G., and Mowbray Morris. 
 53 Illustrations. 
 
 MOUNTAINEERING. RyC. T.Dent, 
 Sir W. M. Conway, &c. ioS 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 Illustrations. 
 
 RIDING .\ND POLO. By Robert 
 Weir, J. Moray Brown, &c. 59 
 Illustrations. 
 
 SEA-FISHING. By John Bicker- 
 dyke, W. Senior, Sir H. W. Gore 
 Booth, Bart., and A. C. Harms- 
 worth. 197 Illustrations. 
 
 SHOOTING. By Lord Walsingham 
 and Sir Ralph Pavne-Gallwey, 
 Bart. 
 
 Vol. I. — Field and Covert. 105 
 Illustrations. 
 
 Vol. XL- Moor and Marsh. 65 Illus- 
 trations. 
 
 SKATING, CURLING, TOBOGGAN- 
 ING, &c. By J. M. Heathcote, 
 C. G. Tebbutt, &c. 284 Illustrations. 
 
 SWIMMING. By Archibald Sinclair 
 and William Henry, iig Illustra- 
 tions. 
 
 TENNIS, LAWN TENNIS, 
 RACKETS, AND FIVES. By 
 J. M. and C. G. Heathcote, &c. 
 79 Illustrations. 
 
 YACHTING. By Lord Brassey, the 
 Earl of Onslow, &c. 
 
 Vol. I. — Cruising, Construction, 
 .Racing Rules, &c. 114 Illustra- 
 tions. 
 
 Vol. II. — Yachting in America and 
 the Colonies, Racing, &c. 195 
 Illustrations. 
 
 LONGMANS, GREEN, 
 
 London and Bombay. 
 
 & CO.
 
 A Hunting Poet."
 
 THE 
 
 Poetry of Sport 
 
 SELECTED AXD EDITED BY 
 
 HEDLEY PEEK 
 
 WITH A CHAPTER ON CLASSICAL ALLUSIONS TO SPORT 
 
 \'.V ANDREW LANG, AND A SPECL^L PREFACE TO 
 
 THE BADMINTON LIBRARY BY A. E. T.WATSON 
 
 ILLUSTRATED liV 
 
 A. THORBUKX. LUCie.N DAVIS, C. E. liROCK 
 
 AND OTHERS 
 
 LONG M A N S, G R E E N, AND CO. 
 
 LONDON AND BOMBAY 
 1896 
 
 . / // rights re.icrveti
 
 
 DEDICATION 
 
 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 
 best and keenest sportsmen of our time. I can say, from 
 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 
 Mis Royal Highness knocking over driven grouse and 
 partridges and high-rocketing pheasants in first-rate 
 
 353463
 
 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.
 
 BADMINTON 
 
 PREFACE 
 
 A FEW LINES only are necessary to explain the object 
 with which these volumes arc 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
 
 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.
 
 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 
 arc 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 Encyclopa^dia.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
 
 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 H. ? — 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
 
 THE BADMINTON LIBRAR\ 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 w'as 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 jtlayers 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 (iolf, 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 distinguishing l)etween a
 
 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
 
 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. There 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 Hou.ses 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. 7'he 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 i)arty of men and ladies 
 passing along the highway on tjicycles, 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 liavingcome to an end
 
 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 pubUc 
 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. (3f all English 
 sportsmen none fulfilled every essential condition so fully as 
 the Uuke 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 
 Tattersall's, 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 w^as 
 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
 
 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 sutificient 
 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 1 knew to what extent I might write without encroaching 
 unduly on the 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 tiie Editor 
 in chief that he even disliked the generally accepted term 
 •whip' for 'whipper-in,' declaring that a whij) 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 sucii mountains of matter
 
 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 soul of hospitality, and having 
 the horses out in the morning for the solution of difticulties 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 
 ' Steeplechasing.' 
 
 Early in 1884, at the time fixed, the MS. of 'Steeple- 
 chasing ' was 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
 
 THE BADMINTON LIBRARY xvii 
 
 if he were relieved of his engagement with them ; whereupon 
 they asked me if I were wilUng to bring about the reHef 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 which 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 has fulfilled the duties which— it need scarcely be said, 
 ' 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, why mention any regiment ? 
 
 ^\■ould 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 
 answered, ' 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 Lilirary was to be written. I understood 
 that our work in its most trivial details was to be as accurate as 
 
 a
 
 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 suitabihty, 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 slips 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
 
 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 al)out 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 details of a few trials ; and Mr. (raven 
 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 l)e thorough. 
 Three years had elapsed since a Library had been decided 
 on, considerably more than two since it was arranged that it 
 
 a 2
 
 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 incid€ntal 
 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 were 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-
 
 THE BADMINTON LIBRARY xxi 
 
 cally ; 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 
 delightfully simple, picturesque style. 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 W^alsingham 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 1891, 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 pastime 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 V(,'loci- 
 pedc. 
 
 A volume jointly made up of ' Athletics ' and ' Football ' also 
 came out in 1887 ; and to some extent the recent craze for the
 
 xxii THE POETRY OF SPORT 
 
 latter game might have been mentioned in what has been said a 
 few pages eariier about the rise and decUne 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. Cr. 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. Steel's 
 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
 
 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 picturescjue 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, Boxipg, and Wrestling ' were joined together as 
 kindred subjects. 
 
 W^as 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 comi)ani()n 
 subject ' Driving,' had meantime been making progress,
 
 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 Lascelles. 
 
 ' 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-
 
 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. 0.swell, 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 Oswell's 
 wholly admirable contribution remains one of the strongest 
 features of the Librar)'. 
 
 But to extract the work from the modest old sportsman 
 was a very hard business. He had kept diaries. Moreover, 
 ^Volff, the famous painter of animals, had drawn various pictures, 
 illustrating scenes descri.bed, 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
 
 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- 
 WoUey 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 poli 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 competerit 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.
 
 THE BADMINTOX 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. \\'e hope and imagine that the book has given some 
 fillip to this ancient pastime, and certainly there are many quamt 
 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 was human foresight. 
 
 'Sea Fishing' as a sport had made vast way since the 
 Library was first contemplated. \'isitors 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 it.self 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 drove, F.R.C.S., and this turrjpd the 
 scale. Mrs. Grove, on being conmiunicated 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
 
 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 ' Old 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 sanguine 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 cease 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 : —
 
 THE BADMINTON LIBRARY 
 
 THE BADMINTON LIBRARY. 
 
 Edited by the Duke of Beaufort, K.G., and 
 Alfred E. T. Watson. 
 
 Dedicated by Special Pennission to H.R. H. THE Prince of Wales. 
 
 Hunting. By the Duke of Beaufort, K.G., Mowbray Morris, the 
 Eari of Suffolk and Berkshire, the Rev. E. W. L. Davies, Digby 
 ColHns, Alfred E. T. Watson, George H. Longman, Sir 
 Marteine Lloyd, Bart., and J. T. Gibbons. Illustrated by J. 
 Charlton, J. Sturgess, A. C. Sealy, Miss .\gnes Biddulph, and 
 G. D. Giles. 
 
 Fishing. By H. Cholmondele\-Pennell, Major John P. Traherne, 
 H. R. Francis, H. S. Hall, Frederic M. Halford, Thomas 
 Andrews, William Senior, R. B. Marston, G. Christopher 
 Davies, and the ALirquis of Exeter. Illustrated by C. Whymper 
 and Conway Lloyd-Jones. 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 Warrc, 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 P^arl of Alljemaric, J. Pcnncll, G. Moore, and S. T. 
 Dadd. 
 
 Shooting. By Lord Walsingham, Sir Ralph Payne-Gallwey, Bart., 
 the Hon. Gerald Lascclles, 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. ?:. Lodge, and J. G. Millais. 2 vols. 
 
 Athletics and Football. By Montague Shearman, W. R\e, Sir 
 Richard Webster, Q.C., Waiter 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. .\. H. Mitchell, and W. G. Grace. Illustrated by 
 Lucien Davis, and from photographs. 
 
 DriTing. By the Duke of Beaufort, K'.G., tiic Earl of Onslow,
 
 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. (iiles. 
 
 Golf. By Horace G. Hutchinson, Lord Wellwood, Sir Walter 
 Simpson, Bart., ■\. Lang, H. S. C. Everard, and the Right 
 Hon. A. J. Balfour. Illustrated by Thomas Hodge and Harry 
 Furniss. 
 
 Tetinis., Lawn Tennis., Rackets., and Fives. By J. M. Heathcote, 
 the Hon. Alfred 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 a?td Falcon7y. 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. AI. Conway, D. W. 
 Freshfield, C. E. Mathews, C. Pilkington, Sir F. Pollock, Bart., 
 H. G. Willirtk, and Mr. Justice Wills. Illustrated by H. G. 
 Willink and Ellis Carr. 
 
 Fencing., Boxing, 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-WoUey, W. C. Oswell, 
 F. J. Jackson, F. C. Selous, Sir Samuel W. Baker, Warburton 
 Pike, Arnold Pike, Lieut-Col. R, Heber Percy, Major Algernon
 
 THE BADMINTON LIBRARY xxxi 
 
 C. Heber Percy, W. A. Baillie Grohrnan, Sir Henry Pottinger, 
 Bart., the Earl of Kilmorey, Abel Chapman, W. J. Buck, and 
 St. George Littledale. Illustrated by C. Whymper, J. Wolfif, 
 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.ALG. 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, \V. Senior, A. C. Harms- 
 worth, and Sir H. W. Gore- Booth, Bart. lUustratcdby C. Napier 
 Hemy, R. T. Pritchett, and W. W. May. 
 
 miliards. By Major \V. Broadfoot, R.E., A. H. Boyd, Sydenham 
 Di.xon, W. J. Ford, Dudley D. Pontifex, Russell D. Walker, 
 and Reginald H. R. Rimington-Wilson. Illustrated by Lucicn 
 Davis, and from photographs. 
 
 The Poetry of Sport. By Hedley Peek, Andrew Lang, and Alfred 
 
 F. T. Watson. Illustrated by Charles Brock, A. Thorbui'n, 
 Lucien Davis, and numerous reproductions from cngra\ings 
 and prints.
 
 PUBLISHERS' NOTE 
 
 The Publishers desire to acknowledge the kindness of the follow- 
 ing Copyright owners, Messrs. Macmillan& Co., Messrs. Vinton 
 & Co., and Miss Stoddart, for permission to reprint in this 
 volume various poems, each of which is separately acknowledged 
 in the Index of Authors.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 INTRODUCIORY 
 
 ThK P.AI)MIN'Tr)X T.IBRARN .... 
 />> Alfr,;i K. T. Watson. 
 
 N Sport .v Frni.vc; Sriiiifi ior thk Pokt? 
 
 By Hedlcy Peek. 
 
 Cf,.\ssic.\i, Sport 
 
 By And rem l.an;j;. 
 
 SPOR TING p:x TRA C TS 
 
 Tntroductio.v . 
 
 TllK ICXTRAris 
 
 •7 
 
 29 
 
 /'()/-:. ]/S, SOA'iJS A.\7> BALLADS 
 
 Introuuciiox . , .137 
 
 HuN'TiNc; . 1 5-' 
 
 I'lSIlING ^3^
 
 xxxiv THE POETRY OF SPORT 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Shooting 270 
 
 Cricket .......... 289 
 
 Various 306 
 
 HUMOROUS SONGS AND PARODIES 
 
 Hunting .......... 33^ 
 
 Various 376 
 
 Index to Authors 403 
 
 Index to First Lines . . . . . .413
 
 ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 ( RKPRonrcEn by the Swan Electric Enc;raving Co.) 
 
 A HlNTINT, POE'I 
 
 The sielie beast to scape the hogs 
 
 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 kii.d the) 
 
 Deare? ) 
 
 Here, kenneld in a brake, she itndsi 
 
 A hound I 
 
 And watrie iowles oi't oi the makrish | 
 
 FENNES I 
 
 WlNDE JOLLIE huntsmen, YOU R NEAI| 
 
 bugles shrilly ) 
 
 The Stag Hunt 
 
 liEHIND A shady OaK, CONCEAI.'D I STOOD 
 
 When Emma hunts, in huntsman's) 
 
 HABIT DREST . . . i 
 
 'iRATEFUL fALLS IS TO A SHOR I REPASl . 
 
 Leaves his close haunt and to somei 
 
 TREE REPAIRS i 
 
 
 ARTIST 
 
 
 
 c. 
 
 E. 
 
 Brock 
 
 Frontispiece 
 
 
 
 
 TO FACE 
 
 PAGE 
 
 c. 
 
 m 
 
 ucock 
 
 
 24 
 
 c. 
 
 E. 
 
 Brock 
 
 
 36 
 
 Archibald Thorburn 
 
 41 
 
 C. 
 
 E. 
 
 Brock 
 
 
 46 
 52 
 
 ArchihalU Thorburn 56 
 
 C. E. Brock . 
 
 . 63 
 
 B. Adams 
 
 . ■ 67 
 
 C. E. Brock . 
 
 . 7« 
 
 
 ■ «3 
 
 „ 
 
 92 
 
 Archibald Thorburn 102
 
 THE POETRY OF SPORT 
 
 Or viewed afoot at midmcht 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 
 
 Another a love tale betraying 
 Is aim'd with a blush at the red 
 From their dewy couch on whirring 
 
 wing ....... 
 
 Through the sparklinc; snow 
 
 A SKAITING we go ..... 
 
 The appai.lin' fallin' "unj ! . 
 
 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 F.^CE 
 
 FAtiiC 
 
 Lucien Davis . 
 
 117 
 
 C. E. Brock . . 
 
 152 
 
 „ 
 
 161 
 
 )> • • 
 
 189 
 
 „ 
 
 204 
 
 • • 
 
 210 
 
 ,, 
 
 220 
 
 Liiiien Davis 
 
 251 
 
 C. E. Brock . . 253 
 
 Lucien Dai'is . . 272 
 
 Archibalii Thorhurn 278 
 
 Litcie.ii J-)avis . . 284 
 
 ArcliihalJ I'horhiirn 2S7 
 
 Lucien Davis 
 
 322 
 
 C. E. Brock- . 
 
 362 
 
 
 371 
 
 
 i7^ 
 
 C. E. Brock 
 
 380 
 
 
 400 
 
 h/t/ inimeroiis illustrations in text.
 
 THE POETRY OF SPORT 
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 IS SPORT A FITTING SUBJECT FOR THE POET? 
 
 A Booke ! is this the early exercise 
 
 I did prescribe? instead of following health, 
 
 Which all men covet, yon pursue yoiu' 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 tho.se 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. I'his efjoch 
 
 i: 
 
 ( V
 
 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
 
 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, we 
 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 rej)Utation. 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
 
 4 THE POETRY OE 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 were 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 symmetry 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? We 
 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
 
 INTRODUCTION 5 
 
 of reproach, hut 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 with flowers 
 of the ocean. 
 
 Or over the yellow sand run swift to meet the sea, 
 Di\e under the walls of foam or float on a weariless motion 
 
 (Jf 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 difficulties, 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. 
 
 W'e 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 
 sutificiently 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
 
 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
 
 INTRODUCTION 7 
 
 unrecognisable. We have endeavoured to make use only of 
 the earliest editions from which the extracts have been re- 
 produced verbatitn 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.
 
 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 riot 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 game and
 
 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 
 rehefs exhibit the pursuit, not only of lions, as by Ranieses II., 
 but of wild ducks. On the bronze blades of Myceneean 
 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. Roar-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 footstejjs 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 liand ; 
 he is gashed in the thigh by the boar's tusk, but drives tlie 
 lance intcj the right shoulder of the beast, which falls and dies. 
 Then the cousins of Odysseus staunch his blood willi such a 
 magical song as Jeanne d'Arc would not suffer to be chanted 
 over her wound beneath the I'^nglish wall. This is tlie most
 
 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. .■Elian 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.
 
 CLASSICAL SPORT ii 
 
 for you cannot cast well with a six-foot line ! To ^-Elian 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 b)- 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 ( ireeks, at least in Attica, became 
 a nation of citizens and town-keeping men. Attica was over- 
 cultivated and over-populated ; 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
 
 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 wresthng 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 Cambuca or anything else is hasty. Pila, I take 
 it, was more like tennis, or ' balloon,' than football. Cicero 
 and Mc'ecenas played, and we cannot imagine Cicero in a
 
 CLASSICAL SPORT 13 
 
 scrummage, or Majcenas tackling Horace neatly on the goal 
 line. The Phoenicians, in Homer, practised catching ' out in 
 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 
 -■Eneid. 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 BelPs 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 five pounds to celebrate Mr. G. C). 
 Smith, and then wrote an ode on Hephaestus. This can 
 scarcely have been satisfactory to a young winner, tjut such 
 was Pindar's way. 
 
 The best and most authoritative account of classical hunting 
 is, 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 Oreek 
 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 lilockwood' s Magazine Virgil's boxing match is cle\erly rendered 
 into the slang of the ring, probably by Maginn.
 
 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 
 
 (i] yrj i^avOovcra /SXaTrTet ras /ci'va?, cis to avro avixfXLyvvovcra twi' 
 dvOCov Ttts o(r/Aas). 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 : Eryc, evye, w /ci'res.'' 
 evye ^ii;^r/, eiiye YlopuoiV ! 
 
 For hunting fawns and hinds, Indian dogs are used ; the 
 hunters carry light throwing-spears. For wild 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
 
 CLASSICAL SPORT 15 
 
 thing,' as St. Luke has it. Sport keeps aUve 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 in 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 Lake'), the poet gives his line to Artemis 
 and her maidens, speeding along the summit of Taygetus 
 or Krymanthus. Details are avoided ; we have no Somervile, 
 no Scott, no Dennys, among the poets of (Ireece. Nature
 
 1 6 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.
 
 INTRODUCTION TO SPORTING EXTRACTS 
 
 Befork 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. Wa 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
 
 i8 THE POETRY OF SPORT 
 
 the accurat) of dcsciiption, and the liistorical 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 difiiculty 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 be found to illustrate far better 
 and more accurate])' than any modern work the customs anil 
 costumes of the various times, and help to explain many 
 allusions which might otherwise be more or less unintelligible. 
 In dealing with Englisli verse it is fortunately only neces- 
 sary to go back about five hundred years. Before the time of 
 Chaucer there is little or nothing of poetical interest to l)e 
 found. The i)rinting 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 ot 
 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 history, 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 bis 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
 
 INTRODUCTIOX TO SPORTIXG 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 Henr}- 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 vener)-. 
 
 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, 
 
 .\nd necked like a drake, 
 
 Foted like a kat, 
 
 Tayled like a rat, 
 
 .Sydd like a teme, 
 
 Chvned ' like a beme.' 
 
 T/if Hoke 0/ 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 iheym is the hert, the secunde is the hare. 
 
 The bore is oon oftho. the wolffand not oon moo. 
 
 .■\nd 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. 
 
 The Hot,- or St. Albans, i486. 
 
 .Some writers 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. 
 
 ' Backed. * / '. /. brcnie.
 
 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 (i 370-1440), who wrote about the close of this 
 century, gives ' A satirical description of his Lady : ' — 
 
 Of huntyng she beryth the greet pryse. 
 For iDuk or doo, bothe herts and hj'nde ; 
 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 ryde 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 edo:es.
 
 INTRODUCTION TO SPORTING EXTRACTS 21 
 
 And go hunt, hardely, to hares and to foxes, 
 To bores and to brocks ' that breken adowne m\ hedges ; 
 And go aftayte - the Fawcons, wilde fowles to kyll, 
 For such Cometh to my croft, and cropeth mi whete. 
 
 Vision of Piers PlozL'Vtan, 1550. 
 
 In this same book are some lines oii 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, lerned 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 Plowman, 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 sufificient 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 syttcn on pcrchen above, 
 Xe what houndcs bggen on the flour adoun. 
 
 'J'hey were, no doubt, suggested by seeing a nobleman and 
 liis guests seated at table, their hawks being placed upon 
 perches over their heads, and their hoiuids lying on the 
 pavement round them. He fretjuently 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. a get ready. 
 
 ■'■ neither safer than the otlier. ' unskilled.
 
 22 THE POETRY OF SPORT 
 
 iVrchbishops 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 h)nde 
 Was bothe before me and behynde. 
 Of fawnes [ sowers ' | bukes | does 
 W^as fill the wodde | & many roes. 
 
 T/ie Works of Gcffi-ay Chancer, 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 hkely 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 hmiting 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 vear.
 
 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 recoiinteth his pleasure there passed. 
 
 With silver droppes the meade yet spred for ruth. 
 In active games of nimlilencs 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 cchc one had found. 
 What hope of spede, what dread of long dclaies : 
 The wilde forest, the clotlicd holtes with grene : 
 With rains availed, and swift ybreathed horse. 
 With crie of houndes, and mery blastes betwene. 
 Where we did chase the fearfull hart of force. 
 Howard (Henrv), I-',aki, ok Sirkiiv, Songes and Soiuftes. 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
 
 24 THE POETRY OF SPORT 
 
 l^age 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 complainixi; 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 I well 
 Both lande and Sea pursue 
 
 and hate the hurtlesse Hare : 
 And eake the dogged Skies aloft, 
 
 if so the Dog be thare. 
 
 Geo. 'rrRHi-.RVU.K, 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 fecle 
 Braies out her latest breath, and up her eies doth seele. 
 
 Herselfe not saved yet from daunger dredd 
 
 She thought, hut chaung'd from 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. 
 
 The Faerie Queene, by Edmund Spenser, 1590-96. 
 
 1 pierced.
 
 ''The sielie beast to scape the dogs 
 did JLimpe upon a roote."
 
 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 
 liundred years ago as now. 
 
 Satyre 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 fatal! death. 
 CAnd ever since Hounds eate their Maisters cleane. 
 For so Diana curst them in the streame). 
 
 John Makston, The Metatnorphosis of Pigmalion s Image 
 and Certaine Satyres, 1598. 
 
 We now come to the time of Shakspeare. His writings 
 arc 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 unsuital)le for (quotation in 
 a work of this kind. 
 
 The extracts that api)ear 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 attentic^i to extracts 
 which it would be a [)ity 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
 
 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 cJu-istian may hawke or hunt.' 
 
 I'hc Ah/iemist. 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.
 
 INTRODUCTION TO SPORTING EXTRACTS 27 
 
 Following out the purpose which the Editor of the 
 Badminton Library has chiefly in view— viz. the advancement 
 of modern 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 certaifi well-known 
 
 modern curse 
 
 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, 'i'he 
 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.
 
 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 
 si'reat general interest.
 
 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 tt 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 fajTC 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. 
 
 .\ myddcs 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 
 
 I'.ut he his eye awcy ne suerveth. 
 
 Fro her whiche was naked al. 
 
 And she was wonder wroth with al, 
 
 ' put his delight.
 
 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 houdes sterte, 
 That ronne besylyche - aboute 
 With many an home & man)- a route 
 That maden moche noxse & crye. 
 And at the last unhappelye 
 This hert his owne houdes slough, 
 And hym for vengeaiice al to drough.'' 
 
 John (j(_)\vkk. Coufcssio 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 1 and for to knowe 
 Whether it was clere | or horse of sowne. 
 
 And I herde goynge bothe up and downe, 
 Men I horse j 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 huntynge gone, 
 I was ryght glad j 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 j who shal hunte here 
 (Quod I) and he answered ayen, 
 
 Syr 1 the Emperour Octonyen 
 (Quod he) and is here fast by 
 
 A goddes halfe" | in good tyme. (quod I) 
 Go we fast j 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. 
 
 4 To trv. * Taken to the thicket. '' fresh packs. 
 
 -' hounds held in leash. » one who led. " By Goa's name.
 
 SrORTIAG EXTRACTS
 
 THE POETRY OF SPORT 
 
 The mayster hunte j anone fote bote 
 With his home blewe thre mote 
 At the uncouplynge of his houndes. 
 Within a whyle | the harte founde is 
 I halowed ' | and rechased fast 
 Longe tyme j 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. 
 Therwith the honte I 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 j 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 j 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 ■' \ fayre under fete, 
 And lytel used | it semed thus 
 For bothe Flora j and zepherus, 
 They two j that make floures growe, 
 Had made her dwellyng there I trowe. 
 For 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 1 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 
 Fro other | wel ten foote or twelve. 
 So great trees | so huge of strength 
 
 1 View-hallooed. - recall. ^ many. * V.l. wa.xe. * /'./. axe.
 
 SPORTING EXTRACTS 33 
 
 Of fourty or fyfty fedome length 
 
 Cleane without boue or stycke 
 
 With croppes brode | and eke as thycke — 
 
 They were not an ynche a sender — 
 
 That it was shadde over al under. 
 
 And many an hart \ and many an hynde 
 
 Was bothe before me [ and behynde, 
 
 Offawnes sowers' [ buckes does 
 
 Was ful the wodde i and many roes. 
 
 And many squyrtiels 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 j 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 mightc his bridil here 
 
 Gyngelynge & whistelinge in the wynd clcre. 
 
 (irehoundis he hadde as mylk whit ; 
 
 Of prykynge and of huntynge for the hare 
 
 Was al his lust, for no thing wolde he spare. 
 
 Chaltkr. Caxton, 1478 (?) 
 
 From ' The Knyghtes Tale ' 
 
 The destenye and the mynister gcnerall 
 That executcth in the worlde over all 
 The purveyaunce ' y' god hath sayd byforne, 
 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. 
 
 n
 
 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 j 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 j 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 thyd was y^ hart wot to have his flight 
 And over a broke | and so forthe on his wey. 
 
 The Canterbury Tales,\\c^2i^. 
 
 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 1 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 rivere 
 
 To se some fayre flyght. 
 
 Syr yf you be on huntynge founde ' 
 I shall you gyve a good greyhoundc 
 That is dunne as a doo. 
 Yo\ as I am a trewe gentylwoman 
 
 ' is not. - foi\'L,'. ■"' courteou3ly. 
 
 ^ so may I jirosper. '^ fond.
 
 SPORTIAG 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 hyni of his reste. 
 
 Methynketh by houndes that I here 
 
 That there is one huntynge my dere 
 
 It were better that ye seace. 
 
 By hym that ware the crowne of thorne 
 
 In a worse tyme blewe he never home 
 
 Xederer 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 sliryll, 
 
 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 helmcs he founde in fere 
 
 That men of armcs had Icftc there 
 
 That the bore had slayne. 
 
 Eglamoure to the clyffc went he 
 
 He sawe the bore, come fro the see 
 
 His morne draught had he tane. 
 
 The bore sawe, where the knyght stode. 
 
 His tuskes he whetted as he were wode. ' 
 
 To hym he drcwe that tyme. 
 
 Syr Eglamoure wcned '.veil to do 
 
 With a Spcare he rode him to 
 
 As fast as he myght rydc. 
 
 ' at once. ^ More needfully he were better liuy. 
 
 ' capture call on the bugle. ' mad. 
 
 D 2
 
 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 under 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 G rebound 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 
 
 1 help. - some part. ■' full cjuickly.
 
 V o
 
 SPOA' TING EXTRA CTS 
 
 With theyr bugles in that place, 
 
 And sevenscore raches ' at his rechase. 
 
 Homuard thus shall ye ryde 
 
 On haukyng by the ryvers syde 
 
 with (lOshauke and with gentyll fawcon 
 
 With Eglehorne -' and merlyon. 
 
 Farewell hawkes and farewell hounde 
 Farewell markes and many a pounde 
 Farewell huntynge at the hare 
 Farewell harte and hynde for evermare. 
 
 37 
 
 (iSSO?) 
 
 George Gascoigne, in commendation 
 of the noble Arte of Venerie 
 
 As God himselfe declares, the life of man was lent, 
 Hicause 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 & hallcs of stately port, to leave an unknown child. 
 
 Or wherefore hoord we hcapes of coyne and worldly wealth. 
 Whiles therwithall that caytif care, comes creeping in by steltli ? 
 
 The needie neighbors grudge to see the rychman thryve, 
 Such malice worldly muckc 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 seekc 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 sufifise ? 
 
 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 miscliiefe, malice, filthe and fraudes, that morlall men do use. 
 
 And so for exercise, it scemes to bearc the bell. 
 Since by the same, mens bodies be, in health mainleyned well. 
 
 It exercyseth strength, it exercyseth wit, 
 And all the poars and sjjritcs of Man, are excrcisde by it. 
 
 It shaketh off all slouth, it presseth downe all prydc, 
 It cheres the hart, it glads the eye, &. through the ears doth glyde. 
 
 I might at large expresse how carely huntsmen ryse, 
 And leave the sluggish sleepc for such, as leachers lust devyse. 
 
 ' bitch-hounds. - ? heron eagle — pcrcfjrinf. •" quarrelling.
 
 38 THE POETRY OF SPORT 
 
 How true they tread their steps, in exercises traine, 
 Which frisking flings & Hghtbraind 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 mouthd hounds, do countervaile 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 Casaniafs, devisde by warlike men. 
 
 How fighting out at Bay, of Hart, Bucke, Goate, or Bore, 
 Declares the valiant Romauis dea'h, when might may do no more. 
 
 How sight of such delights, doth scorne 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 PoUicie^ 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 liable Sport, 
 To recreate the ))iindes of Men, in good and godly sort. 
 
 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. Tlien let the Lords reioyce. 
 Let gentletnen beholde tJie glee, and take thereof the choyce. 
 
 For my part (being one) 1 must needes say my minde, 
 That Hunting was ordeyned first, for Meii of Noble kinde. 
 
 And unto them therefore, I recommend the same, 
 As exercise that best becomes, their worthy noble name. 
 
 The Noble Arte of Vcncric or Hunting. George 'ruKREKVii.E. 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.
 
 SPORTING EXTRACTS 39 
 
 Then I returne, to make a gra\'e 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 lawe. 
 O gamsters all, a little by your leave. 
 Can you suche ioyes in triflyng games conceave ? 
 The Noble Arte of I'cncrie or Hunting. Geo. Turbkrvile. 1575. 
 
 From ' The Visions of Petrarch ' 
 
 Bring one day at my window all alone. 
 So manie strange things 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 rate 
 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 groundc, and there untimely dide. 
 
 Cruell death vanquishing so noble beautie. 
 
 Oft makes me waile so hard a destenie. 
 
 l-'.i).\u'Nn .si'ENSER, 1569. 
 
 Sonnet LXVII 
 
 Lykk as a huntsman after weary chace. 
 Seeing the game from him cscapt away, 
 .Sits downc to rest him in some shady place. 
 With ))anting hounds beguiled of their pray : 
 
 .So, after long pursuit and vaine assay. 
 
 When I all weary had the chace forsooke, 
 The gentle dearc returnd the selfc-samc way, 
 Thinking to quench her thirst at the next brooke : 
 
 There she, beholding me with mylder looke, 
 .Sought not to fly, but fcarlessc still did l)ide ; 
 ' droppings.
 
 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. 
 
 Edmund Spenser, 1595. 
 
 From * Astrophel ' 
 
 In wrestling nimble, and in renning swift, 
 
 In shooting steddie, and in swimming strong : 
 
 Well made to strike, to throw, to leape, to lift. 
 
 And all the sports that shepheards are emong : 
 
 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. 
 
 Edmund 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 daylie doth devise : 
 Now menaging the mouthes of stubborne steedes, 
 Now practising the proofe of warlike deedes. 
 Now his bright amies 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 scorne on foote to goe. 
 
 Edmund Spenser, 1613. 
 ' follow.
 
 SPORTIXG 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. 
 
 Through hunger long, that hart to him doth lend, 
 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 ; 
 That with the weight of his owne weeldlesse might 
 
 He falleth nigh to ground, and scarse recovereth flight. 
 
 Hook iv. c. iii. verse 19. 
 
 As when a Faulcon hath with nimble flight 
 
 f'lownc at a flush of Ducks foreby the brooke. 
 The trembling foulc 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. 
 
 liook 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 
 .\ (ioshauke, which hath seized for her share 
 llppon 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 chacc, amongst my |)eres, 
 Of all that raungeth in the forrest greene, 
 
 Of which none is to me unknownc that ev'r was seene. 
 
 ' Sloop. - suddenly. •' companions.
 
 42 THE POETRY OE SPORT 
 
 ' Ne is there hauke, which inantleth 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 Herneshaw, 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 I hunt the Fox, the vowed foe 
 
 Unto my Lambes, and him dislodge away ; 
 
 Sometime the fawne I practise from the Doe, 
 
 Or from the Cioat 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 
 
 M)' 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. 
 KoMrxD Spk.nser, 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.
 
 SPORTIXG EXTRACTS 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 Actceons schollerj 
 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 Acttron dard on them to looke. 
 For which fair Phabe 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 sppake but could not, so did sigh and die. 
 
 Tlie Tfdis iif Fnncie or l.n<e Disdaimd. Reprinted from the unique copy 
 of 1593, in the collection of S. Christie-Miller, Esq. 
 
 The Pleasant Comodie of Patient Grisill 
 
 Enter tlie Marquesse, T^avlx, Mario, Lepido, and huntsvten : 
 all like Hunters. A noyse of homes within 
 
 Marquesse. Loke you so Strang my hearts, to see ourlimbes 
 Thus suited in a Hunters livery ? 
 Oh lis 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 da\' you \nwed to wed : but now I see. 
 
 Your promises turne all to mockerie 
 
 Mar(/. How much your judgmens erre : who gets a wife 
 Must like a huntsman beatc untrodden pathes. 
 To gaine the flymg presence of his love. 
 Looke how the yelping beagles spend their mouthes 
 So Lf)vcrs doe their sighes : and as the deare. 
 Out-strips the active hound, and oft turnes backe 
 
 ' An old ffjrm of handicap in races.
 
 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 scorne 
 
 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 
 
 lie say my wit was best to choose a wife. S^Excunt. 
 
 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 dreadcfuU 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 bardie Mastife, and nimble Greyhound, 
 
 The ornament oi EI or as 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, mcane, and tenor noat. 
 
 Warbling his voice, making the home to sound, 
 
 Orderly tunes t' immortilize the Hound : 
 
 Quicke senting Spannell, fit for Princelie game. 
 
 To pearch the Pheasant, and rare IJirds of name. 
 
 To set the Heath-cocke, Partrich and the Quaile,
 
 SPORTING EXTRACTS 45 
 
 The Snype, the Woodcocke, and the dainty Raile. 
 To serv-e 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. 
 
 X. Baxter, 1606. 
 
 'As You Like It' 
 
 ACT II. 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 ya^^z/'^.r 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 oi Ajiiiciis, and my selfe, 
 Did stcalc 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 downc his innocent nose 
 In pitteous chase : and thus the hairie foole, 
 Much marked of the mchinchoWc Jag i/rs, 
 Stood on th' extremest verge of the swift brooke. 
 Augmenting it with teares. 
 
 Duke Senior. But what sa\d /agues? 
 Did he not moralize this spectacle.-' 
 
 I /j>rd. O yes, into a thousand similies. 
 First, for his weeping into the nccdlessc streame ; 
 Poore Deere ciuoth 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 vebet friend ; 
 'Tis right quoth he, thus miserie doth part 
 The Fluxe of companic : anon a carelessc Heard 
 Fuil of the pasture, jumps along by him 
 
 ' K/. nuich.
 
 46 THE POETRY OF SPORT 
 
 And never stales to g^reet him : I quoth Jaqiies, 
 
 Sweepe on you fat and greazie Citizens, 
 
 'Tis just the fashion ; wherefore doe you looke 
 
 Upon that poore and broken bankrupt there ? 
 
 Thus most invectively he pierceth through 
 
 The body of Countrie, Citie, Court, 
 
 Yea, and of this our hfe, 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 dweUing place. 
 
 Duke Senior. And did you leave hihi 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 scorne 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 
 Bracli Afe7-iit!a/i, the poore Curre is imbost. 
 And couple Clowder with the deepe-mouth'd brach, 
 Saw'st thou not boy how Silver made it good 
 At the hedge corner, in the couldest fault, 
 I would not loose the dogge for twentie pound. 
 
 Hunts. Why Bel/nan 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. 
 Trust me, I take him for the better dogge. 
 
 Lord. Thou art a Foole, if Ecclio 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 ahsulutc.
 
 "What sliall he have that kild tlie Deare?"
 
 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 haxe the \award 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 Cadvius once, 
 When in a wood of Creete they bayed the Beare 
 With hounds of Spar/a ; ne\er did I heare 
 Such gallant chiding. 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. 
 
 T/ies. My hounds are bred out of the Spartan kinde, 
 .So flew'd, 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 match'd in mouth like bels, 
 Each under each. A cry more tuneable 
 Was never hallowed to, nor cheer'd with home. 
 In Cree/e, in Spar/a, nor in TJiessaly ; 
 Judge when you heare. 
 
 ' Henry VI.' 
 
 I'AR'I' I. ACT IV. .SCENE II. 
 
 Till. How are we park'd and bounded in a pale ? 
 A little Heard of Englands timorous Deere, 
 Maz'd with a yelping kenncll of French Curres. 
 If wc be English Deere, be then in blood. 
 Not Rascall like to fall downe with a pinch, 
 But rather moodic mad : And desperate Stagges, 
 Turne on the bloody Hounds with heads of Steele, 
 And make the Cowards stand aloofc at bay : 
 
 ' llcnry \1.' 
 
 r'.\RT II. ACT II. SCENE I. 
 
 Queene. Bcleeve 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, o\<i /oane had not gone out.
 
 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 mme Angle, weele to' th' River there 
 My Musicke playing farre off". I will betray 
 T.iwny fine fishes, my bended hooke shall pierce 
 Their shmy jawes : and as I draw them up, 
 He thinke them every one an Anthony, 
 And say, ah ha, y' are caught. 
 
 CJuir. 'Twas merry when you wager'd on your Angling, 
 when your diver did hang a salt fish on his hooke which he 
 with fer\'encie 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 Csesar ' 
 
 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 Cassiiis now
 
 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 roard, 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, 
 
 Casar cride, Helpe me Cassiiis. or I sinke. 
 
 I (as j£neas, our great Ancestor, 
 
 Did from the Flames of Troy, upon his shoulder 
 
 The old Anchyses beare) so, from the wa\es of Tyber 
 
 Did I the tyred Cccsar. 
 
 ' Love's Labour Lost ' 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 Qu. Nay ni)- good Lord, let me ore-rule \ou 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. 
 
 Shaksi'K.RK, Dramatic Works, fol. cd. 1623. 
 
 Venus urges Adonis to choose the 
 less dangerous Sports 
 
 Thou hadst bin gone (quoth she) sweet boy ere this, 
 But that thou toldst me, thou woldst hunt the boare. 
 Oh be ad\ isd, thou know'st not what it is. 
 With iavelings point a churlish swine to goare. 
 
 Whose tushes never shealhd, 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 sepulchcrs 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 thoinie brambles, and inibracing Ijushes, 
 
 As f( an full of him part, through whom he rushes. 
 
 E
 
 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 hke th\- selfe, all staynd with goare, 
 Whose blood upon the fresh flowers being shed, 
 Doth make the droop with grief, cK; 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 fearfuU 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 oft" 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.
 
 SI'ORTIAG EXTRACTS 
 
 Then shalt thou see the deaw-bedabbled wretch. 
 Turne, and returne, indenting with the way, 
 Ech en\ ious brier, his wearie lej^s do scratch, 
 Ech shadow makes him stop, ech murmour sta\-. 
 To miserie is troden on by manie, 
 And being low, nexer relee\ "d b\- 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 wli.il ;i liDisr sliould h;ive, lie did lujt lack 
 
 Kound hooft, short ioynted, fetlocks shag, and long, 
 Broad breast, full e\e, small head, and nostril! wide, 
 High crest, sh(.ri cares, straight legs, & |)assing strng 
 Thin mane, thicke taile, broad buttock, tcnch-r hide : 
 Looke what a Horse shf)uld ha\c, he did not lack, 
 Save a proud rider on so proiid a l)a< k
 
 THE POETRY OF SPORT 
 
 Venus finds Adonis dead 
 
 By this she heares the hounds are at a bay, 
 Whereat she starts Hke one 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 fearefuUy 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 flie, 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 aftVayd, 
 
 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, 
 But 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 skowling, 
 To whom she speaks, & he replies with howling.
 
 SPORTING EXTRACTS 53 
 
 When he hath ceast his ill resounding noise, 
 
 Another flapmouthd. mourner, 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 imagmation 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 herfaire delight. 
 Which scene, her eyes are murdrcd with the view, 
 Like stars asham'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 crecpe forth againc : 
 
 So at his bloodic 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, 
 
 I}y their suggestion, gives a deadly grone. 
 
 Whereat cch 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 cch 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 liilic white 
 With purple tears tliat his wound wept, had drecht. 
 No floure was nigh, no grasse, hcarb, leaf, or weed. 
 But stole his blood, and seenid with him to bleed 
 
 Siiaksi'i:ki'.'s Venus ami Adonis, 1593.
 
 54 THE POETRY OF SPORT 
 
 From ' The Workes of Beniamin 
 Jonson ' 
 
 In autumne, at the I'artrich makes a slij^ht,' 
 
 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 ri\er, 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, i6i6. 
 
 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, 
 Ikit not of men. 
 Follow his ample ; 
 And just example, 
 That hates all chace of malice, and of bloud : 
 And studies only waves of good. 
 To keep soft Peace in breath. 
 Man should not hunt Mankind to death, 
 Ikit 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 'indicated, 1640. 
 
 From ' Britannia's Pastorals ' 
 
 Now as an Angler melanchol)' standing 
 Upon a greene bancke yeelding roome for landing, 
 A wrigling yealow worme thrust on his hooke. 
 Now in the midst he throwes, then in a nooke : 
 
 ' feint.
 
 SPORTING EXTRACTS 55 
 
 Here puis his line, there throw es it in againe, 
 Mendeth his Corke and Baite, but all in vaine, 
 He long stands viewing" of the curled streame ; 
 At last a hungr)- Pike, or well-growne Breamc. 
 Snatch at the worme, and hasting fast a\va\- 
 He knowing it, a Fish of stubborne sway 
 Puis up his rod, but soft : (as having skill) 
 Wherewith the hooke fast holds the F"ishes gill. 
 Then all his line he freely yeeldeth him. 
 Whilst furiously all up and downe doth swimme 
 Th' insnared 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 hydc, 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, 
 La\'es 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 stri\es ; 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 dcferre 
 The Hound a while from so neere reaching her : 
 Yet being fetcht againe and almost tane 
 Doubting (since touch'd of him) she scapes her bane. 
 
 W. Rkdwne, 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 bields,' 
 And for your part the tribJc; to you take, 
 
 ' necks. - shelters.
 
 56 THE POETRY OF SPORT 
 
 And when you cry make all your crags to crake. 
 And shiver when you sing aiace for Gall .' 
 Ah if our mourning might thee now recall 1 
 
 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 Threiiodie or mirthful mourni/i^s on the death 
 of Master Gall. Eow. 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 PImbrions 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 deca)', 
 
 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 seeme 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 P^angers 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 feard 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 turne. 
 They see their old Refuge, the Forrests burne. 
 
 Dooiiiesdav, by Sn^ W'li.i.iAM ALEXANDER.^ (Knight) Earl of 
 Stirling; The Thir'd Houre. 1614.
 
 SPORTING EXTRACTS 57 
 
 Coursing- 
 
 Whilst RockingluDii was heard with these Reports to ring, 
 The Muse by making on tow'rds Wellands ominous Spring, 
 With Kclmarsh there is caught, for coursing of the Hare, 
 Which scornes 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, 
 Shec risetli from her seat, as though on earth she flew, 
 Forc'd by some yelping Cute ' to give the (greyhounds 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 turnes the Hare, which first the other coats,'^ 
 They wrench her once or twice, ere she a turne will take, 
 Whats oftVed by the first, the other good doth make ; 
 And turne for turne 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 turne shee casts them l)oth arrcre : 
 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, 
 .-Xnd with my Course at Hare, my Canto likcivise ends. 
 
 Polyolbiiin, MiniAi.i, Dkavion, 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' cx|)resse that wondrous sport 
 (Yet might have well beseem'd th' ancients nobler Songs) 
 To our old Arden heere, most fitly it belongs : 
 
 ' cur. ^ outnins. •"• pass.
 
 58 THE POETRY OE 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 (3rove, 
 
 Which oft hast borne thy Bovve (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 tleet Game, chaste mightie Forrests Queene, 
 
 With thy disheveld Nymphs attyr'd in youthfuU greene. 
 
 About the Launds hast scowr'd, 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 fittst to hunt at force. For whom, when with his hounds 
 
 The laboring Hunter tufts the thicke unbarbed grounds 
 
 Where harbord is the Hart ; there, often from his feed 
 
 The dogs of him doe find ; or thorough skilfull heed. 
 
 The Huntsman by his slot, or breaking earth, percea^•es, 
 
 Or entring of the thicke by pressing of the greaves 
 
 Where 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, 
 
 Hee with his branched head, the tender Saplings shakes. 
 
 That sprinkling their moyst pearle doe seeme for him to weepe ;
 
 SPORTJNG 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 followes, 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 serxing not, then proves if he his sent can foyle. 
 And makes amongst the Heards, and flocks of shag-wooll'd 
 
 Shecpe, 
 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 turnes upon his foes, that soone have him inclos'd. 
 The churlish throated hounds then holding him at bay, 
 .■\nd 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 .\Iourner is to his owne dying Corse, 
 Upon the ruthlesse earth his precious teares lets fall. 
 
 I'olvoM'ioii, MicHAKi. Dk.vvnj.N, 1622. 
 
 ' Muses HIizium ' 
 
 SiTi'ius. For my profession then, and for the life 1 lead 
 All others to e.xccll, thus for my selfe 1 plead ; 
 I am the Prince of spc)rts, the Forest is my Fee, 
 He's not upon the Earth for pleasure lives like me ; 
 The Mornc no sooner puts her Rosye .Mantle on,
 
 6o THE POETRY OF SPORT 
 
 Ijiit from my quyet Lodi^e I 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 youthfull 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 \vhich my Lyam's ' tyde. 
 
 My Sheafe of Arrowes by, my Woodknife at my Syde, 
 
 My Crosse-bow in my Hand, my (iaffle -' or^ my Rack 
 
 To bend it when 1 please, or it I list to slack. 
 
 My Hound then in my Lyam,' I by the Woodmans art 
 
 Forecast, where 1 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, 1 gallop o'r the ground 
 
 Upon my wel-breath'd Nag, to cheere my earning Hound. 
 
 Sometime I pitch my Toyles the Deare alive to take. 
 
 Sometime I like the Cry, the deepe-mouth'd Kennell make, 
 
 Then underneath my Horse, I 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 I sit in State. 
 
 The Dryads, Hamadryads, 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 Sheelds, defend me from the Sunne, 
 
 Through which me to refresh the gentle Rivelets runne, 
 
 No little bubling Brook from any Spring that falls 
 
 But on the Pebbles playes^me pretty Madrigals. 
 
 I' th' morne I clime the Hills, where wholsome winds do blow 
 
 At Noone-tyde to the Vales, and shady Groves below, 
 
 T'wards Evening I againe the Chrystall Floods frequent, 
 
 In pleasure thus my life continually is spent. 
 
 As Princes and great Lords have Pallaces, so I 
 
 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.
 
 SPORTING EXTRACTS 6i 
 
 The tall and stately Woods ; which underneath are Plaine, 
 The Groves my Gardens are, the Heath and Downes againe 
 My wide and spacious walkes, then sa)' all what ye can. 
 The Forester is still your only gallant man. 
 
 Halcius. Xo Forrester, it so must not be borne away, 
 But heare what for himselfe the Fisher first can say, 
 The Chrystall current Streames continually I keepe, 
 Where every Pearle-pa\'d Foard, and every Blew-eyd dccpe 
 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 I here, now ther. 
 The Pilot and the Fraught my selfe ; and at my ease 
 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 ^^■ater's bow 
 I shove in with m\- Boat t(j sheeld me from the heat, 
 \\'here chusing from my Bag, some pro\'d especiall bayt. 
 The goodly well growne Trout I with my Angle strike, 
 And with my bearded Wycr I take the ravenous Pike, 
 Of whom when I have hould, he seldom breakes awa}' 
 Though at my Lynes full length, soe long I let him play. 
 Till by my hand 1 finde him well-nere wearjed be. 
 When softh- b\- degrees I drawe him up to mc. 
 The lusty samon to, I oft with Angling take, 
 Which rne above the rest most Lordly sport doth make, 
 Who feeling he is caught, such Frisks and bounds doth fetch. 
 And by his very strength my Line so farre doth stretch 
 And drawcs 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 lake the dainty silver Eeles, 
 And with my Draughtnet then, 1 sweepe the streaming Flood, 
 And to my Tramell next, and Cast-net from the Mud, 
 I beate the Scab- brood, noe howcr 1 idely spend, 
 liut wearied with my woi-ke I bring the da)' 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 tlie 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 ( lods of Seas 
 P>om Ncpttines Court send in the blew Neriades,
 
 62 THE POETRY OE 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 delightfull 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 I sing my Lasses praise, 
 
 Then let them that like, the Forrester up cry, 
 
 Your noble Fisher is your only man say I. 
 
 MiriiAi'.i. Dravion, 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 I to seeke so farre what neerer might be found. 
 
 PI'HINEAS l"l,Kr( HKK, 1628. 
 
 ' Bee ears Bush ' 
 
 Enter Hubert. 
 
 Hub. (jQod 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 F'orrest ring about him, 
 Get leave to live amongst ye ? True as steel bo)-s. 
 That knows all chases, and can watch all hours, 
 And with my quarter-staffe, though the Divell bid stand. 
 Deal such an almes, shall make him roar again ? 
 Prick ye the fearfull hare through crosse wayes, sheep walks ; 
 And force the craftie Reynard climb the quick-sets ; 
 Rouze ye the loftie Stag, and with my bell-horn 
 Rmg him a knell, that all the woods shall mourn him, 
 'Till in his funeral tears he fall before me ? 
 The Polcat, Marteme, and the rich skin'd Lucerne, 
 I know to chase the Roe, the wind out-stripping. 
 Isgrin 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 m\- feast. 
 
 Beaumont and Flekmek, t66i.
 
 " Wiiide, jollie huntsmen, >'(Hir neat bugles shrilly."
 
 SPORTJXG EXTRACTS 63 
 
 PVom ' Perkin Warbeck ' 
 
 ACT I\-. 
 Kt/!_o^ Houy. I kneu- it should not niisse. 
 He fondh- 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 shrillv. 
 
 Hounds make a lustie crie : 
 Spring up, you Faulconers, the Partridges freely, 
 then let your brave Hawks flie. 
 Horses amain 
 over ridg, over plain, 
 
 the Dogs have the Stag in chace ; 
 'tis 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. KoRD and T. Dixker, 1656. 
 
 On a Tenis-coLirt 
 
 Man is a Tenis-court : His Flesh, the Wall : 
 
 The Gamsters God and Sathan, Th' heart's the Ball: 
 
 The higher and the lower Tfaszards are 
 
 Too bold Ptrstmiplion, and too base Dcspaire : 
 
 The Rackets^ which our restlesse Halls make flyc. 
 
 Adversity, and sweet Prospcfity : 
 
 The Angels keepe the Court, and marke the place, 
 
 Where the Ball fals, and chaulks out ev'ry Chatr : 
 
 The Line's a Ci\ ill life, we often crosse, 
 
 C)re which, the Ball not flying, makes a Losse : 
 
 Detractors arc like Standers-by, that bctt 
 
 With Charitaljlc men ; Our Life's the Sett : 
 
 Lord, In this Conjlict, in these "fierce Assaults, 
 
 Laborious Sathan makes a world of I'aults ; 
 
 Forgive them Lord, although he nere implore 
 
 For favour ; They'l be set upon our score : 
 
 O, take the Bidl, before it come to th' ground, 
 
 I-"or this base Court has many tl false Rehound : 
 
 Strike, and strike hard, but strike above the Line ; 
 
 Strike where thou |)lease, so as the Sett be thine. 
 
 QUAKI.KS {V\<\\, l)i-.'i,ir I'niiri,-^. 1632. 
 
 ' Stooping.
 
 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 ; 
 
 Maftimon, 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, 
 lirave pastime, Readers, to consume that day, 
 
 Which ; without pastime, flyes too swift awa)- : 
 See how they labour ; as if da)- 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 V>\-ac\^- Santos 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 partiall hands 
 The glorious Garland's held in open show. 
 
 To cheare the Ladds, and crowne the Conq'rers brow ; 
 The world's the Jack ; The Gamesters that contend, 
 
 Are Cupid^ Maminoji. That juditious Friend, 
 That gives the ground, is Sathan ; and the Boules 
 
 Are sinfull 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 : Hee 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 : 
 I'le cease to game, till fairer (Ground be given, 
 
 Nor wish to winne untill the Marke be Heaven. 
 
 Fka. Quari.es, 1635.
 
 SPORTING EXTRACTS 65 
 
 From * Gondibert ' 
 
 THE FIRST BOOK, CANTO THE SECOND 
 
 All were like Hunters clad in cheerfull green, 
 
 Young Natures Liver)', and each at strife 
 Who most adorn'd in favours should be seen, 
 
 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 
 
 Like life, the vanquish'd in their feares and fate. 
 
 And on these Belts (wrought with their Ladys care) 
 
 Hung Scmyters oi 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 compar'd 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 temp'rate 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 ;heir treasons credit lies) 
 
 These Harb'rers praise that which they now betray. 
 
 I'oast they have lodg'd a .Stagg, thai all tlie Race 
 Out-runs oi Croton Horse, or Rcgian 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 i lead ; 
 And many a sommcr since has wonne the day, 
 
 And often left his Regian Foll'wers dead. 
 
 ' hounds ill leash. - marking the lie.
 
 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 concern'd 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 I 
 
 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 successfull 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 saci'ifice ; 
 
 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 I) 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. 
 
 1 horns.
 
 
 H
 
 SPORT/XG 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 ; 
 
 Whon) he sure nos'd as fasting Tygers found ; 
 Their scent no Xorth-east winde could ere 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. 
 
 Refresh'd 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 
 (Which 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, 
 lUit 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 1 whom Nature would not arme, 
 
 As when in madness mischief is foreseen 
 We leave it weaponless for fear of harnie. 
 
 Vox she defencelessc made him that he might 
 
 Less readily offend ; but .Art armes all, 
 From single strife makes us in Numbers fight ; 
 
 .\nd by such art this Royal! Stagg did fall. 
 
 He weeps till grief does even his MurdVers pierce ; 
 
 Grief which so nf)bly through his anger strove, 
 That it deserved the dignity of verse, 
 
 .•\nd had it words as humanly would move.
 
 68 THE POETRY OF SPORT 
 
 Thrice from the ground his ^'anquish'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 Avenant, 1651. 
 
 From an Eglogue by Thomas 
 Randolph 
 
 COLLEN, THENOT 
 
 Collen. Last Evening Lad, I met a noble Swayne, 
 That spurr'd his spright-fuU Palfrey ore the playne : 
 His head with Ribbands crown'd, and deck't as gay, 
 
 Q0tSWOL*D gjMES. 
 
 As any Lasse, upon her Bridall day 
 
 I thought (what easie faiths we Sheepheards prove ?) 
 
 This, not the Bull, had beene Etiropaes love.
 
 SPORTING EXTRACTS 69 
 
 I ask't the cause, the\" 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 wing'd 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 Centaiires Progeny. 
 A numerous troupe they were, yet all so light. 
 Earth never groon'd nor felt'um in their flight. 
 
 Such Royall pastimes Cotsivold mountaines fill. 
 When Gentle swaines visit her glorious Hill : 
 ^\'here with such packs of Hou/ids, they hunting go. 
 As Cyrus never woon'd his Bugle too ; 
 Whose noise is musicall, and with full cries. 
 Beats 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. 
 Wait 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 the yecrely celebration of Mr. Robert Dover s 
 Olinipick Games upon Cotswold-HUls, 1636. 
 
 Tom ' An Ode to Mr. Anthony Stafford 
 to hasten him into tlie Country' 
 
 Ours is the skie, 
 Whereat what fowle we please our Hauke shall flye ; 
 
 Nor will wc spare 
 To hunt the crafty foxe, or timorous hare, 
 
 But let our hounds runnc loose 
 In an\- ground thcv'l choose, 
 The Bucke shalf fall, 
 The stagge and all : 
 Our pleasures must from their ovvne warrants bee, 
 For to my Muse, if not to mee, 
 
 I'me sure all game is free ; 
 Heaven, Earth, are all but |)arts of her great Royalty. 
 
 T. \<\s\H)\.\'i\, Poems, b'c., 1638, 
 ' V.L ore over.
 
 70 
 
 THE POETRY OF SPORT 
 
 ^Hide Parke' 
 
 Great John at all ad\enture and g rave Jockey, 
 
 Mounted their severall Mares, I shan'ot tell 
 
 The story out for laughing, ha, ha, ha. 
 
 But this in hritie Jockey was left behind. 
 
 The pitty and the scorne of all the oddes, 
 
 Plaid bout my eares like Cannon, but lesse dangerous. 
 
 I tooke all still, the acclamations was 
 For Venture, whose disdainefull Mare threw durt 
 In my o\6. 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,
 
 SPORTIAG 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 Bicccphaliis 
 With his victorious bagpipe. 
 
 James Shikley, 1637. 
 
 From ' Coopers Hill 
 
 There Faunas and Sylvanus keepe their Courts, 
 And thither all the horned hoast resorts. 
 To graze the rancker meade, that noble heard, 
 On whose sublime and shady fronts is reard 
 Natures great Masterpeece ; to shew how soone 
 Great things are made, but sooner are undone. 
 Here have I seene the King, 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 (jrowth. 
 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 earc 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. 
 Betray'd in all his strengths, the wood beset. 
 All instruments, all Arts of ruine met ; 
 He calls to mind his strength, and then his speed, 
 His winged heeles, and then his armed head ; 
 With these t' avoyd, with that his Fate to meet : 
 But feare prevails, and bids him trust 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^! speed does recompense. 
 Then curses his conspiring feet, whose scent 
 Betrayes that safety which their swiftnesse lent. 
 Then tryes his friends, among the leaser heard, 
 Where he so lately was obey'd, and fcar'd,
 
 THE POETRY OF SPORT 
 
 His safety seeks : the heard, unkindly wise, 
 
 Or chase's him from thence, or from him flyes. 
 
 Like a dechning Statesman, left forlorne 
 
 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 rang'd 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 dreadfuU 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 renew'd, 
 
 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 descry 
 
 Some nobler foes approach, to him he calls, 
 
 1 head of horns.
 
 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 quarter'd below stairs. 
 
 That can reach Heav'n with nought but Pray'rs ; 
 
 Who when our activ'st 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 kneel'd 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 glory of her Face. 
 
 Be safe then in thy Velvet helm. 
 Her looks arc calms that do orewhelm, 
 Then the Araljian bird more blest, 
 Chafe in the spicery of her breast, 
 And loose you in her Breath, a wind 
 Sow'rs the delicious gales of Jnde. 
 
 ' rings on a hawic's feet.
 
 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 Fa/con charges at first view 
 With her brigade of Talons ; through 
 Whose 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.
 
 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' spHt. 
 
 But ev'n in her expiring pangs 
 The Heron's pounc'd within her Phangs, 
 And so above she stoops to rise 
 A Trophee and a Sacrifice ; 
 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 Lntiner and the Lanncrct^ 
 Thy Colours bear as Banneret ; 
 The Gflshmvk and her Tercel rowsVi, 
 With Tears attend thee as new bows'd, 
 All these are in their dark array 
 Led by the various Herald-Jay.
 
 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 Robbin, the Prelate Pye, 
 And the poetick S7i'an shall dye, 
 Only to sing thy Elegie. 
 
 Richard Lovelace, Lucasta, 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 Chanticlcre 
 Looks stoutly at his ne're-before-seen P"oe, 
 And, like a Challenger^ began to crow 
 And clap his wings, as if he would display 
 His war-like Colours^ which were black and £ray. 
 
 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 like that Coward breed 
 Of ALsop's ; 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 nmibly that 'twas hard to know. 
 To th' skilfull, whether they did fig'ht or no ; 
 If that the bloud which died the fatal floor. 
 Had not born witness oft. Yet fought they more ; 
 As if each wound were but a Spur to prick 
 Their fury 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, intending with the blow to fall. 
 He struggles up, and having taken wind. 
 Ventures a blow, and strikes the other blind. 
 And now poor Norfolk, having lost his eyes
 
 SPORTING EXTRACTS 
 
 77 
 
 Fights guided onely by Antipathies 
 
 With him, alas I the Proverb is not true, 
 
 The blowes his eyes ne^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 fallin"^ shov.ers decov him best : 
 
 1660. 
 
 Or, to take a Beetle always brown. 
 That Boys from off the Appie-Trees knock down. 
 Which 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,
 
 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 Murnmring 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 mo\''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 hook'd him streight, 
 While he stood wondring whence should come deceit, 
 Under the Luster of so fair a bait ; 
 
 He never seem'd, or scorn'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.
 
 o 
 
 CQ
 
 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 that's red and bright, 
 
 Excells a Thousand trifling things, 
 That bungling Anglers tp 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 IVorvis, 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, 
 I seldom find them at this bait precise ; 
 And some I've ta'en with other Fishes eyes. 
 One time my baits were spent, 
 I thoughtful! was for more. 
 
 When Fortune favoui-'d my Intent, 
 And soon supply'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 (ilaring Ocuh/s, great Loves misterious bait, 
 That leads the World in crrour, Topsy turns a state. 
 Which Monarch's more adore, and brighter shines, 
 Then all the (ilittcring stones adorn their Diadems : 
 This was my fancy, and I well may say. 
 Eyes were my (iuide the Fishes to betray, 
 Vqy some I took, /ctv jiardon my Intent, 
 To make the blind decoy tlie Innocent ; 
 Wonder no more, 'tis certain true and just. 
 Necessity begot Invention first.
 
 8o 
 
 THE POETRY OF SPORT 
 
 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 Bradling^ that his chiefest Love, 
 
 A Gentle, sometimes will him move. 
 So will the Straiu-wor)n, Tfroin 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.
 
 SPORTING EXTRACTS 
 
 From ' Epistle the Thirteenth 
 
 TO MY HONOURED KINSMAN, JOHN DRVDEN, . 
 
 . . . 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 tlocks ; 
 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 maintain'd ; 
 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 found, 
 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 learn'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 gen'rous 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 (Jod, were vain. 
 In vain the leech would interpose delay ; 
 P'ate fastens first, and vindicates the prey. 
 What help from art's endeavors can we have ? \ 
 
 (iibbons but guesses, nor is sure to save : [■ 
 
 Hut Maurus sweeps whole parishes, and peoples ev'ry grave ;) 
 And no more mercy to mankind will use. 
 Than when he robb'd and murder'd Miiro's niuse. 
 Would'st thou be soon dispatched, and perish whole. 
 Trust Maurus with thy life, and Milbourn with thy soul. 
 
 By chace our long-liv'd fathers carn'd their food ; 
 Toil strung the nerves, and purify'd the blood : 
 But we their sons, a pamper'd race of men. 
 Are dwindled d(nvn to threescore years and ten. 
 
 ' open country.
 
 THE POETRY OF SPORT 
 
 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 Misrc'lla?ieoiis H'orks of John Dry den, 1760. 
 
 From ' Health ; an 
 
 Eclogue 
 
 . . . Come, country Goddess, come ; nor thou suffice, 
 ])Ut 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 join'd with thee. 
 Let Sloth lye soft'ning till high noon in down. 
 Or lolling fan her in the sult'iy town,
 
 UJ 
 
 x 
 
 ^
 
 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 unkenell'd 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 Parnell , 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 w.iy, 
 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 tarscis 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. 
 Vet 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 than bird or beast. . . . 
 
 Poetical Works of Miitthnv Prior, ijjg.
 
 84 THE POETRY OE SPORT 
 
 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 
 
 1500K 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 dismiss'd, 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 restor'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 vScene ! 
 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 th)' 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.
 
 SPORTING EXTRACTS 85 
 
 If some stanch Hound, with his authentick \'oice, 
 
 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 ! 
 
 But quick they back recoil, and wisely check 
 
 Their eager Haste ; then o'er the fallow'd Ground 
 
 How leisurely they work, and many a Pause 
 
 Th' harmonious Consort breaks ; 'till more assurd 
 
 With Joy redoubled the low \'allies ring. 
 
 What artful Labyrinths perplex their Way 1 
 
 Ah 1 there she lies ; how close ! she pants, she doubts 
 
 If now she lives ; she trembles as she sits. 
 
 With Horror seiz'd. The witherd Grass that clings 
 
 Around her Head, of the same russet Hue 
 
 Almost deceiv'd my Sight, had not her Eyes 
 
 With Life full-beaming her vain Wiles betray'd. 
 
 At Distance draw thy Pack, let all be hush'd. 
 
 No Clamour loud, no frantick Joy 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 wiiliout 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 flutrring Hearts. As Winds let loose 
 
 From the dark Caverns of the blustering 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 I 
 
 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 (irass unbruis'd ; witii Emulation fi^d 
 
 They strain to lead the Field, top the barrd 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 ? All, all are gone. 
 
 And with the panting Winds lag far behind. 
 
 ' ga() in the licdgr.
 
 86 THE POETRY OF SPORT 
 
 Huntsman 1 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, 
 O'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 Cry, redoubling Bounds, 
 And winged Zephirs waft the floating Joy 
 Thro' all the regions near : Afflictive 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 End, 
 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 Ridge,
 
 SPORTING EXTRACTS 
 
 87 
 
 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 unweary'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 willi unri\alcl .Speed 
 Can pass his Fellows, and with I'lcasure view 
 The struggling Pack ; how in the rapid Course 
 .\lternate they ]>reside, ;ind justling push 
 'l"o guide the dubious Scent ; how giddy Youth 
 Oft babbhng errs, h\ 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 (ilory fir'd, and wins the Prize. 
 Huntsman, take heed ; they stop in full career. 
 Yon crowding Flocks, that at a Distance gaze,
 
 88 THE POETRY OF SPORT 
 
 Have haply foil'd 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 
 Sally'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 1 yet once more 
 
 They're check'd, — hold back with Speed — on either Hand 
 
 They flourish round — ev'n yet persist — 'Tis Right, 
 
 Away the)' Spring ; the rustling Stubbles bend 
 
 Beneath the driving Storm. Now the poor Chare 
 
 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 (Jate betrays 
 
 Her inward Weakness. See, how black she looks I 
 
 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 ! E'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 
 Dispers'd, how busily this Way and that, 
 They cross, examining with curious Noise 
 Each likely Haunt. Hark I on the Drag I hear 
 Their doubtful Notes, preluding to a Cry 
 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,
 
 SPORTING EXTRACTS i 
 
 And hurry thro' the Woods ; with hasty Step 
 
 Rusthng, and full of Hope ; now driv'n on Heaps 
 
 They push, they strive ; While from his Kennel sneaks 
 
 The conscious \'illain. 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 declined 
 
 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 1 how beat our Hearts 
 Big with tumultuous Joy I the loaded (kdes 
 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 (iroves. 
 The feather'd Choristers salute the Spring, 
 And e\'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 I 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 Bra\c 
 True Courage never fails. In \ain the Stream 
 In foaming Eddies whirls ; in \ain the Ditch 
 Wide-gaping threatens Death. 'I"he craggy Steep, 
 Where tiie poor dizzy .She|)herd 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 defv the .Storm.
 
 go 
 
 THE POETRY OF SPORT 
 
 What Lengths we pass ! where will the vvand'ring Chace 
 Lead us bewilder'd ! smooth as Swallows skim 
 The new-shorn Mead, and far more swift we fly. 
 See my brave Pack ! how to the Head they press, 
 Justling in close Array, then more diffuse 
 Obliquelv wheel, while from their op'ning 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! 
 
 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, unmov'd, and fix'd he stands, 
 For ev'ry cruel Curse returns a Groan,
 
 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 spar'd ; who, when the flying Chace 
 
 Broke from the Copse, without a Rival led 
 
 The num'rous 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 treach'rous Bog 
 
 Lies fiound ring half ingulph d. What biteing Thoughts 
 
 Torment th' abandon'd Crew ! old Age laments 
 
 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 1 not right? 
 
 ,See ! there he creeps along ; his Brush he drags. 
 
 And sweeps the Mire impure; from his M'ide Jaws 
 
 His Tongue unmoisten'd hangs ; Symptoms too sure 
 
 (Jf sudden Death. Hah ! yet he flies, nor yields 
 
 To black Despaii. But one Loose more, and all 
 
 His Wiles are vain. Hark ! thro' yon Village now 
 
 The rattling Clamour rings. The Barns, the Cols 
 
 And leafless Elms return the joyous Sounds 
 
 Thro' ev'ry Homestall, 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 su|)erior 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 shell'ring Covert near 
 
 Into the Uen-ioost creeps, whose Walls with Gore 
 
 Distain'd attest his (luilt. There, Villain, there 
 
 Kxpcct thy I'ate deserv'd. And soon from thence 
 
 The Pack inquisitive, with Clamour loud, 
 
 Drag out then' trembling Pri/.e ; and on his Pjlood 
 
 With greedy Transport feast. In bolder Notes 
 
 Each sounding Horn proclaims the Eelon dead : 
 
 And th' assembled Village shouts for Joy. 
 
 The Farmer who behoitis his mortal Foe 
 
 Stretch'd at his Feet, applauds the glorious Deed,
 
 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 lib'ral Board, 
 To crown our Triumphs, and reward our Toils. 
 
 OTTER HUNTING 
 
 BOOK I\- 
 
 One Labour yet remains, celestial Maid I 
 
 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 l^right 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
 
 o
 
 SPORTING EXTRACTS 93 
 
 Contrives his wicker Couch ; Whence he surveys 
 His long PurUeu, 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 I and on that Bank 
 Behold the glitt'ring 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 1 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 I 
 What Clamour loud ! What gay heart-chearing Sounds 
 Urge thro' the breathing lirass 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 Ijehind. 
 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 Yapour stings ; flutter their Hearts, 
 And Joy redouliled bursts from ev'ry Mouth, 
 In louder Symphonies, ^'on hollow Trunk, 
 That with its hoary Head incurv'd, salutes 
 The passing Wave ; must be the I'yranl's Fort 
 And dread abode. How these impatient climb, 
 
 ' 211(1 cflit. blade.
 
 94 THE POETRY OF SPORT 
 
 While others at the Root incessant Bay : 
 They put him down. See, there he dives along ! 
 Th' ascending Bubbles mark his gloomy Way. 
 Quick fix the Nets, and cut ofif his Retreat 
 Into the shelt'ring Deeps. Ah, there he Vents I 
 The Pack plunge headlong, and protended Spears 
 Menace Destruction. While the troubled Surge 
 Indignant foams, and all the scaly Kind 
 .Affrighted, hide their Heads. W^ild Tumult reigns, 
 And loud uproar. Ah, there once more he Vents I 
 See, that bold Hound has seiz'd him : down they sink. 
 
 O T T F R HVJJTrtJG 
 
 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 form'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,
 
 SPORTIXG EXTRACTS 95 
 
 VVhere-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 num'rous 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 vig'rous Swains I 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, 
 .A.nd 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 tainted 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 Hritnnnids 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 vivid green his shining plumes unfold. 
 His painted wings, and breast that flames with gold.' 
 Nor yet, when moist Arcliirus clouds the sky 
 The woods and fields their pleasing toils deny. 
 To plains with well-brcath'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' unweary'd fowler roves, 
 Wlun frosts have whiten'd all the naked groves ;
 
 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-ey'd perch with fins of Tyriaii 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 Phahiis' fiery car ; 
 The youth rush eager to the sylvan war ; 
 Swarm o'er the lawns, the forest walks surround, 
 Rowze the fleet hart, and chear the opening hound. 
 Th' impatient courser pants in ev'ry vein. 
 And pawing, seems to beat the distant plain. 
 Hills, vales, and floods appear already crossed. 
 And 'ere he starts, a thousand steps are lost. 
 See ! 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 . . . 
 
 Alex.\ndeu Popi'., 1 713. 
 
 From ' Health ' : A Poem 
 
 But active Hilaris much rather loves. 
 
 With eager Stride to trace the Wilds and (Proves ; 
 
 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 (lOwfi", or strikes the Tennis Balls, 
 
 From Ice with Pleasure he can brush the Snow, 
 
 And run rejoycing with his Curling Throw ;
 
 SPORTING EXTRACTS 97 
 
 Or send the whizzing Arrow from the String, 
 
 A manly Game which by itself I sing. 
 
 Thus chearfully 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 Corn, 
 
 Nor minds the black, the blew or ruddy Morn. 
 
 Aij.AX Ramsay, Poems, 172^. 
 
 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 suspcncc 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 brightcn'd Plough-shares in Paternal Land, 
 Have long been in the noisic 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 ;
 
 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 Int'rest's dearer Ties ; 
 
 Each Rival Mac/navel with Envy burns, 
 
 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 roU'd on each lazy Day. 
 
 Resolv'd 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 Manttian Swain, 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 ;
 
 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 Neighb'ring Stream in haste repairs ; 
 
 Upon a rising Border of the Brook 
 
 He sits him down, and ties the treach'rous 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 murm'ring Current flows ; 
 When if or Chance or Hunger's pow'rful 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 quick Hand the nibbled Hook he draws, 
 And strikes the barbed Steel within his Jaws : 
 The Fish now flounces with the startling Pain, 
 .'\nd, 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 ev'ry Worm promiscuous use, 
 Judg^ment will tell him proper Bait to chuse ; 
 The Worm that draws a long immod'rate 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 F"ly ; 
 Your wary Steps must not advance too near. 
 Whilst all your Hr)|)c hangs on a single Hair ;
 
 THE POETRY OF SPORT 
 
 Upon the curling Surface let it glide, 
 
 With Nat'ral Motion from thy Hand supply'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 Craving 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 Peacock's 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, I 
 
 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. j 
 
 His new-form'd Creature on the Water moves, | 
 
 The roving Trout th' inviting Snare approves, \
 
 SPORTING EXTRACTS 
 
 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 Ikilk commands ; 
 Till tir'd at last, despoil'd 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 burthcn'd Stream he floating lies. 
 Stretches his quiv'ring 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 practis'd Wiles ; 
 The Boy at last, betray'd by borrow'd Charms, 
 A Victim falls in her enslaving Arms. 
 
 If you'd preserve a nuni'rous finny Race, 
 Let your fierce Dogs the Rav'nous (Jtter chase ; 
 Th' amphibious Creature ranges all the Shores, 
 Shoots through the Waves, and ev'ry Haunt explores :
 
 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 lab'ring Horse with swelling Veins, 
 Hath safely hous'd the Farmer's doubtful Gains, 
 To sweet Repast th' unwary Partridge flies, 
 At Ease amidst the scatter'd 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 flutt'ring Covey rise. 
 Thus the sly Sharper sets the thoughtless 'Squire, 
 Who to the Town does aukvvardly 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 Plurbits 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 di-ives 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 (jlade ; 
 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 Fowlei-'s be the Muse's Care ; 
 The Birds that in the Thicket seek their Food, 
 Who love the Covert, and frequent the Wood,
 
 SPORTING EXTRACTS 
 
 103 
 
 Despise the Net : But still can never shun 
 The momentary Lightning of the Gun. 
 The Spaniel ranges all the Forrest round, 
 And with discerning Nostril snuffs the Ground ; 
 Now rushing on, with barking Noise alarms, 
 
 And bids his watt lifiil Lord jjrcpare to Arms ; 
 The dreadful Sound the springing Pheasant hear?, 
 Leaves his close Haunt, and to some Tree repairs : 
 The Dog, aloft the painted Fowl, surveys. 
 Observes his Motions,' and at distance Bays.
 
 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 quiv'ring Pinions cuts the liquid Air ; 
 The scatt'ring Lead pursues th' unerring Sight, 
 And Death in Thunder overtakes his Flight.
 
 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 mounting 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 ^Ltid,) 
 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 ; 
 W^ile the sly Game escapes beneath his Paws, 
 He snaps deceitful Air with empty Jaws ; 
 Enrag'd, upon his Poe he quickly gains. 
 And with wide Stretches measures o'er the Plains ; 
 Again the cunning Creature winds around. 
 While the tleet 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 Morn : 
 Th' enliven'd Hounds the welcome Accent hear. 
 Start from their Sleep, and for the Chase prepare. 
 Now o'er the P'ield a difPrent Route they take. 
 Search ev'r>- 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 (iame along the tainted Dew ; 
 A sudden Clamour rings throughout the Plain, 
 And calls the Straglers from tiicir 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 Troojjs 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 list'ning Hare, unsafe in longer Stay,
 
 io6 THE POETRY OF SPORT 
 
 With wary Caution steals unseen away ; 
 
 But soon his treach'rous Feet his FHght betray. 
 
 The distant Mountains eccho from afar, 
 
 And neighb'ring 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 confus'dly 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 ev'ry Breeze augments his growing Fear : 
 
 'Till tir'd 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 branching Antlers crown'd ; 
 
 But each revolving Sport the Year employ. 
 
 And fortifie the Mind with healthful Joy. 
 
 Rural Sports. A poem sjibscribed to Mr. Pope by Mr. G4Y, 1713. 
 
 The Hound and the Huntsman 
 
 Impertinence at first is born 
 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.
 
 SPORTIXG EXTRACTS 107 
 
 His ribs are welk'd, with howling tone 
 The Puppy thus express'd 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 cry'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, 
 Proclaim'd 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 relax'd 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, 
 Smear'd 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 piercd, 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. .Mat riiiw Grken, 1737 
 ' dewy.
 
 io8 THE POETRY OF SPORT 
 
 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 tortur'd 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 hollow'd 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 deceiv'd, 
 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
 
 SPORTING EXTRACTS 109 
 
 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 tlies 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 Rage ; 
 Till floating broad upon his breathless Side, 
 And to his Fate abandon'd, 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 RUR.\L (;ame. 
 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 turn'd the secret eye. 
 Caught in the meshy snare, in vain they beat 
 Their useless wings, intangled more and more : 
 Nor on the surges of the boundless air, 
 Tho' born 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 corn, and now to some lone seat 
 Retir'd : the rushy fen ; the ragged furz, 
 Strctch'd o'er the stony heath ; the stubl)le chapt ; 
 The thistly lawn ; the thick, intangled broom ;
 
 THE Pj 
 
 OF SPORT 
 
 ~ - :'- r ii— e friendly hue. the wither d fern : 
 
 : •-: ground laid open to the sun, 
 _ - ve : and ihe nodding" sandy bank. 
 
 riung o'er the mazes of the morm rain-brook. 
 Vain is her best precantion : tho' she sits 
 Conceal'd. -wiLh folded eais, unsleeping eyes. 
 Bv Nature rais'd to take th' horizon in : 
 And head couch'd close betwixt her hairy feet. 
 
 In act lo s~ . The scented dew 
 
 Barays her rinth ; and deep. 
 
 In scatter d. i__e- ip-enings. far behind. 
 Wrtfa every breeze she hears the coming stonn. 
 But ne- " ' -^3it, as it loads 
 
 Ihe s:^ -= amar'd. and all 
 
 The sa-^^^t - — -: ^, -— - = sip at once : 
 The pack fall-opening, \-arioo5 : the shrill horn,
 
 SPORTIXG EXTRACTS 
 
 Resounded from the hills ; the neighing steed. 
 Wild for the chace : and the loud hunters shout ; 
 O'er a weak, harmless, flpng 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 temp)est 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 1 tho" fleeter than the winds 
 Blown oer the keen-aird mountain bv the north. 
 
 He bursts the thickets, glances thro' the glades, 
 .\nd plunges deep into the wildest wood. 
 If slow, yet sure, adhesive to the tiact 
 Hot-steaming, up behind him comes ag.iin 
 Th' inhuman rout, and from the shady depth 
 Expel him. circling thro" his ever\- 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 lo 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
 
 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, from 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,
 
 SPORTING EXTRACTS ii 
 
 In fancy swallowing up the space between, 
 I'oLir all your speed into the rapid game. 
 For happ\' he 1 who tops the wheeling chace ; 
 Has every maze evolv'd, and every guile 
 Disclos'd ; who knows the merits of the pack ; 
 Who r.aw the villain seiz'd, 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, 
 W^ith 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 snake the dome. 
 
 The Seasons. JAMKS TiioMsosj, 1730. 
 
 The Goff 
 
 ( AX ro 1 
 
 Goff, and the Mn/i, I sing, who, em'lous, plies 
 
 The jointed club ; whose balls invade the skies ; 
 Who from Edhuis tow'rs, his peaceful home. 
 In quest of fame o'er Lctlids plains did roam. 
 Long toil'd the hero, on the verdant field, 
 Strain"d his stout arm the weighty club to wield. 
 
 r.\NTO 11 
 Now at that hole the Chiefs begin the game. 
 Which from the neighb'ring thorn-tree takes its name ; 
 Ardent they grasp tiie 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 Pyi^ina/io/i strikes the globe : 
 On th' upjjer 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 wliinny mansion swiftly bounds ; 
 O'er hills and fields siie scours, outstrips the wind ; 
 The hound and huntsmen follow f.ir behind.
 
 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 fhght. 
 Thus two fleet coursers for the Royal plate, 
 (The 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 show'rs 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 
 Answ'ring its mastei-'s just design, it hastes, 
 And from the hole scarce twice two clubs length rests. 
 
 Ah 1 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 Pyginalio7is soul. 
 Seiz'd with surprize th' aftrighted 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 victoi-'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 1 To horse !' — We issue at the call. 
 
 Triicvnan, 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 !— Wind him 1— Haux !'— the tuneful huntsman cries. 
 At once the list'ning pack asunder spread, 
 With tail erect, and with inquiring head :
 
 SPOR TING EX TRA CTS 
 
 With busy nostrils they foretaste their prey, 
 And snuff the lawn-impearHny dews away. 
 
 The huntsman calls, and chears his circling hounds. 
 Now up, now down, now 'cross the stream he beats — 
 ' Haux I — wind him 1 — haux 1— Fox, find him ! ' he repeats, 
 Now round and round a fruitless search he plies. 
 And now a tour of wider circuit tries. 
 But no intelligence rewards his care ; 
 No note confess'd the fox was ever there — 
 As though some opening gulph has gorg'd our prey, 
 Or sudden power had snatch'd him quite away. 
 But Reynard, hotly push'd, and close pursu'd. 
 
 115 
 
 Yet fruitful in expedients to elude. 
 
 When tf) the bourn's refreshing bank he came, 
 
 Had plung'd, all recking, in the friendly stream. 
 
 The folding waves his failing jiow'rs restore, 
 
 And close the gates of every 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. 
 
 Wit!) 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 ;
 
 Ii6 THE POETRY OE SPORT 
 
 The pendant cliffs audaciously essay, 
 And trot, or crawl, or climb their desperate \\ay. 
 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 ca\ern'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 1 — he dies I the echoing hills reply. 
 And the loud triumph rends the vaulted sky. 
 
 The Poetical Works of Heiny Brooke, 1792. 
 
 From ' The Art of Preserving Health ' 
 
 . . . The chearful morn 
 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
 
 'TJi-ed afoot at midnight BaiL"
 
 SPORTIXG EXTRACTS :: 
 
 A stony channel rolls its rapid maze. 
 
 Swarms with the silver fr\'. Such- thro' ihe -'ourc? 
 
 Of pastoral Staiiord, runs the brawling Trent ; 
 
 Such Eden, sprung from Cumbrian mountains : snch 
 
 The Esk. o'erhimg 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 lo%-e-sick swains, 
 
 UnknowTi in song : Tho' not a purer stream. 
 
 Thro' meads more iiow'ry. or more romantic groves. 
 
 Rolls toward the western main. Hail sacred fiood I 
 
 May stiU thy hospitable swains be blest 
 
 In rural innocence : thy mountaini= stiU 
 
 Teem with the fleecj- race : thy tuneful woods 
 
 For ever ilotirish : and thy vales look gay 
 
 With painted meadows, and the golden grain '. 
 
 Oft, with thy blooming sons, when life was new. 
 
 Spornve and penilant and charm'd with toys. 
 
 In thy transparent eddies have I lav d : 
 
 Oft trac" d v^irh patient steps thy fair\- banks. 
 
 With the weU-imitaied ny to hook 
 
 The eager trout, and v^-ith the slender line 
 
 And x-^---,- --.-' ; ■" - -- - -'- - i-.->re 
 
 The - . _ . r vernal clouds 
 
 -And :__ - ~ — -; - -^ - -z.i. pooL, 
 
 -And from the deeps caU. d forth the wanton swarms. 
 
 ... Some love the manly foils : 
 The tennis some ; and some the graceful dance. 
 Othe''~ —--r hardy, range the -■: — "^ -_^-.-_ 
 Or r '.e : where frc:r 
 
 The- , :oveys urge th_ : , :._...:. 
 
 Eager amid the rising cloud to pour 
 
 The giin's unerring thunder ; And there are 
 
 Whom St. 11 the meed erf the green archer charms. 
 
 He chuses best, whose labour e-.rerrr.-r.s 
 
 His \^cant fancy" most : The " .:e 
 
 Fatigues you soon, and scarce - yoai limbs. 
 
 An i'f Preserrimr Hemum^ j«.iii> .\lUtm -_ 
 
 Translation 
 
 1 INK.- WRITTKN rXDER -\ FRENCH PRINT REPRESENTING 
 PERSONS SKATING 
 
 v)"er crac- . 
 
 With T- _ 
 
 , »>- _ 
 
 T
 
 ii8 THE POETRY OF SPORT 
 
 A fragment of a Poem on Hunting 
 by Thomas Tickell 
 
 ' Dona cano divum, la-tas venantibus artes, 
 Auspicio, Diana, tuo ' Gratil's. 
 
 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 Phoebus 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 difterent clans excel. 
 In sight, or swiftness, or sagacious smell ; 
 By wiles ungenerous some surprize the prey. 
 And some by courage win the doubtful day. 
 Seest 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 master's 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 unaltei-'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. 
 
 • barkin<T.
 
 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 tliou in hounds asjjirc to deathless fame ? 
 Learn well their lineage and their ancient stem. 
 Kach tribe with joy old rustic heralds trace, 
 .\nd sing the chosen worthies of their race ; 
 How his sire's features in the son were spy'd. 
 When Die was made the vigorous Kingwood's Ijridc. 
 Less sure thick lips the fate of Austria doom, 
 Or eagle noses rufd almighty Rome. 
 
 (iood sliape to various kinds old bards confine, 
 .Some praise tlie (ireck, and some the Roman line ; 
 And dogs to beauty make as differing claims, 
 As Albion's nymphs, and India's jetty dames.
 
 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 ^leam ; 
 Middling his head, and prone to earth his view. 
 With eais and chest that dash the morning dew : 
 He best to stem the flood, to leap the bound. 
 And charm the Dryads with his voice profound ; 
 l"o pay large tribute to his weary lord. 
 And crown the s)ivan hero's plenteous board. . . . 
 
 Works of Jii/gli.s/i Poe/s . . . hv Samuel Johnson, 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 I 
 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 Furies wait upon the war. 
 First in the fight the whelps of Britain shine. 
 And snatch, Epirus, all the palm from thine. 
 
 (GuArirs Famsccs) 
 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 irame. 
 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. 
 
 ((Jkatius I-'ai.iscus)
 
 SPORTING EXTRACTS 121 
 
 A small bold breed and steady to the game 
 Next claims the tribute of peculiar fame I 
 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' intlicted 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. 
 
 (Ofpian). 
 The History of .\Li)icliester. JiiiiN Wiirr.VKEK, 1771. 
 
 From * Farringdon Hill ' 
 
 First to the north direct your roving eyes. 
 
 Where fair Oxonia's verdant hills arise. 
 
 There Burfonts 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 check, and eager eye appear. 
 
 Each generous fire in every heart is lost, 
 
 By fortune favour'd, or by fortune cross'd ; 
 
 Flies every virtue, withers every grace. 
 
 And all tlie selfish passions take their place : 
 
 Blest plains ! which all the good to Oxford yield, 
 
 That Gran/a reaps from fam'd Nc7>.'iniirkft' s field. 
 
 Soon shall the yellow wealth whose swelling grain 
 The stalk low bending hardly now sustains. 
 Stored in the barn 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 c|uick scent, or greyhound's eager view 
 O'er the smooth plain the timid hare pursue ; 
 Then swelling on the burthen'd breeze afar.
 
 THE POETRY OF SPORT 
 
 Shall burst the tumult of tho 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, 
 
 I'iSw^aiiitfSfe^ -i'_^ "iy*ri 
 
 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 ;
 
 SPORTING EXTRACTS 123 
 
 Whence livelier thoughts, and lighter spirits rise, 
 Strength knits the limbs and health adorns the eyes, 
 (ilows in the ruddy cheek a purer blood, 
 And rolls the tide of life a sprightlier flood. 
 
 Farri ngdon Hill. A Poem. H. |. Pvk, 1774. 
 
 The Lady of the Lake 
 
 caxto first 
 The Chase 
 
 The Stag at eve had drunk his fill. 
 
 Where danced the moon on Monans rill, 
 
 And deep his midnight lair had made 
 
 In lone (ilenartney's hazel shade : 
 
 But, when the sun his beacon red 
 
 Had kindled on Benvoirlich's head. 
 
 The deep-mouthed blood-hounds heavy bay 
 
 Resounded up the rocky way. 
 
 And faint, from farther distance borne. 
 
 Were heard the clanging hoof and horn. 
 
 .\s chief w ho hears his u arder call, 
 
 ' To arms I the foemen storm the wall," — 
 
 The antler'd monarch of the waste 
 
 Sprung from his heathery couch in haste. 
 
 But, 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, 
 
 .\ moment listened to the cry. 
 
 That thickened as the chase drew nigh ; 
 
 Then, as the headmost foes appeared. 
 
 With one brave bound tiie copse he cleared, 
 
 And, stretching forward free and far, 
 
 .Sought the wild heaths of L'am-\'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.
 
 124 
 
 THE POETRY OE 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. 
 
 Less loud the sounds of sylvan war 
 Disturbed the heights of Uam-Var, 
 And roused the cavern, where 'tis told 
 A giant made his den of old ;
 
 SPORTING EXTRACTS 125 
 
 For ere that steep ascent was won, 
 High in his patli-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-Achra), 
 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. 
 
 '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 an- ; 
 Who flagged upon Bochastle's heath. 
 Who shunned to stem the flooded Teith,— 
 F'or twice, that day, from shore to shore, 
 The gallant stag swam stoutly o'er. 
 Vew were the stragglers, following far, 
 That reached the lake of Vennachar ; 
 And when the Brigg of Turk was won, 
 The headmost Horseman rode alone. 
 
 Alf)ne, but uith 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.
 
 J 26 THE POETRY OE 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 thev take. 
 
 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 read)' 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 baflled 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 stiff limbs, to rise no more ; 
 Then, touched with pity and remorse, 
 He sorrowed o'er the expiring horse. 
 ' I litde thought, when first thy rein 
 I slacked upon the banks of Seine ;
 
 SPORTING EXTRACTS 127 
 
 That highland eagle e'er should feed 
 On thy fleet Hmbs, 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 
 
 Thk 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.
 
 128 THE POETRY OF SPORT 
 
 CANTO SIXTH 
 XXIV 
 
 Lav 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 1 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. 
 
 1 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 I 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 P,.em. Wai.tek Scott, if 
 
 From ' Marmion ' 
 
 injrouuction 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 mountam boar, on battle set, 
 
 His tusks upon my stem would whet ;
 
 SPORTING EXTRACTS iic) 
 
 While doe and roe, and red-deer good, 
 
 Have bounded by through gay green-wood. 
 
 Then oft, from Newark's riven tower, 
 
 Salhed 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, 
 
 (iuard 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 syhan occupation's done. 
 And o'er the chimne>' 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-encircled 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 
 Ueguiles the dreary hour no more. 
 And darkling politician, crossed, 
 
 ' Slow-hound.
 
 I30 THE POETRY OF SPORT 
 
 Inveighs against the lingering post, 
 
 And answering house-wife sore complains 
 
 Of carriers' snow-impeded wains : 
 
 When such the country cheer, I come, 
 
 Well pleased, to seek our city home ; 
 
 For converse, and for books, to change 
 
 I'he Forest's melancholy range, 
 
 And welcome, with renewed delight 
 
 The busy day, and social night. 
 
 Marmion: a Tale of Flodden Field. Walti-;k SCOTT, if 
 
 From ' The Excursion 
 
 . . . ' A blessed lot is yours ! ' 
 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 
 Who bounded tow'rds us from the garden mount. 
 Triumphant entry this to him I — 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.
 
 SPORTING EXTRACTS 131 
 
 But oh I the animation in the mien 
 Of those two Boys I 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 I 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. W'OKUSWOKTH, 1814. 
 
 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 I 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 
 (ilanced 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 wind. 
 And all the shadowy banks on either side 
 Came sweeping through the darkness, spinning still 
 The rajiid line of motion, then at once 
 
 K. 2
 
 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 
 Clo\ en 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 search'd the deep : exulting, 
 W^ith a far-dashing stroke, and drawing deep 
 The long-suspended breath, again I spurn'd 
 The foam which Ijroke around me, and pursued 
 My track like a sea-bird. — I was a boy then. 
 
 The Tzvo 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 corn 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 wonder//c/ his feats. 
 
 Ah nutbrown Partridges I Ah brilliant Pheasants ! 
 
 And ah, ye Poachers ! '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
 
 SPORTING EXTRACTS ly- 
 
 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 destroy'd 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 KON, 1823. 
 
 From ' The Deformed Transformed ' 
 
 I'ART III. SCENE I. 
 Cll07-llS 
 
 Ikit 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. 
 
 Cesar 
 
 Oh 1 Sliadow of glory I 
 
 Dim image of war I 
 But the chacc 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 Mammoili, 
 Or strike through the ravine 
 
 At the foaming Behemoth ; 
 While man was in stature 
 
 As towers in our time. 
 The first born of nature, 
 
 And, like her, sublime I 
 
 'J'he Di-formcd Transformed, Lonl I'.vki^.n, 1824.
 
 134 THE POETRY OF SPORT 
 
 From ' QEdipus Tyrannus ' 
 
 ACT II. SCENE II. 
 
 MiNOT.'VUR 
 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 me. 
 At least till you have hunted down your game, 
 I will not throw you. 
 
 lONA TaURINA 
 
 {During tJiis speech she has been putting on boots and spurs, and a 
 hunting cap, buckishly cocked on one side, and tucking up her hair, 
 she leaps nimbly on his back.) 
 
 Hoa ! hoa 1 tallyho ! tallyho ! ho I 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 I ON A and the Swine 
 
 Tallyho ! tallyho 1 
 Through rain, hail, and snow. 
 Through brake, gorse, and briar. 
 Through fen, flood, and mire, 
 We go ! we go I 
 
 Tallyho : tallyho ! 
 Through pond, ditch, and slough. 
 Wind them, and find them, 
 Like the Devil behind them, 
 Tallyho ! tallyho 1 
 
 Exeunt, in full cry. 
 
 CEdipus Tyrannus: or Swellfoot the Tyrant: a Tragedy. 
 
 P. B. Shelley, 1820.
 
 SPOR TING EX TEA CTS 
 
 From * The Love Chase ' 
 
 ACT II. SCENE III. 
 
 Constance. . . . Worthy sir, 
 Souls attract souls, when they'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 I 
 
 Constance — couriesying. What delight 
 To back the flying steed, that challenges 
 The wind for speed ! — seems native more of air 
 Than earth 1 — whose burden only lends him fire I — 
 Whose soul in his task, turns labour into sport 1 
 Who makes your pastime his I I sit him now I 
 He takes away my breath 1 — He makes me reel 1 
 I touch not earth — I see not— hear not — All 
 Is ecstacy of motion 1 
 
 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 ! Then your time 
 To prove you master of the manage. Now 
 You keep him well together for a space, 
 Hoth 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. 'Twcre a bold leap, 
 I see, that turnVl you, madam, 
 
 CO.VSTANCE. 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 I 
 At fault none losing heart I— but all at work I 
 None leaving his task to another I — answering^ 
 The watchful huntsman's caution, check, or cheer 
 As steed his rider's rein I Away they go I 
 How close they keep together 1 — What a pack I 
 Nor turn nor ditch nor stream divides them -as 
 They moved with one intelligence, act, will I 
 And tiicn the concert they keep up I —enough 
 To make one tenant of the merry-wood,
 
 1-.6 
 
 THE POETRY OF SPORT 
 
 To list their jocund music I 
 
 WiLDRAKE. You describe 
 The huntsman's pastime to the hfe ! 
 
 Constance. I love it ! 
 To wood and glen, hamlet and town, it is 
 A laughing holiday 1 — Not a hill-top 
 But's then alive ! — P^ootmen 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 I 
 
 The Love Chase. Jamks Siikkidan Knowles, 1837.
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 TO POEMS, SONGS, AND BALLADS 
 
 Ii- there was a dilificulty in selecting the most interesting ex- 
 tracts from among the many allusions to sport in verse, the 
 work of deciding which 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, 
 (lleaned 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 Aurora 
 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 u}) in the first two lines. Sometimes she is coming
 
 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 little 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 Phosbus 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 five 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.
 
 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 very 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 wln'n they were composed must either 
 be sought from the print, pai)er, illustration, or in the matter 
 itself. The Rev. J. W . I':i)sworth, who is the greatest authority 
 on this subject, has done much by the most patient research to 
 tlirow 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
 
 140 
 
 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 E V'alenliae's Day in the Morning, 
 bright Chitbiu began to appear, 
 Sir Wm Cook winding his Horn 
 And arasgoirtg a liunting the hate, 
 ^ays Handford uncouple our Bejgtei, 
 And let thtm go quelling along 
 
 The Morning was pleafantallorer 
 So bright and fo clear wasfhe Sky. 
 We made all the Woods forto roir, 
 W(h the Noire of our fwect harmony, 
 /twjs for the fpacc of three Hours 
 We held all our H6rfcj 10 fpeed 
 
 For loofe her oi win her, we muftgo to dinner }JS Black tloiren held hard to bay Robin 
 Or cllc they will think me long, m But Yet could not do the deed. 
 
 Savi Handford i pray now (orbarc fir 
 And talk not of Dinner fo (oon 
 For I'vc not been a hunting this Year 
 And how can you give over by Noou 
 Black Sloven (hall warm your lay Kobin 
 And make him go Smoack'ng ilong, 
 Bonny Dick (tail not Gallop fo quick 
 If we light of a Hafc that is Ittong, 
 
 Well Hjndford W\(il\\c good Efquife, 
 /mean to Oiow yon a trick 
 /value not hedges nor Difches 
 But I'll letyou know bonny Dick 
 Then hie for the C/ofom-Bow-Fie/d, 
 We (hall get her Ten thoufand- to one. 
 There's Wonder, la yj hard upon Thunder 
 Away, o'er away Die is gone. 
 
 $ 7t wa/ about Nine in the morning 
 ^ We founded our firttpsffing Bell 
 ^ fir William pray put up your horn 
 
 * For another Frefh Hare will do well. 
 ^ Well Handford liid the good Efquirc 
 A What think yon ol ay bonny Dick 
 
 * doc'jihink thou can make him to tiie 
 ?P or not for to Gallop fo qoick, 
 
 * Faith Mailer / ncedi tnuft Confefs, 
 ^ That i fear i was boafting to (oon 
 
 * But hie for another freft Ware 
 
 ^ And yout Dick Ibould havs dinn'd by noon 
 ip Well Handford here at your black floyen 
 ^ ni makehitn in Purple to Ride 
 ijj And if he doei ofTer to tire 
 ^ /'ll certainly Liquot yeur hide 
 
 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.
 
 INTRODUCTION TO POEMS, SONGS, &-c. 141 
 
 We have tried, as mentioned in the Introduction, to trace 
 back each piece and to give the earUest 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 ahvays 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
 
 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 which 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 whilst 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-
 
 INTRODUCTION TO POEMS, SONGS, &-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 i'arodies,' 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 wc think that the veteran sportsman will find
 
 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 
 be 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
 
 INTRODUCTION TO POEMS, SONGS, 
 
 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 
 
 fcjjlow this amusement will already have seen iliat it has not 
 been neglected. 
 
 It must be admitted wiiii reluctance that Shooting has not 
 been very satisfactorily dealt with in verse. \Vc have plenty 
 of material ; but, alas 1 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, 
 
 I,
 
 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 unlimited 
 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 hkely 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, vve'l laugh and lie down 
 
 A tid to each pretty Lass 
 
 We will give a green Gown. 
 
 (I estmijistt'r Divllerv, 1671. 
 
 Or again, as in the ' Satyre on the Familie of Stours,' per- 
 haps one of the oldest : 
 
 • anv kind of frolic. - a sort of prisoners' base.
 
 INTRODUCTION TO POEMS, SONGS, &-c. 147 
 
 He Jure postlii)iiiiii 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. 
 
 Maidineiit : a Book of Scotish Pasquils, 1568-1715. 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, 
 Overcomcth the winter with driving the foote-ball. 
 Forgetting labour and many a grievous fall. 
 
 Ship of Fools, 1508. 
 
 The consecjuence 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 b(.-en 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 i)illiards was at 
 first but a table variation of mace bowls. 
 
 A few words arc 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. I-ying well 
 guarded in the armour of the specialist, with the sharp-pointed 
 weapon of local knowledge to thrust at the general traveller, we 
 
 L 2
 
 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 our 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
 
 INTRQDUCTIOX TO POEMS, SOXGS, &-c. 149 
 
 be altogether deprived. \\'hen 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 (^uite 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 ? ' Xot 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 I ' 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? (iet to bed ! We shall have to 
 be off before sunri.se, and you can answer the question yourself 
 when you hear the first " Tally-ho ! " ' I )ear 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 arc the
 
 I50 
 
 THE POETRY OE 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.
 
 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 m\ nde 
 
 Dravve 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 doubtc 
 
 As well, as I may spend his tyme in vain. 
 
 And, graven with Diamondes, in letters plain. 
 
 There is written, her faier neck rounde abowte, 
 
 Noli me tangere, for Caesars I am, 
 
 And wylde for to holde, though I seme tame. 
 
 Sir Thomas W'yatt, from a MS. formerly in 
 possession of Dr. N'ott. 
 
 From ' A Briefe Discourse of the true (but 
 
 neglected) use of Charactring- the 
 
 Degrees, etc' 
 
 A Hunts up. (John Bennct.) 
 
 The htin/ is up, sing merrily wee. 
 
 The hunt is up, sing merrily wee, the hunt is up, 
 
 The Jiirds they sing, the Deare they fling, 
 
 hey nony nony nony no. 
 The Hounds the)- crye, the Hunters they fl>e, 
 
 hey tro li lo, tro lo li lo, hey tro lo li lo li li io. 
 Cho. The hunt is up, ut supra.
 
 152 THE POETRY OF SPORT 
 
 The Woods resounds 
 To heere the Hounds^ 
 
 hey, nony nony-no : 
 The Rocks resport 
 This merry sport, 
 
 hey, trohlo trololilo. 
 rCHO. The hunt is up, the liioit is up, 
 \ Sing merrily wee the htint 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 Iiitiit is up, the hutJt is up, 
 .Sing merrily wee the hunt is up. 
 
 Thomas Ravf.nsckoft, Bachdor of Musicke, 1614. 
 
 To Diana 
 
 Oueenc and Hiintresse^ 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 : 
 
 lalesse us then with wished sight, 
 
 Goddesse, 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, 
 
 (joddesse, excellently bright, 
 CvHthia s Rcvclh. The IVorkcs of Beniamin Jonson, 1616. 
 
 Hymne to Pan 
 
 1. 0( 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 PJuvbits can. 
 
 Cho. Heare O you groves, and hills resound his praise. 
 
 2. Oi Pan we sing, the best of Leaders, Pan
 
 H
 
 HUNTING 
 
 153 
 
 That leads the Nayad's, and the Dryad's forth, 
 And to their daunces more then Heniies can. 
 
 Cho. Hear O you groves, and hills resound his worth. 
 
 3. Oi Pan we sing, the best of Hunters, Fan 
 That drives the Heart to seeke unused wayes. 
 And in the chace more then Sylvaniis 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 worth. 
 And while his powers, and praises thus we sing, 
 The Valleys let rebound, and all the rivers ring. 
 
 Fans Aiiiiiversarie. The IVorkcs of Beiiiamin Joino?!, 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 shadic browcs alive they dresl. 
 .Such game while yet the work! was new, 
 The mighty Ni/>!rot/ (\\i\ |)ursuc.
 
 154 THE POETRY OE SPORT 
 
 What Huntsman of our feeble race, 
 Or dogs dare such a monster chase ? 
 ResembHng 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 1 
 The teemmg earth did never bnng 
 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 Workcs of Ediiwiid 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 
 Savs the huntsman to his dogs, ' tally ho ! hark awav 
 
 Tally ho ! hark awa\', tall}- 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, 
 
 Tall}- ho, &c. 
 
 He led us z. 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. 
 
 Crampttoi Ballads,
 
 HUXTING 
 
 Three Jovial Huntsmen 
 
 There were three jovial huntsmen, 
 
 A hunting- they would go, 
 To see whether they'd find sl\- Reynard, 
 
 Among the woods and groves. 
 
 155 
 
 CHORLS 
 With a hoop, hoop, hoop, and a hallow. 
 
 All in this merry train, 
 To my ran tan too, to my chevy, < hcvy chase. 
 Away to the royal bar. 
 With my ugle, uglc, uglc, and the i:)last of the hugle horn. 
 
 To my ri fal dc ra, to my diddle don, 
 And it's through the woods we'll run, brave boys.
 
 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 rifal de ra, to my diddle, diddle don, 
 And it's through the woods we'll run, brave boys. 
 
 Ballad. 
 
 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.
 
 HUNTING 1 57 
 
 Cast round the sheep's train, cast round, cast round, 
 Try back the deep lane, try back, try back. 
 Hark, I 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 try 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 cjuake, 
 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. 
 
 F'rick thro' the plowd ground 
 
 Thus we ride, whip and spur, for a two hoius chacc, 
 
 ( )ur horses go panting and sobbing, 
 
 N'oung Mad Cap and Riot, begin now the race. 
 
 Ride on. Sir, and give him some mobbing. 
 |}ut hold alas, you'll spoil our sjjort, 
 For thro' the Hounds you'll head him short.
 
 ,58 THE POETRY OE 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. 
 
 Criuiiptoii IniUiui 
 
 The Hunting- of the Hare 
 
 With her last Wiij, and Testament 
 
 As 'twas perform'd on Ijamstead downs 
 By Cony-catchers and their hounds. 
 To a pleasant new Tune. 
 
 [Of all the spoj'fs the world do f/i yield.] 
 
 Of all delights that Earth doth yeeld, 
 Give mee a pack of hounds in field : 
 Whose eccho shall throughout the sky 
 Make/c?7/^ 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 Bamsle 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 seeif thou canst us beguile, 
 
 but then expect a thund'ring cry, 
 
 made by us and our harmony. 
 
 [hare] 
 
 Now since you set niy life so sleight, 
 V\ make black sloven turn to white : 
 And Yorkshire (^ra)- that runs at all,
 
 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 Harnards Bay do what he can, 
 Or Ihirrons Ekiy that now and than, 
 Did interrupt mee on my way, 
 rie make him neither jet nor play, 
 
 or constant Rodin though he lye, 
 
 at his advantage, what care I. 
 
 IVill Nation 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. 
 
 [hark] 
 
 N'our 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. 
 
 [hunts.manJ 
 
 Alas poor flare 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. 
 
 [IMK HAKK MARKS HI.K Wll.l,] 
 
 Then I bequeathe my body free. 
 Unto your .Masters courtesie : 
 And if he please my life to grant. 
 He be his game when sport is scant : 
 
 but if I dye each greedy Hound, 
 
 divides my entrals on the ground.
 
 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 kill'd by his own hounds. 
 
 Item, 1 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 1 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 man. 
 
 My skin to make a jacket on : 
 
 And I beqiieathe 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, m)' 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 To%uer-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.
 
 m
 
 HUNTING i6i 
 
 Thare] 
 
 And since your Master hath pardon'd me 
 I'le lead you all to Ba?idi/ry, 
 Whereas y^?//;/ Tur>7er \\a.\.h. a Room, 
 To entertain all Guests that come 
 
 to laugh and quaff in Wine and Beer 
 
 a full carouse to your Careere. 
 
 Jio.\i)nrg/ie 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, 
 I'll 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, 
 I'll sing tally oh I 
 
 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 l' 
 
 The Dusky Night 
 
 The dusky night rides down the sky 
 
 And ushers in the morn, 
 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. 
 
 Hut a hunting wc will go, Ike. 
 
 Ballad.
 
 1 62 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 Ijurns, 
 
 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. 
 
 Ballad. 
 
 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 morn. 
 Then follow the hounds and merry-toned horn. 
 
 No music can equal the hounds in full cry, 
 
 Hark 1 they open — they haste away ; 
 O'er hill, dale, and valley, with vigour we fly, 
 
 While 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, iS;c. 
 
 Ballad. 
 
 1 V.l. art.
 
 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, iSic. 
 
 Oh 1 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 alcove a foot high. 
 The number of dogs there's not to be found. 
 Nor ever better hunting upon the English grountl. 
 
 Ballad. 
 
 The Hunting vSong 
 
 The Sun from the East tips the Mountains with (Jold, 
 And the Meadows all spangled with Dew-drops, behold 
 How the Lark's early Matin proclaims the new Day, 
 And the Horn's chearful Summons rebukes our Delay ; 
 With the Sports of the Field there's no pleasure can vie, 
 While Jocund we follow, ff)Il<)w, follow, follow. 
 Follow, follow, follow, follow, follow, follow. 
 Follow, follow, follow, the Hounds in full Cry. 
 
 M 2
 
 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. 
 
 Sweet Polly's Garland. 
 
 Princely Diversion, or the Jovial 
 Hunting Match 
 
 One Valentine's Day in the Morning, 
 
 Bright Phcebits began to appear. 
 
 Sir Wm Cook winding his Horn 
 
 And was going a hunting the hare. 
 
 Says Ha7idfo7-d 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 Hmidford'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 Slave?! shall war/n yotir bay Robin 
 And make him go Smoacking along. 
 Bonny Dick shall not gallop so quick 
 If we light on a Hare that is strong.
 
 HUNTING 165 
 
 Well Handford sa\A. the good Esquire, 
 1 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-Field^ 
 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 Hatidford 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 Iiim in Purple to Ride 
 
 And if lie 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 Corn 
 
 see wefljl 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 cry'd is before 
 And she cry'd it all over the Lane 
 And after her 12 Couple more 
 thus they rallKejd it over the Plain 
 Bonny Dick play'd with his Bridle, 
 and went at a desperate rate 
 
 Come JIandford take you you're idle 
 
 Must i open [for] you the Gate
 
 i66 THE POETRY OF SPORT 
 
 (), 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 Beatify she leads the vain : 
 
 She headed them stoutly and bravely : 
 Just up into Siitto7is close field, 
 Black sloven began to grow heavy 
 And made a fair offer to yield 
 Jack 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 v.'e 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 spy'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 Doi^s 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
 
 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 try'd 
 
 And hie for a Glass of good Ale, 
 
 That Peotry may be admir'd 
 
 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. 
 
 Roxbiirghc Ballads. 
 
 {Note bv J. W. Ebsworth. — 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-l)lacksmith of Trusley, seven miles 
 from Deruy, an occasional whij^per-in to Squire Coke (here called Cooke), who 
 died in 17 16, the last William Coke of Trusley. He had Tom's portrait 
 painted .-mil hung \x\> 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 morn dispels the night, 
 
 Her beauties to display, 
 The sun breaks forth in glory bright, 
 
 And hails the new-born day : 
 Diana like, behold nie 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, checrly 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,
 
 1 68 
 
 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, (S:c. 
 
 Thus \irgins 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.
 
 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 (joats o'er Summits of Rocks, 
 With shouting and hooting we pierce thro' the Sky, 
 And Eccho turns Hunter, and doubles the Cry. 
 
 Cho. wall shouting atid hooii7ig we pierce thrd the Sky, 
 And Eccho turns Hunter, and doubles the Cry. 
 
 The SfCi/lar Masque, JOHN Dkyden, 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 cnliv'ning sound. 
 
 Ballad. 
 
 Jolly Huntsman 
 
 A NEW SON(; 
 
 The hounds are all out, 
 
 And the morning does peep. 
 How can 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, cS:c. 
 
 I cannot get u|). 
 For my over night's cup, 
 So terribly it lies on my head ; 
 Besides my wife cries, 
 My dear do not rise. 
 But slay a bit longer in bed. 
 My dear boys, 
 But stay a bit, &c.
 
 I70 
 
 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 I 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. 
 When over a cup of good ale. 
 My brave boys, 
 When over, &c. 
 
 Ballad.
 
 HUNTING 
 
 171 
 
 Poor Old Horse 
 
 When I was a young 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 decay 
 My master frowns upon me, 
 
 And these words I heard him sav, 
 Poor old horse, poor old horse. 
 
 
 
 
 
 vv 
 
 -^^f 
 
 I'oor old horse 
 
 I'licst; words I heard him sav 
 
 My clothing that was once, 
 
 Of the shining superfine. 
 Then I stood in my stable. 
 
 And dfd in my glory shine. 
 JJut now I am grown old. 
 
 And nature docs decay, 
 My master frowns ujjon me, 
 
 And these words I heard him say, 
 I'oor old horse, poor old horse.
 
 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, 
 I'm forced to eat the coarsest grass, 
 
 That grows against the wall 
 Poor old horse, 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 lo\e to run a hare, su's, 
 
 A story of a course 111 tell, whose truth I do declare, sirs : 
 
 'Tis of a famous stout game hare, which lay near Lonsbro' town, 
 
 sirs, 
 Who beating e\ery greyhound there, had challenged great renown, 
 
 sirs. 
 
 1 This song is of very ancient date ; 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 after all. 
 The town of Lonsborough, a seat of the Duke of Devonshire, was always 
 celebrated for stout running hares.
 
 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 cltTg\ 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 I and off they went, cjuite o'er the dale so clever, 
 And brave Squire Hewitt cried aloud, ' My lUiie Cap, now or 
 never I ' 
 
 And when they got upon jjlain ground, swift /Ui/c Cap turn'd her 
 
 there, sirs, 
 I^ut still the company would bet five guineas on the hare, sirs : 
 Across the dale she took once more, which made their horses 
 
 whinncy. 
 Yet Hewitt still undaunted cried, ' My Blue Cap for a guinea I '
 
 174 THE POETRY OE SPORT 
 
 For shelter then to Wai-tcr W^ood^ 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 Meihills-hall^ 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 toast, which some thought mighty 
 
 clever ; 
 It was, ' The Squire of MetJiills-hall^ attd brave Blue Cap for ever. ^ 
 
 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 morn, 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(e)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, 
 .Sehns and his ass, push round the sparkling glass. 
 No landscape can surpass young Keerevan's demain.
 
 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. 
 
 Ikit 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. 
 
 Xo 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 saj' some future age can tell. 
 
 Those blazers we can trace from great miletian race. 
 
 Whose birth without disgrace our poet can extol. 
 
 Great Hurks, 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, 
 
 Hamiltons and Lynches, all where reynard died. 
 
 (')ur county Oalway 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 I hark ! the joy-inspiring horn. 
 Salutes the rosy rising morn, 
 
 And echoes thro' the dale ; 
 With clam'rous peals the hills resound. 
 The liounds quick-scented scow'r the ground, 
 
 .•\nd snuff the fragrant gale. 
 
 Nor gales ' nor sledges • can impede 
 The brisk, high mettl'd, starting steed, 
 The jovial pack pursue ; 
 
 ' ? guiles. - ? hedges.
 
 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 trembling 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 and 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 ! hark away, my boys away, — hark away. 
 
 When they started poor Reynard he fac'd to Tullamore, 
 Through Wicklow and Arklovv, along the sea shore. 
 They kept him in view the whole length of the way, 
 A-nd 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).
 
 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. 
 WTio crossed walls and ditches and ne'er looked for a gap. 
 And to you Mr. Gambler, my money and my plate. 
 
 Ulster Ballad. 
 
 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 fo.\. 
 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 Killcager, as tho' he could fear none. 
 Away he brush'd round by the house of Kilternan, 
 
 • Thisalso occurs in a collection of songs called The Masque {^^onAon, 1768), 
 and is headed ' .\ favorite Song. I he celebrated Fox Chace, from Killegar 
 through Killternan, ( arrickraines, and other towns in the couniy of Dublin; 
 on December 5, 1744. To the lune of Sheelane Gira.' 
 
 N
 
 178 THE POETRY OF SPORT 
 
 To Carrick-mincs 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 serve 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 dehcate chace. 
 
 That held us five hours and ten minutes space. 
 
 We return'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 hoUoo'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 affairs 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. 
 
 Batlad.
 
 HUNTING 179 
 
 Hunting Song 
 I 
 
 Behold, my friend ! the rosy-finger'd morn 
 
 With blushes on her face, 
 
 I'eeps o'er yon azure hill ; 
 
 Rich gems the trees enchase, 
 
 Pearls frorii each bush distill, 
 Arise, arise, and hail the light new-born. 
 
 II 
 Hark 1 hark ! the merry horn calls, come away : 
 
 Quit, quit th\' downy bed ; 
 
 Break from Ainynf(fs arms ; 
 
 Oh ! let it ne'er be said. 
 
 That all, that all her charms, 
 Tho she's as Venus fair, can tempt th\' stay. 
 
 Ill 
 I'erple.x thy soul no more with cares below. 
 
 For what will pelf avail ? 
 
 Thy courser paws the ground. 
 
 Each beagle cocks his tail. 
 
 They spend th'cir mouths around 
 While health, and ])leasure, smiles on ev'ry brow. 
 
 IV 
 Try huntsmen all the brakes, spread all the |)lain. 
 
 Now, now, she's gone away. 
 
 Strip, strip, with speed pursue ; 
 
 The jocund (iod of day 
 
 Who fain our sport wou'd view. 
 See, see, he flogs his fiery steeds in vain. 
 
 Pour down, like a flood from tlic hills, brave boys. 
 
 On the wings of the wind 
 
 The merr)- beagles fly ; 
 
 Dull sorrow lags In-liind : 
 
 Ye shrill ecchoes reply. 
 Catch each flying sound, and doul)lc our joys. 
 
 VI 
 
 Ye rocks, woods, and caves our music r'j|)cat. 
 
 The bright spheres thus above, 
 
 A gay refulgent train 
 
 Harmoniously move. 
 
 O'er )()n celestial plain 
 Like us, whirl along, in concert so sweet.
 
 i8o THE POETRY OF SPORT 
 
 VII 
 Now Puss threads the brakes, and heavily flies, 
 
 At the head of the pack 
 
 Old Fidle}' 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 life'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. Somervile, 1766. 
 
 My Heart's in the Highlands 
 
 Ttcnc : ' 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, where\er 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. 
 
 Bv R. Burns. J. Johnson, T/if Srofs Musical Museum.
 
 HUNTING 
 
 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. 
 
 Sing Ballinai)i07ta Ofo. Ballinaino/ia oro. 
 
 BaUinamona oro, the Lads of Old Cleveland fo7' 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 o\er P'eldom he won. 
 
 Rover and Rally and Minor likewise, 
 Old Spanker, so fierce the thick Cover he tries. 
 Matcham and Merrylass Reynard's sworn foe ; 
 He must be unkenneld, hark I 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. 
 
 Hurdon, 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 tiie 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 licels lay the (iisborough I'rior, 
 With Powder and sweat. Lord I 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, 
 liut 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 (iate leaving numbers behind him.
 
 THE POETRY OF SPORT 
 
 Yonder goes Stockdale so tight and so trim 
 How hestrokes down his mare which he fancies so slim, 
 He nicks in and out 'till he's starv'd with the cold, 
 (io 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 pufts 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. 
 
 He sticks in the dirt, nntl 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 Greytail that choise bit of Blood, 
 How at Stockesly so clever she won e'ery Race, 
 And how that she's ecjually fam'd for the Chace. 
 
 1 a broad open drain.
 
 HUNTING \i 
 
 Flounders, the younger with Eyehds 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. 
 
 Roxbitrghc Ballads. Date, circa 1783. 
 
 A New Fox-hunting Song 
 
 Composed by W. S. Kenrick and J. Burtell 
 
 The Chace run by the Clevela7id Fox Hounds on Saturday the 
 2()th Day of January, 1785 
 
 Ye hardy sons of Chacc 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 wc 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, 
 
 Unkeneird was the Fox ; 
 Who led us, and our Hounds of Fame, 
 
 O'er .Mountains, Moors and Rocks. 
 When a Hunting wc do go, &c. 
 
 'Twas Craythorn first swift Reynard made. 
 
 To Lintton then did fly : 
 Full speed pursu'd each hearty blade, 
 
 And joind in jovial cry. 
 
 With the Huntsman Tally ho. 
 
 To Worsal next he took his flight, 
 
 ILscape us he wou'd fain ; 
 To Picton next with all his might, 
 
 To Craythorn back again. 
 
 With the Huntsman Tally ho. 
 
 ' Rev. J. W. I'.liswoK Ill's Note. — Thomas Cole, Huntsman ; Rev. (jeorge 
 Davison ; Christopher Rowntree, Jun. ; William Slockdale. l'"rom Cray- 
 thorne and Worsal (near Yarm), by Nunthorp, Rosbcrry, and Kildalc to 
 Hinderwell sca-clilTwas a terrific run. .N'obli; fox !
 
 l84 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 Tanfon, Nt/ntliorp, next he flies, 
 ■ O'er Lano;brough 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 Nezutojt, then to Roscberry^ 
 
 To Hiitton Lockerass gill ; 
 To Lownsdale^ o'er Court Moor go we, 
 
 From thence to Kiltiale Mill, 
 
 With the Huntsman Tally ho, &c. 
 
 By this our zeal was not subdu'd. 
 
 All crosses were in vain ; 
 To Kildale Rej'nard we pursu'd. 
 
 To Lo%vnsdale back again. 
 
 With the Huntsman Tally ho, &c. 
 
 By Percy Cross and Sleddale too, 
 
 And Pilly Rig full fast, 
 As Fox could run to Skylderskew, 
 
 And Lockwood Beck he past. 
 
 With the Huntsman Tally ho, &c. 
 
 By Freebrougli Hill he takes his wa)'. 
 
 By Da7iby Lodge 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 Stonegaie Moor, 
 
 To Scayling Reynard ran ; 
 Was such a Fox e'er seen before ? 
 
 His equal shew who can I 
 
 When a Hunting we do go, &c. 
 
 To Barnby now by Ugthorp Mill, 
 
 And Mickleby likewise ; 
 To Ellerby, to Hinderwcll, 
 
 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.
 
 HUNTING 185 
 
 Hut 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 \'allies 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. 
 
 Roxbiirghc 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 morn. 
 
 'Twas glorious sport I none e'er did lag. 
 Nor drew amiss, nor made a stand ; 
 Hut 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. 
 
 Hut pleas'd, they plainly heard a lair I 
 And presently drew on the slot. 
 'Twas glorious sport, (Sic. 
 
 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. 
 ''Iwas glorious sport, &c. 
 
 And now the stag has lost his pace ; 
 
 And while ' War-haunch I ' the huntsman cries. 
 His bosom swells, tears wot his face ; 
 He pants, he struggles, and he dies I 
 'Twas glorious sport, iJtc. 
 
 The (.'omir So^^slrr, 1783.
 
 1 86 THE POETRY OE SPORT 
 
 The Chase ' 
 
 I 
 
 Earl Walter winds his bugle horn ; 
 
 To horse, to horse, halloo, halloo I 
 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 hallow'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 rather an imitation, oi 
 the Wilde Jciger of the German poet Btirger. The tradition upon which it is 
 founded bears, that formerly a Wildgrave, 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.
 
 HUNTING 187 
 
 Cease thv loud bugle's clanging knell,' 
 Co'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. 
 
 X 
 
 ' Away, and sweep the glades along '. ' 
 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 
 ' do join with thee the droning choir, 
 
 ' And leave me to the sport 1 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 s])rings, from yonder tangled thorn, 
 A stag more white than mountain snow ; 
 
 And lf)uder rung Earl Walter's horn, 
 ' Hark forward, forward, holla, ho 1 ' 
 
 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 ! On ihcy go.
 
 THE POETRY OF SPORT 
 
 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 ! noble Lord ; 
 
 ' Spare the hard pittance of the poor, 
 ' Earn'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 '
 
 HUNTING 189 
 
 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 throns. 
 
 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. 
 
 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. 
 
 xw 
 
 The anxious herdsman low ly 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, 
 15ut 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 ! '
 
 I90 I'HE POETRY OF SPORT 
 
 XXVIII 
 
 Again he winds his bugle horn, 
 
 ' Hark forward, forward, holla, ho ! ' 
 And through the herd, in ruthless scorn, 
 He cheers his furious hounds to go. 
 
 XXIX 
 
 In 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. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 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.' 
 
 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 I spurn ; 
 
 '■ Not sainted martyrs' sacred song, 
 
 ' Not God himself shall make me turn.'
 
 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 hermit, go. 
 
 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. 
 
 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. 
 
 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. 
 
 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. 
 
 ' Oppressor of creation fair I 
 
 'Apostate spirits' hardcn'd tool I 
 
 ' Scorner of Ciod I scourge of the poor 
 ' The measure of thy cup is full. 
 
 XI, III 
 
 ' Cio, hunt for ever throuf^li the wood, 
 ' For ever roam ih' affrighted wild ; 
 
 ' And let thy fate instruct the proud 
 ' God's meanest creature is his child.
 
 192 THE POETRY OE SPORT 
 
 'Tvvas 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. 
 
 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. 
 
 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. 
 
 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. 
 
 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 witching hour ascend. 
 
 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.
 
 HUNTING 
 
 193 
 
 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 Augustus Burger 
 jrans. by Walter Scott, Esq.l. 1796. 
 
 Huntino^ Soncr 
 
 Waken, lords and ladies gay, 
 
 On the mountain dawns the da\-, 
 
 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 arc steaminj^, 
 Diamonds on the brake are gleaming
 
 194 THE POETRY OE 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 )'ou where he lies, 
 Fleet of foot, and tall of size ; 
 We 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, stern 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 ! 
 Man, hound, or horse, of higher fame, 
 To wake the wild deer never came, 
 Since Alnwick's Earl pursued the game 
 
 On Cheviot's rueful 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, Northumberland, 
 is celebrated in tradition as a huntsman and a soldier. He was, upon two 
 occasions, singularly unfortunate ; once, 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 first of 
 these incidents suggested the above stanzas.
 
 HUNTING 
 
 195 
 
 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 were red. 
 The heather was their common bed, 
 Where each, as wildering fancy led, 
 
 Still hunted in his dream. 
 
 Now is tlie Uirillmg uiomciu near, 
 Of sylvan hope and syhan fear, 
 Yon thicket holds the harbour'd deer, 
 
 'I'he signs tlie 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.
 
 196 THE POETRY OF SPORT 
 
 The game's afoot ! — Halloo ! 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 I 
 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, 
 
 Ikit 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 your 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,
 
 HUNTIXG 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 bhss 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 Coopers colours drest. 
 
 The scene shall live for ever. 
 The Poetical Works of Sir Walter Scuft, Barf., 1848. 
 
 Song 
 
 Huntsman, rest I thy chase is done. 
 
 While our slumbrous spells assail ye, 
 Dream not with the rising sun. 
 
 Bugles here shall sound reveillie. 
 Sleep 1 the deer is in his den ; 
 
 Sleep I thy hounds are by thee lying ; 
 Sleep I nor dream in yonder glen. 
 
 How thy gallant steed lay dying. 
 Huntsman, rest I thy chase is done, 
 Think not of the rising sun. 
 For at dawning to assail ye. 
 Here no bugles sound reveillie. 
 Tlu Poetical Works of Sir Walter Scott. Bart.: Lady of the Lake, i{ 
 
 In\isible 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, 
 .\nd 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 
 ^Langle(l by throttling dogs, the shouts of men, 
 -And hoofs thick beating on the hollow hill.
 
 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. 
 
 Scottish Descriptive Poans, |. Lf.YDEN, 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 v.e cheerly go. 
 
 Whilst round us brightest comforts shine ; 
 With joy shut in, we shut out woe. 
 
 And 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. 
 When sinking under sorrow's smart ; 
 'Tis that can ease the wretch's woe, 
 And heighten ev'ry 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. 
 
 Son^s of the Chase, 181 1.
 
 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 \iew-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 \icw. 
 
 From a view to the death in the morning. 
 
 'Twas the sound of his horn, etc. 
 
 And Pve followed John Peel both often and far, 
 O'er the rasper-fence and the gate and the bar. 
 From 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 WooDcof k (^kavks (<//-. 1825' 
 
 I lunlin*^' Sons^" 
 
 See seated around the winter's fire, 
 
 The heroes of the chase ; 
 .See I many an honest heart is there, 
 
 And many a chccrfuf face. 
 
 Friendship, amidst the jolly throng, 
 Their gen'rous ardour leads. 
 
 And tunes the rustic huntsman's sonjj 
 Or tells of former deeds.
 
 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 fav'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.
 
 HUNTING 2C 
 
 How Dick, the parson, jolly soul 1 
 
 Did dash through thick and thin ; 
 And Tom, the huntsman, reach'd the goal. 
 
 With Jack the whipper-in. 
 
 But now they till their glasses high, 
 
 While mirth lights every face, 
 And toast with many a joyful cr^-, 
 
 ' 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 \\ay, 
 
 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 raptrous 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 m.irth 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 ; 
 -Vnd among the more honest, too many arc found. 
 Who will hold with the liare, and run with the hound. 
 
 Tally-ho, (S;c. 
 
 The prim e, heaven preserve him, at taking a leap, 
 And the ->portsmen at large who their game strictly kee]). 
 Which they doom to the chase ; at the horns cheerful sound. 
 Clearly hold with the hare, and yet run with the hound. 
 
 Tally-ho, tSic.
 
 THE POETRY OF SPORT 
 
 The parson, who shows no true zeal for the Church ; 
 Who, ahured 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, 
 Cleai-ly holds with the hare, and yet runs with the hound. 
 
 Tally-ho, &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 strmgs 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 se.x, and all classes, with objects abound, 
 Who will hold with the hare, and yet run with the hound. 
 
 Tally-ho, &c. 
 
 From the tield 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 l^ocal Cabhicl , 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 1 to the nightingale I sweetly in song, 
 
 While the ousel-cock joins in his theme.
 
 HUNTING 
 
 20; 
 
 That crowd of young sportsmen, how brisk they appear, 
 
 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 str6ng breathing brass the welkin loud rings 
 
 They've brought the dead culprit to land ; 
 As the conquest spreads round on felicity's wings. 
 
 The rustics rejoice with the band : 
 Not an angler but sought the bold glutton with liale, 
 
 And exults in the water>' chase : 
 Not a creature to-day but grows glad at his fate. 
 
 And longs to extinguish the race.
 
 2C4 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 dij!:, 
 
 And c[uickly 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's Vocal Cabinet, li 
 
 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 countr)- 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 sideljoards were well covered with the gold cups they 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.
 
 HUNTING 
 
 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 vou can was then the word and truest shooting low. 
 
 His rent day was at Michaelmas, within his oak rocjf'd uall, 
 Where portraits, arms and horns of Deer bcdcck'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 \'icar, while his patron seated were, 
 While the farmers drank their bumjK-rsoff, 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 (he old Hall, 
 His Heir was chief mourner, six old neighbours bore the I'all, 
 His memory is cherished yet, and many people say 
 With the good old English Squire, good old times arc gone away. 
 
 IhtlUid.
 
 2o6 THE POETRY OF SPORT 
 
 The Rising of the Sun 
 
 TO A WELSH AIR 
 
 Wake I wake ! 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 ! 
 Many a fallow deer 
 Feeds in the forest near ; 
 Now is no time on the heather to lie \ 
 
 Rise ! rise ! 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 ! 
 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 ! the sun's riding high 1 
 
 Bishop Hebek, 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 ! — 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 ! 
 
 II 
 O many a gallant hart that time was slain I 
 
 And many a roe-buck founder'd in the glen ! 
 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.
 
 HUNTING 207 
 
 But roosted careless on the desart doone, 
 An easy mark to ruthless archer's ken ! 
 No more thev whirr and crow at dawning boon. 
 Far on their grizzled heights, contiguous to the moon \ 
 
 III 
 Where'er the chase to dell or valley neard. 
 
 There for the royal train the feast was laid ; 
 There was the monarch's light pavilion reard ; 
 
 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 dun \ 
 The King look'd sad and sigh'd ! no sleep that night for hmi \ 
 
 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 dern,' 
 
 And wrapt the forest in a shroud of gra>-. 
 
 Man, horse, and liound, 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, 
 ]'>ut 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 stray'd the forest, belling for the dead, 
 Started at every rustle- paused, and then 
 Sniff'd whistling in the wind, and Ijounded to the glen. 
 
 \ I 
 The King was lost, and much conjecture past. 
 
 At length the morning rose in lightsome blue. 
 Far to tlie 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. 
 ' secret.
 
 2o8 THE POETRY OF SPORT 
 
 The steeps of proud Ben-Glow the nobles scaled, 
 For there they heard their Monarch's bugle yell ; 
 
 First on the height, the beauteous morn 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. 
 
 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 I 
 
 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 I swift as the course of mind 
 
 There roU'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 1 unbend thy cumbrous bovv, 
 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. 
 
 •* buck in third year. ^ birchen.
 
 HUNTING 209 
 
 The Tilt is vanished 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 tainted ground : 
 
 The herd has cross'd Breriach's gulfing gill, 
 The Athol forest's formidable bound. 
 And in the Carcharye 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 quarr\- on behind b)- 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, James Hogg, i8i6. 
 
 Hark! Hark! 
 
 For hark 1 hark ! hark '. 
 The dog doth bark. 
 
 That watches the wild deer's lair. 
 The hunter awakes at the peep of the dawn, 
 liut the lair is empty, the deer it is gone, 
 
 And the hunter knows not where. 
 
 Then follow, oh follow '. 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 : 
 
 Though I be now a grey, grey friar, 
 Yet 1 was once a hale young knight : 
 The cry of my dogs was the only choir 
 In which my spirit did take delight.
 
 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 tliorn. 
 
 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 I 
 
 Maid Marian, Thomas Lovk Feacoc:k, 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 morn 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 ! — 
 
 And now the steeds triumphantly 
 
 Follow the deep-toned pack ;
 
 HUXTIAG 
 
 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 I 
 For sickly Care, the ' Hark — away I ' 
 
 Will ever wisely lea\ e : 
 It cannot follow in the train. 
 With the wild chorus, o'er the plain, 
 
 But looks awhile to grieve. 
 
 And there arc 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 I ' 
 
 Sporting Magazine, I-'t-hruiry 1822. 
 I- 2
 
 THE POETRY OF SPORT 
 
 The Dawning of Day 
 
 A HUNTING SONG 
 
 The grey eye of morning was clear to my youth, 
 When I sprang Uke 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 cr)- 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.
 
 HUNTIXG ^~ 1 3 
 
 The well-timed 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 1 relinquish this joy of my heart 
 
 While years with my strength roll away ? 
 Hark 1 the horn— bring my horse— see, they're ready to start : 
 
 Tally-o I at the dawning of day. 
 
 Remains. RoBlCKT Bluomkikm.i, 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 ! - 
 
 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 ! 
 
 'Tis come— 'tis come— that soul-felt thrill ! 
 
 My straining courser bounds ; 
 And echoing wide o'er copse and rill, 
 
 The maddening chorus sounds ! 
 V>y heaven 1 He scales the distant hill 1 
 .•\nd hark 1 the horn's wild summons shrill - 
 On : — (J)n I— my steed I We're laggards still 
 
 On 1 On I— my gallant hounds 1 
 
 DasIIWodI), Xcw Sfiorliiig Ma^iiziiic, 1831. 
 
 The Little Red Rover 
 I 
 
 The dcwdrop 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.
 
 THE POETRY OE SPORT 
 
 II 
 Resounds the glad hollo ; 
 
 The pack scents the prey ; 
 Man and horse follow ; 
 
 Away I Hark, away 1 
 Away ! 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 I 
 
 IV 
 
 • Well known is yon co\er, 
 And crag 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 I 
 
 R. E. Egerton W'arkuuton, 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, thj' bones to the mill ? 
 
 Ill 
 Ah ! no. — I beheld thee a foal yet unshod, 
 Now race round the paddock, now roll on the so4 ; 
 Where first thy young hoof the green herbage impress'd, 
 There, the shoes on thy feet, will I lay thee to rest I 
 
 R. E. Egkkton A\'.\KBrKTo.\, 1833.
 
 HUNTING -'5 
 
 My Old Horn 
 
 Though toil hath somewhat worn thy frame, 
 
 And time hath marrd thy beauty, 
 Come forth— lone relic of my fame— 
 
 Thou well hast done thy duty. 
 
 Time was when other tongues would praise 
 
 Thv wakening notes of pleasure, 
 Now,'miser-like, alone I gaze 
 
 On thee, a useless treasure. 
 
 Some hearts may prize thy music still. 
 
 But ah : 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 weepmg ; 
 A shriller note than thine, must break 
 
 Their deep and dreamless sleepmg. 
 
 1 too the fading wreath resign, 
 
 (For friends and fame are flcetmg), 
 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. 
 
 '/■//(' Sportsman, 1833. 
 
 Oh won't you let me go, papa? 
 
 oh won't you let me go, I'aiia ? 
 
 Oh won't you let me go? 
 You're too indulgent to refuse 
 
 Your little ("li:nl(s 1 know.
 
 2l6 
 
 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 .r/.i", 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 icn ; 
 He mounts his leathers, boots, and pink 
 
 The same as other men. 
 With either I can run, Papa, 
 
 Or swim, or skate, or row ; 
 'Tis hard that I should stay at home — 
 
 Oh won't you let me go ? 
 
 They're sure of sport to-day. Papa, 
 
 'Tis sicch a hunting morn I 
 They'll very soon be here. Papa — 
 
 Hark ! there's the huntsman's horn I
 
 HUNTING -17 
 
 Look— look— beyond the chestnuts there, 
 
 Oh what a lovely show '. 
 They'll find at Baikby Holt, Papa— 
 
 Oh wont you let me go ? 
 
 A smile— a smile— a happy sign 1 
 
 Oh yes, I thought you would ; 
 You'll not regret it, dear Papa, 
 
 I'll be so very good 1 
 Run Thomas, bring my pony round, 
 
 Mv heart is beating so 1 
 Oh what a kind, a sweet Papa— 
 
 I knew he'd let me go ! 
 
 Sporting Magazine, J;\niiar\- 1835. 
 
 The Chase ! The Chase ! 
 
 The Chase I the Chase 1 the glorious Chase '. 
 
 O'er hill and dale to speed the race ! 
 
 With sprightly steed, with trusty hound, 
 
 'Tis merr>- to range the greenwood round 1 
 
 To stay for no fence— the game afar — 
 
 Hut urge with shouts the flying war. 
 
 I'm for the Chase '. Fm for the Chase \ 
 
 With noble Mure the field to grace ! 
 
 With his hounds so staunch, and his Huntsman keen 
 
 No braver show has Hunter seen \ 
 
 If a check should come as we scour the plam, 
 
 What matter— we must cast again. 
 
 I love : oh. Iiow I love to speed 
 
 (Jn the fleet, bounding, generous steed ; 
 
 When rock, and stream, and forest-bourn 
 
 Ring merrily with the Hunter's horn ! 
 
 And every hound with rapture springs 
 
 L'pon the scent the south wind brings. 
 
 I never was in the City's roar 
 
 Hut 1 lov'd the green fields more and more ; 
 
 And back I flew from its deep unrest, 
 
 As the young (".reek sprang to his mother's breast \ 
 
 And the mother's delight in that embrace 
 
 Was nought to mine in the glorious Chase. 
 
 The leaves were sere and grey the morn 
 
 in the hunting hour when 1 was born : 
 
 And tlie hounds they gave tongue the \ alleys rang 
 
 .\s the Huntsmen blitiie in chorus sani^ \
 
 THE POETRY OF SPORT 
 
 And never were heard such shoutings wild 
 
 As welcom'd to life the Forest-child I 
 
 I've 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 ! 
 
 Charles Feist, Sporting Magazine. April i£ 
 
 The Hunter's 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.
 
 . 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 )ear 
 
 Within her grave had lain, 
 A fair young girl, the region's pride — 
 His heart was breaking when she died. 
 
 liounding, as was her wont, she came 
 
 Right towards his resting-place. 
 And stretched her hand, and called his name. 
 
 With sweet and smiling face. 
 Forward, 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, stern and Ijrown, 
 
 An instant, in his fall — 
 A fearful instant, and no more — 
 The dream and life at once were o'er. 
 W'li.l.iAM C. HRVANr. TJif Sportsman ami I'eterinary Rccurdcr, 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 tire, 
 And cold is the hearth of the Jolly Old Squire, 
 The Jolly (Jld Squire, 
 The Jolly Old Squire, 
 And cold is the hearth of the Jolly Old Squire. 
 
 The Jolly f )ld .Squire was as staunch as a liound. 
 And gayer he secm'd, the more broken the ground, 
 Neither yawner nor ras])er could make him dela) , 
 As, mounted on Druid he roared 'hark away I ' 
 Tiie first in the field, and the last man to lire. 
 His hunting is over the Jolly Old Scjuirc, 
 
 The Jolly Old Sijuire, 
 
 The Jolly Old Squire, 
 His hunting is o\er -the Joll)- Old .Squire.
 
 THE POETRY OE SPORT 
 
 When the brush of sly reynard, the coveted prize, 
 Was display'd at his table, joy danc'd in his eyes ; 
 He quaft'd his good wine, and he sang his good song, 
 And the shouting that follow'd 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 Scjuire, 
 
 The Jolly Old Squire, 
 
 The Jolly Old Squire, 
 We drew up our reins round the Jolly Old Squire. 
 
 ' What 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 ! 
 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 
 
 .\ fare\\ell of the sky, hath just began 
 
 To soften into shade. Behold yon SwAN ! 
 With plumage proudly spread as on she goes. 
 Shivering the pictures, which the shadows make 
 
 Upon the waters ! 'Midst those flags, where grows 
 Yon Iris — gilding with its flowers the green — 
 
 A troop of Water-rats among the waves 
 Are splashing sportively 1 and, dimly seen 
 
 In the advancing twilight, from those caves 
 That skirt the farther shore, two creatures creep — 
 Otters I Quaint robbers of the mystic deep I 
 
 Major ("ai.der Campbell, The Sportsman. March 1840.
 
 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 '. the hound-bells ringing sweet, 
 
 While hunters shout, and the woods repeat, 
 Hilli ho : Hilhho : 
 
 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 '. the crv, ' He's found, he's found,' 
 While hill and valley our shouts resound. 
 Hilli-ho : Hilli-ho '. 
 Poetical Works of Thomas Moore, 1840. 
 
 The Song of the Hunter 
 
 We are off once more '. for the summers oer. 
 
 And gaily we take our stand 
 15y the covert-side, in our might and pride, 
 
 A gallant and fearless band \ 
 .\gain we hear our Huntsman's cheer, 
 ' "^rhe thrilling Tally-ho 1 „ . , 
 
 And the blast of the horn, through the woodlands borne, 
 
 As merrilv onward we go ! 
 
 T.\I.LV-HO 1 
 As merrily onward we go 1 
 No glittering show nor parade we know '. 
 
 Our course is uncontroll'd ! 
 O'er earth through air -our lords we beai- 
 
 In a chase unpaid by gold \ . , , , , 
 
 Let the Racer speed, and his bright sides bleed, 
 
 Where gladdning shouts resound '. 
 Are the cheers that greet his course so sweet 
 As the musical cry of the hound ? 
 
 ()| I' Ml'. llOl'XI) ! 
 As the musical cry of the hound ? 
 Oh : where is the nag in his cr)ursc wf)uld flag. 
 
 As the Soutlurn breezes play 
 On his foaming face in the heat of the ( hasc. 
 On an Autumns cloudy day !
 
 ; THE POETRY OF SPORT 
 
 On I on ! we go 1 and the brush of the foe 
 
 Shall reward our daring toil I 
 'Tis the prize we ask, to repay our task, 
 
 To be deck'd in that glorious spoil 1 
 Who-whoop 1 
 
 To be deck'd in that glorious spoil I 
 
 Oh ! ours is the life that makes no strife, 
 
 Nor causes loss nor sorrow ! 
 By deeds confess'd that we've done our best 1 
 
 ]Ve are ready again on the morrow .' 
 Though our coat's less bright and our limbs less light 
 
 Than our kindred ' thoroi(gli-bred^ 
 In stanchness and game our hearts are the same. 
 
 Till our strength with our life has sped 1 
 To THE Grave : 
 
 Till our strength with our life has sped I 
 
 Iames Wili.VAM Grylls, Sporting Magazine, November 1844. 
 
 Dedicated (without permission again) to the best and oldest Horse in 
 the Service ! 
 
 [For further particulars inquire of Will Long' Badminton.) 
 
 Address to a Wild Deer 
 
 Thy bold antlers call on the hunter afar 
 With a haughty defiance to come to the war ! 
 No outrage is war to a creature like thee ! 
 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 ! 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 spurned from his furious feet : 
 And his last cry of anger comes back from the skies. 
 As nature's fierce son in the wilderness dies. 
 High life of a hunter 1 he meets on the hill 
 The new-wakened daylight, so bright and so still ; 
 And feels, as the clouds of the morning unroll, 
 
 ' antlers.
 
 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, 
 AVhile 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 
 'Xeath 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 ! child of the desert 1 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 Clen-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 — 
 Ikit 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 I 
 Which still the rude P>ard in his solitude sings. 
 Oh reign of magnificence ! vanished for ever ! 
 Like music dried up in the bed of a river,
 
 THE POETRY OF SPORT 
 
 Whose course hath been changed \ )et my soul can survey 
 
 The clear cloudless morn of that glorious da)\ 
 
 Yes ! the wide silent forest is loud as of yore, 
 
 And the far-ebbed grandeur rolls back to the shore. 
 
 Poems, I'rof. WlI.SON, 1853, 
 
 My Hunting Song 
 
 Forward 1 Hark forward's the cry I 
 One more fence and we're out on the open, 
 So to us at once, if you want to live near us 1 
 Hark to them, ride to them, beauties 1 as on they go. 
 Leaping and sweeping away in the vale below ! 
 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 Kixgslev. From the Casket. 
 
 The Find 
 
 Yon sound's neither sheep-bell nor bark. 
 They're running — they're running, Go hark 1 
 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 naming -they're running. 
 Go hark I 
 
 They're running — they're running, Go hark I 
 One fence and we're out of the park ; 
 Sit down 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 ! ,
 
 HUNTING 22 
 
 They"re running — theyre running, Go hark ! 
 
 Let them run on and run till it's dark 1 
 
 Well with them we are, and well with them we'll be, 
 
 WTiile 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 I 
 
 Chari.ks Kingsi-kv, i8 
 
 The Otter King- 
 Now winding, wandering pensive))-, 
 
 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.
 
 226 THE POETRY OF SPORT 
 
 ■ But list, ye gods I 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 liowhays' 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 ! thou true Black Prince 
 
 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.
 
 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 I 'twas a glorious sight to see 
 
 Those mottled tilings in chase ; 
 The water dashed in silver spray, 
 
 And every hound in place. 
 
 ' Now steady all 1 ' cried stern IJowhays, 
 
 ' Now steady hounds and men ; 
 Old Charmer's nose was never wrong, 
 
 She winds him back again 1 ' 
 
 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 ; 
 .-\nd 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 j^lain ; 
 And fishers on the Baric might hear 
 The Otter King was slain. 
 
 Daily s Mas^aziiic, June 1864. 
 Q 2
 
 22.8 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 foi-est, &c. 
 
 Away he goes, a gallant fox, his distant point to gain ; 
 Nor wilder is the wind that sweeps across the moorland plain : 
 Oh I 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 Whitevvood 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.
 
 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, <S: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 Coxweirs breed, to view them as they fly I ' 
 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 ! Who-hoop I the huntsman shouts ; and seven men 
 
 are near, 
 To view the hound that bowled him o'er, the gallant ' Windermere ' ; 
 .-\nd 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. 
 ' Kixg-Ol'ZEI.,' Baily's Magazine, January 1865. 
 
 Spring Hunting 
 
 liack 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. 
 
 Singing a quiet song. 
 
 Now, haply too, beside its brae. 
 
 Some pensive fisher stands ; 
 Landing his strugghng speckled |)rey 
 
 Upon its silver sands. 
 
 But hark I 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 not seems to reign.
 
 230 
 
 THE POETRY OF SPORT 
 
 Away, away, the gallant fox 
 
 In headlong haste to gain the rocks, 
 
 Is flying o'er the vale ; 
 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 I. 
 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 ;
 
 HUNTING 231 
 
 Again, the mottled beauties hie 
 To draw the woodlands far and nigh, 
 And catch the tainted wind. 
 
 But keen remorse will sure be thine. 
 
 Thou yeoman strong and true '. 
 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 ' 
 
 I hear the huntsman cry. 
 Ride to the rescue, hunters, rule '. 
 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-Ouzi:i„" Ihiily's Magazine, May 1866,
 
 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 \"alley skims over the grass. 
 
 Where shall we take him 'i 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 I 
 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 creain of the country, the pick of the chase, 
 Mute as a dream, his pursuers are racing. 
 
 Silence, you know, 's the criterion oi pace ' 
 Swarming and driving, while man and horse strivmg 
 
 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.
 
 HUNTING 233 
 
 There in the bottom, see, sluggish and idle, 
 
 Steals the dark stream where the w illow-tree grows I 
 Harden your heart, and catch hold of your bridle 1 
 
 Steady him — rouse him — and over he goes ! 
 Look I in a minute a dozen are in it 1 
 
 But Forward 1 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 plig'ht 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 \'^alley 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 \'ale ; ' 
 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. J. WiiVTi-. Mi:i.vii.m;, Baily's Magazine, February 1868. 
 
 The Galloping Squire 
 
 A FOX hunter's so.\(; 
 
 Come, I'll 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, 
 
 Hut 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 tl.e thorn ; 
 
 From the kennel he's drafted the pick of his lot. 
 
 How they swarm to his cheer I how the\- fl\- to Iiis horn 
 
 l^ike harriers turning, or chasing like fire, 
 
 ' I can trust every hound,' says the (jalloping S(|iiirc. 
 
 ' The V'.ile of .Aylesbury.
 
 ^34 
 
 THE POETRY OE SPORT 
 
 With a wave of his arm to the covert they throng. 
 
 ' Yooi ! wind him, and rouse him 1 ' '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 \'ou're sick, you may spur till )'ou tire, 
 For it's catch 'em who can I' 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 they're all in the rear of the Galloping Squire.
 
 HUNTING 2- 
 
 Till the gamest old \armint that e\er drew breath, 
 All worried and stiti'ened, 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 I 
 
 G. J. W'HYTE Melville, Baily's Magazine, March 1868. 
 
 Otter-Hunting on the Erme, 
 South Devon 
 
 If haply thou to Lethe's shore 
 
 In spirit sad would stray, 
 (jO, tarry by the meads of Erme, 
 
 Elysian fields are they. 
 P>om 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 Klete. 
 
 But if, unmoved by minstrelsy, 
 This fairy vale thou doubt to be 
 
 The true Elysian plain, 
 Go, join Dianas 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 I down beneath yon anticred tree, 
 
 O'ersliadowing the shf)re. 
 The otter's holt is found to be 
 
 A fathom deep, or more.
 
 236 THE POETRY OF SPORT 
 
 Ay, see the hounds with frantic zeal 
 
 The roots and earth uptear ; 
 But 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 I ' 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.
 
 HUNTING 
 
 Ah me I 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 I fain would fair Belinda rush 
 To close the robe, and hide the blush 
 
 That mantles on her face ; 
 But hark I 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 dew y morn. 
 
 Nor Bulteel's ringing cheer. 
 June 20, 1871. ■ kiNG-OuZKi.,' Baily s Magazine, .\ugust 1871. 
 
 '-n
 
 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 strain'd 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 I fly, 
 Sad troop of humane misery ; 
 Come serene lookes, 
 Cleare as the Christal brookes, 
 Or the pure azui-'d heaven, that smiles to see 
 The rich attendance of our povertj^ 
 Peace and a secure mind, 
 (Which all men seek), we only find. 
 
 Abused Mortalls ! did you know 
 Where Joy, Heart's-ease, and comforts grow ; 
 You'd scorne 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
 
 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 ! let the diving Xegro seek 
 For (iemmes hid in some forlorne creek ; 
 We all Pearles scorne. 
 Save what the dewy morne 
 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 I 
 Which we may every yeare 
 Find when we come a-fishing here I 
 
 Sir W'AI.TKK K.\i.Ki(;ii. Rcliqiiia Wnttonianar, 1651. 
 
 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 ayrc breedes sweetest gales. 
 
 There shall you have the beauteous Pine, 
 The Cedar, and the spreading \'ine. 
 And all the woods to be a Skrccnc : 
 Least Phwbus kisse my Sommer's Queene. 
 
 The seate for your disport shall be 
 Over some River in a tree. 
 Where silver sands, and pebbles sing, 
 Eternall ditties with the spring.
 
 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, 
 Which 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-wormes shall attend, 
 And all their sparkling lights shall spend, 
 All to adorne and beautifie : 
 Your lodging with most maiestie. 
 
 Then in mine amies 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. 
 
 A''o^<?. — 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 of the original, but as neither it 
 nor Raleigh's answer is on our subject, we have not included them.
 
 FISHING 
 
 241 
 
 A Worthy Answer 
 
 O let mc rather on the pleasant Ikinke 
 Of Tyfic and Trent possesse some dwelling place ; 
 Where I may see my Quill and Corke downe sink 
 With eager bit of Barbell, lUcike, or Dace : 
 And on the world and his creatour think, 
 While they proud T/iais painted sheet embrace, 
 And with the fume of strong Tobdccd's smoke, 
 All quaffing round are ready for to choke.
 
 242 THE POETRY OF SPORT 
 
 Let them that list these pastimes then pursue, 
 And on their pleasins^ fancies feede their fill ; 
 So I the Fields and Aleadowes greene may view, 
 And by the Rivers fresh may walke at will, 
 Among the Dasies and the Violets blew : 
 Red Hyacinth^ and yellow Daffadill, 
 
 Purple Narcissus like the morning rayes, 
 Pale Gandergias,^ and azor Culverkayesr 
 
 I count it better pleasure to behold 
 The goodly compasse 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 llye ; 
 And faire Aurora lifting up her head. 
 All blushing rise from old Tithoniis bed. 
 
 The hils and Mountaines raised from the Plaines, 
 The plaines extended levell with the ground. 
 The ground divided into sundry vaines, 
 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 P'orrests wide and long, 
 Adorn'd with leaves and branches fresh and green. 
 In whose cool brow's the birds with chanting song 
 Do welcom with their cjuire the Siaiuiicrs queen, 
 The meadowes faire where Fiord's guifts among, 
 Are intermixt the verdant grasse betweene, 
 The silver skaled fish that softly swimme. 
 Within the brookes and christall watry brim. 
 
 All these and many more of his creation, 
 
 That made the heavens the Angler 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 joyful! eie, 
 His minde is rapt above the starry skye. 
 
 OF THE GOODGION 
 
 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 laEfwort ? - bluebell.
 
 FISHING 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 ahvayes lye ; 
 Whereat the greedy Goodgicn 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 pro\e, 
 
 Then to another place he doth remove. 
 
 J. Dennvs, Tlie Secrets of ^iiigliiiif, 1613. 
 
 Norii. — We have in the reproductions of this song a good instance of the 
 hberiies taken by some editors. We give the first verse of it from two well- 
 known works : 
 
 Let me live harmlesly, and near the brink 
 
 Of Trent or Avon have a dwelling i^lace, 
 
 Where I may see my qiiil or cork down sink, 
 
 With eager bit of Pearch, or Bleak, or Dace ; 
 
 And on ihe world and my Creator think, 
 
 Whilst some men strive, ill gotten goods t'embrace ; 
 
 .■\nd others spend their time in base excess 
 
 Of wine or worse, in war and wantonness. 
 
 W.\LTON's version in The Compleat Ani^ler, 1653. 
 
 Would I might live near Avon's flow'ry brink 
 .\nd on the World, and my Creator think, 
 Whilst others strive, ill gotten goods t'embrace, 
 Would I near 11 WA/wi/ had a dw^elHng-place. 
 Wf)uld I these harmless pastimes might pursue 
 .\nd uncontroll'd might Ponds and Rivers view ; 
 Whilst others sjiend their time in base e.xcess, 
 In Drinking. Gaming, and in Wantonness. 
 
 k. X()I!1:es, in The Cowploit /'n>//fr, 1682. 
 
 Song 
 
 \'ou that fish for Dace and Roches, 
 Carpcs or Tenches, Bonus noches, 
 TI-oii 7ua.'!t borne bctiuccnc two dishes, 
 When the F>iday signe was Fishes, 
 A meters yeares are made and spent, 
 All in Kmbcr wcchcs <:>id Lent. 
 
 Urcake thy Rod about thy Nockllc, 
 Through thy wormcs and thcs by ihc I'ottlc, 
 Keepc thy Corkc to sto|)pe thy Ijottic, 
 Make straight thy hooke, and be not afi ard, 
 
 To shave his Beard, 
 That in case of started stitches, 
 Hooke and Line may mend thy Breeches. 
 
 K 2
 
 244 THE POETRY OF SPORT 
 
 He that searches Pooles and Dikes, 
 Halters Jackes, and st7'anglcs Pikes, 
 Let htm know, though he tJdnke he ivise is^ 
 Tis not a sport hut an Assizes. 
 Fisli so tooke, were the case disputed, 
 Are not tooke, but executed. 
 
 Breake thy Rod, &c. 
 
 You whose Pastes /fa- Rivers throat, 
 Ajtd make \%\?, pay her Groat, 
 TJuxt from May to fiareht October, 
 Scarce a Minew can sleepe sober, 
 Be your Fish /;/ Oven thrust. 
 And your owne Red-Paste tJw crust. 
 
 Breake thy Rod, &c. 
 
 Hookes and Lines of larger sizes. 
 
 Such as the Tyrant that troules devises. 
 
 Fishes 7iere, beleive his Faille, 
 
 What he cats a Line is a Cable. 
 
 Thai's a Knave of endlesse Rajicor, 
 
 Who for a Hooke doth cast in an Anchor. 
 
 Breake thy Rod, &c. 
 
 But of all men he is the Cheater, 
 
 Who ivith small fish takes up the Greater. 
 
 He makes Carpes without all dudgen 
 
 Make a Jonas of a Gudgen. 
 
 Cruell nmn that slayes on Gravell 
 
 Fish that Great with Fish doth Travell. 
 
 Breake thy Rod, &c. 
 
 M. Llewellyn, Men 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 ; 
 Adornation to our mind ; it's witty, pretty, decent, pleasant ; 
 Pastime we shall sweetly find, if the weather prove but kind, 
 We will ha\ e our pleasure :
 
 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 wc walk the meadows green, where there the fragrant air is, 
 
 Various objects to be seen : O what pleasure there is : 
 
 I'.irds they sing, and flowers sjjring, full of delectation : 
 
 A whistling breeze runs through the trees, there we meet meadows 
 
 sweet ; 
 Flowers sweet, the mind : lierc's scent of sweet content 
 liy those sweet refreshing bowers, living, giving, casing, plcasmg. 
 Vitals from those herbs and flowers, rais'd up by those falhng 
 
 showers, 
 
 For man's recreation.
 
 246 THE POETRY OF SPORT 
 
 As thro' the shady forest, -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, twivy, 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, 
 Barblo jack and many more, gudgeons, perches, tenches, roaches. 
 Here's the jolly angler's store, we have choice offish galore. 
 We will have our angle. 
 
 If the sun's excessive heat should our bodies suiter. 
 
 To some house or hedge retreat for some friendly shelter, 
 
 15ut if we spy a shower nigh, or the day uncertin, 
 
 Then we flee beneath a tree, then we eat our victuals sweet. 
 
 Take a coke, smoke and soak, then again to the same ; 
 
 But 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 Lovl\ 
 The lusty Sap began to move ; 
 
 ]^Gw Juice did stirre th' embracing Vines ; 
 
 And Birds had drawr.e 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 quill. 
 
 Already were the F.aves possest 
 
 With the swift Pilgrims daubed nest. 
 
 The Groves already did rejoyce 
 
 In Philomels triumphing voycc. 
 
 H.WoTTOX, Reliquics WotloniancB, 1651.
 
 FISHING 247 
 
 The Angler's Song 
 
 As inward love breeds outward talk, 
 
 The Hound son-\& praise, and some the Haw/c, 
 
 Some better pleas'd with private sport, 
 
 Use Tciu's, some a Misfris court : 
 
 But these delights I neither wish, 
 
 Nor envy, while I freely fish. 
 
 ( 210 ) 
 
 Ti.- ANGLERS Sor.g. 
 
 ie3« jjSo V P'K'iA T r"'' 
 
 
 
 •s n s s y s 
 
 •i=l5;iri£hi:iMr[:liyii;Mliifii -^-'s s « h i o n v "?i 
 
 Facsimile of double page in Walton's Complcat Angler, 1653, with music so 
 printed that the bass and tenor could read from the same copy, when tlu- 
 book lay between thein. 
 
 Who /luiits, doth oft in danger ride ; 
 
 Who haiiks^ lures oft both far and wide ; 
 
 Who uses i;7zwn-, may often prove 
 
 A loser ; but who fais in love, 
 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 
 Tiien mind and body both possess ; 
 
 My hand alone my work can do, 
 
 So I can fish and study too.
 
 248 THE POETRY OF SPORT 
 
 1 care not, I, to fish in seas, 
 Fresh rivers best my mind do please, 
 Whose sweet cahn 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 ne're surprise. 
 
 But yet though while 1 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 .\ngle was my fish. 
 
 As well content no prize to take 
 
 As use of taken prize to make ; 
 
 For so our Lord was pleased \\hen 
 
 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 Walton, The duvpleat Angler, 1653. 
 
 With a gift of a Salmon, sent to that 
 famous and best of men, my dear 
 friend, Dr. Thomas Powell : 
 
 A TR.\NSLATION BY THE EPrrOR (DR. A. B. GROSART) 
 
 Accept the Salmon that with this 1 send. 
 To you renown'd and best-belov&d friend ; 
 Caught 'neath the Fall, where mid the whirling foam 
 C the quick-darting Usk, he just had come.
 
 FISHING 
 
 M9 
 
 Twas thus in brief : the treach'rous colour'd fly 
 
 For a meal, guiTd 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 1 to be swallow'd, swiftly he was mine : 
 
 Misled by his gay-painted fly astray, 
 
 Of angler's rod he is the welcome prey. 
 
 lienign retirement I (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 : 
 
 15ut soon as for the thund'ring Fall he craves, 
 
 To bound and flash amidst its tossing waxes, 
 
 SM.MON ri\HINO, 
 
 He leaps to seize what seems a noble prize, 
 And gulps the hidden hook whereon he dies. 
 (Jften are little things the types of great : 
 Look tliee around, and with all this thoui't meet. 
 Tlic foamy Fall the world is, man the fish ; 
 '['he plum'd hook, sin guis'd in some lordly dish. 
 
 II. V.\i<;ii.\N, i6f)o?
 
 250 THE POETRY OF SPORT 
 
 Groping, or Tickling, Trout 
 
 Vou see the \\ays the Fisher-man doth take 
 To catch the Fish ; what Engins doth he make ? 
 Behold : how he ingayeth ah his Wits, 
 Also his Snares, Lines, Angles, Hooks, and Nets : 
 Yet Fish there Idc, that neither Hook, nor Line, 
 Nor Snare, nor Net, nor Engin, can make thine : 
 They must be grop't for, and be tickled too, 
 Or they will not be catcht what e're you do. 
 
 John Y^vkYXK. Pilgrim' s Progress, 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 leape the ruffled streame divides. 
 
 On the greene banck a truant Schoolboy stands ; 
 
 Well has the urchin markt her mery play, 
 An ashen rod obeys his guilefull 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 fateful! twitch ; 
 
 Struck with amaze she feels the hook ypight 
 Deepe in her gills, and, plonging where the beech 
 
 Shaddows the poole, she runs in dred affright ; 
 
 In vain the deepest rocke, 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. 
 
 1 cease.
 
 Beneath this Oaken umbrage let us lay.
 
 FISHING 251 
 
 Where now, ah pity \ where that sprightly play, 
 That wanton bounding, and exulting joy, 
 
 That lately welcomd the retourning ray, 
 
 When by the rivletls bancks, with blushes coy, 
 April walkd forth — ah I never more to toy 
 
 In purling streame, she pants, she gasps and dies \ 
 
 William Julius Mickle, SirMartyti, xtj-j. 
 
 The Invitation 
 
 Let us our steps direct where Father-Thames 
 In silver windings draws his humid train. 
 And jjours, where'er he rolls his naval-stream, 
 Pomp on the city, plenty oer the plain. 
 Or by the banks of Isis shall we stray, 
 (Ah whv so long from Isis banks away \) 
 Where 'thousand damsels dance, and thousand shep- 
 herds play. 
 Amid the pleasaunce of Arcadian scenes, 
 Love steals his silent arrows on my breast ; 
 Nor falls of water, nor enamel'd greens, 
 Can sooth my anguish, or invite to rest. 
 Vou,dcar lanthe, you alone impart 
 Balm to my wounds, and cordial to my smart : 
 The apple of m\- 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 : 
 
 Tlie Perch, with purple speckled manifold ; 
 
 The Eel, in silver labyrinth self-roU'd, 
 
 And Carp, all burnish'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 lick'd away the dews) 
 Fair-flushing and bcdeck'd like virgin-bride ? 
 'I'hither, ffor 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 'I'iiomi'SO.n'. An llymu 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 :
 
 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 ! Rap '. 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 evening 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 1 
 
 Round the oak board they take their seats ; 
 Now din of knives, forks, plates I— no jokes — 
 
 Right earnest aldermamc feats. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 Much good may't do each honest soul — 
 Each true bred brother of Trout-Hall. 
 
 The supper o'er, well fiU'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 enthrall, 
 The Jolly Anglers at Trout- Hall. 
 
 The Angler : a Poem by Piseator, 1819.
 
 " When suddenly the waters rushed, and swelled, 
 and up there sprung 
 'A humid maid' of beauty's mould."
 
 FISHING 253 
 
 The Angler 
 
 (FROM THE GERMAN OF GOETHE) 
 
 Dcs Wasser zauscht ; des Wasser scJiwolI^ ^c. 
 
 There was a gentle Angler 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 ? 
 CoulcFst 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 everlasting dew ? ' 
 
 The water rushed, the w ater 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. 
 
 A 71 rials 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-fl\'s wing 
 
 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 Hca\en's own blue. 
 
 And there but low sweet sounds are heard- 
 
 The whisper of the reed, 
 The ])lashing trout, the rustling bird, 
 
 The scythe ujjon the mead ; 
 Yet, through the murmuring osiers near, 
 There steals a step whi( h mortals fear.
 
 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 
 
 But 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 i^uests have been. 
 
 Under the shade 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. 
 
 Poetical Remains of the late Mrs. Hcmans, i 
 
 Trolling 
 
 ' Stand back, my friends, our first attempt be here, 
 
 The wave is rippled, and the top is clear ; 
 
 Behind these flags I'll hide me as I go. 
 
 Lest jack or pike refuse the bait I 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. 
 
 But right and left the Troller bids it rise. 
 
 Curling and spinning in the watery way. 
 
 Its glist'ning form attracts the watchful prey ; 
 
 Lo 1 as the bait is near the surface led, 
 
 A mighty fish forsakes his weedy bed, 
 
 Withsudden 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.
 
 FISHING 25; 
 
 Co'lected weeds such anxious wish prex ent ; 
 Check but the fish before he makes his pause, 
 He'll cast the treacherous morsel from his jaws ; 
 But see, the action of the winch is o er, 
 Propitious sign ! the line retreats no more ; 
 Loose 'on the wave the latter portion hes ; 
 ' So let it rest until we strike our prize. 
 
 He waits with patience-' minutes ten have sped 
 Since vonder pike first with my gudgeon fled 
 Now for the strife, he doubtless holds my fish 
 Within his pouch securely as I wish.' 
 \earer 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. 
 \nd 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 everv effort, foils his angry strength. 
 And bids him seek the upper wave at length : 
 Mark where he rises! Ah', he sees his foe. 
 Aeain he hurries to the stream below ; - 
 Yon heavv weeds are now his onh" chance. 
 To them he makes, but let him not advance ; 
 The warv troller turns his desp'rate head. 
 And winds him in \\here open waters spread : 
 A second time the lusty fish appears. 
 Again he plunges with increasing fears. 
 Again lie 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 sei/ed-what joy would fill them all 
 Could thev be conscious of the tyrants tiirall, 
 I'.ut cvTv effort calls his strength awa\-. 
 And ev rv moment sees an easier prey ; 
 liorne to the top, his jaws distain d with blood, 
 Still floundc-nng .m he beats the foamy flood 
 I ike some bold warrior, tho' his doom be cast 
 •Mid wounds and death he struggles to the last. 
 W \\■^■Tli:^ Piscalorv fcrses; T/ic Spor/sm.o,, D.cen.ljer .836.
 
 !56 THE POETRY OE SPORT 
 
 The Fisher's Call 
 
 The moor-cock is crowing o'er mountain and fell, 
 
 And the sun drinks the dew from the blue lieather-bell ; 
 
 Her song of the morning the lark sings on high, 
 
 And hark, 'tis the milk-maid a-carolling by. 
 Then up, fishers, up ! to the waters away I 
 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 I 
 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 a\\ay 1 
 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 ! 
 
 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 fl\- ; 
 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, Fisha' s 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 murm'ring 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.
 
 FISHTXG 257 
 
 'Tis sweet to see the matchless charms 
 
 That gem around the scene— 
 The warbHngs 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 fill'ds the well-form'd creel, 
 And thoughts of home upon the heart 
 
 With gladdening ray will steal ; 
 'Tis pleasant to the anglers 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 1 
 
 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 cjuaff a cup to those— 
 
 The Dead - the (]one-away— 
 With whom we've spent, in manhood's prune, 
 
 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, 
 .•\s by the silent streams they take 
 
 Their joy-inspiring stand ! 
 
 William Gill Tiiomi'SON, lus/urs Gtirl.ind, 1838.
 
 258 THE POETRY OF SPORT 
 
 Auld and Young 
 
 Tune : ' Fie ! gar rub her owre \vi' strae ! ' 
 
 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 hltin' hie. 
 Hear them ye may, ye canna see ! 
 
 The devv-drap sparkles on the thorn ; 
 And nature says to ear and e'e, 
 
 ' This is ' — my boy, — ' a simmer's morn.' 
 
 Round S hill Jiope- Law ^ young Coquet's stream- 
 
 A half-grown syke - — is wimplin' ^ wild : 
 She bids ' guid morn' to Barra Burn, 
 
 Like child forgath'rin' in wi' child. 
 'Mang RowJiope 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 Harbottle's 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 Plepple^s ruin'd peel ; 
 And wha begins aboon the whins. 
 
 At Flottc7'ton may load his creel. 
 
 I canna climb the brent hill-side, 
 
 Where stripling Coquet first is seen ; 
 Where 'neath the Bell-rigs' 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 Linn-shtels. 
 
 Still we can toddle, fit by fit, 
 
 To Briukbu7'n 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.
 
 FISHING 259 
 
 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 ! 
 
 Where'er they loup we'll tak our stand ; 
 An thou shall say, Lad, mony a day, 
 
 ' It's weel to ken — the Maisters Hand.' 
 
 Thomas Doubleday, Fisher's Garland, 1842. 
 
 The Morning Airly 
 
 Tu7ie : ' Corn 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 Mornin' airly 1 
 Up through the glens, amang the staens, 
 
 The burns 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 afif an' fine,' 
 
 And tak' the mornin' 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 mornin' airly 1 
 Yet, through the trees, there's still a breeze ; 
 
 The pool the gale is curling ; 
 Beneath the beam, the giitterin' stream 
 
 Is owre the pebbles purling ; 
 We're no' the sort to lose our sport, 
 
 Because the stream rins clearly ; 
 But thraw the line 'far aff an' fine,' 
 
 An' tak' the mornin' airly I 
 1 jump in. ■' swim.
 
 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 them 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 afl" an fine,' 
 
 All in the mornin' airly ! 
 
 Thomas Doubleday, Fisher's 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 morn 
 
 To bring such fishes back ! 
 
 Charles Kingsley, 1856. 
 
 AN ANGLER'S RAMBLES AND ANGLING SONGS 
 BY THOMAS TOD STODDART 
 
 Sonnet 
 
 ' Anglers ! ye are a heartless, bloody race ; ' 
 'Tis thus the half-soul'd sentimentalist 
 Presumes to apostrophize us to the face. 
 Weak, paltry, miserable antagonist I 
 To deem by this compassionate grimace
 
 FISHING 261 
 
 He doth sweet service to humanity ; 
 
 And yet, when of his fello^\•'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 \ 
 
 It is too much '. Anglers, your cruelty ^ 
 
 Is tenderer than this man's philanthropy . 
 
 The Taking of the Salmon 
 I 
 
 A birr ! a whirr ! a salmon's on, 
 
 A goodly fish, a thumper \ 
 Bring up, bring up the ready gaff, 
 And when we land him we shall quatt 
 
 Another glorious bumper \ 
 Hark '. 'tis the music of the reel. 
 
 The strong, the quick, the steady : 
 Tlie line darts from the circling wheel. 
 
 Have all things right and ready. 
 
 II 
 
 A birr '. a whirr 1 the salmon's out 
 
 Far on the rushing river, 
 He storms the stream with edge of might. 
 And like a braridish'd sword of light, 
 Rolls flashing o'er the surges white, 
 
 A desperate endeavour '. 
 Hark to the music of the reel '. 
 
 The fitful and the grating ; 
 It pants along the breathless wheel. 
 
 Now hurried, now abating. 
 
 A birr : a whirr '. the salmon's oft '. 
 
 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 : 
 
 'Tis hush'd, it hath forsaken ; 
 With care we'll guard the sluml>ering wheel 
 
 Until its notes rewaken.
 
 262 
 
 THE POETRY OF SPORT 
 
 IV 
 
 A birr I a whirr ! the salmon's up ! 
 
 Give Hne, give Hne 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 1 
 
 '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.
 
 FISHING 263 
 
 VI 
 
 No birr I no whirr I the sahnon's ours : 
 
 The noble fish, the thumper I 
 Strike through his gill the ready gaff, 
 And bending homewards we shall quaff 
 
 The overflowing bumper I 
 Hark to the music of the reel I 
 
 We listen with devotion ; 
 There's something in that cn-cling wheel 
 
 That stirs the heart's emotion ! 
 
 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. 
 
 HI 
 
 Throbs aloud the eager heart, 
 
 .\nd the hand in tremor moves, 
 When some monster, all alert. 
 
 Round the tempting tackle roves ; 
 Holdly daring. 
 Or bewaring, 
 While the glcamy lure he proves. 
 
 Then at length each douljt subdued, 
 'lurns the lake-shark on his prey ; 
 Quickly gulp'd the fatal food, 
 Sudclenly he sheers away, 
 -Ml enshackled. 
 Firmly tackled, 
 Out into the deep'ning bay.
 
 THE POETRY OF SPORT 
 
 But with steady caution school'd, 
 Soon his boasted vigour fails ; 
 By the angler's sceptre ruled, 
 MainVd the sullen pirate sails ; 
 Shoreward wending, 
 Uncontending, 
 Him the joyous captor hails. 
 
 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 ta'en 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 ! 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 
 We'll forth and seek 
 
 And lay our lines together.
 
 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 
 
 We'll carry 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. 
 
 .■\nd, when sport-worn, 
 
 We'll seek some thorn. 
 With shadow cool and ample ; 
 
 The natural ground. 
 
 Moss- laid around. 
 An angler's resting temple '. 
 
 My Fisher Lad 
 
 I lo'e my ain wee fisher-boy, ,,11 
 
 He's bold and bonnie- bonnie an bold 
 
 An' aye there is a glint o' joy 
 
 A' nestlin' 'mang his locks o' gold.
 
 266 THE POETRY OE SPORT 
 
 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. 
 
 His creel is o' the rashes green, 
 1 waled them wi' a carefu' han'. 
 
 An' pletted them, ae simmer e'en. 
 
 An' croon'd them wi' a luve-knot gran'. 
 
 I lo'e, I lo'e my fisher lad. 
 
 He's aye sae blate,'- and aye sae cheery 
 I lo'e the SLighing 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 
 
 1 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 ! 
 
 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 tak 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 ? 
 
 1 blaze. - gentle. ^ brow.
 
 FISHING -^7 
 
 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. 
 
 V 
 
 No to the fore '. 1 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 '. 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 . 
 
 VIII 
 It gangs a wee agen the grain 
 
 To thole sae mony troubles ! 
 And yet, gudewife, to ilka ane 
 
 There's graith amang the stubbles. 
 
 IX 
 
 It's neither dole nor deep lament 
 
 Will mend a bodic's grievance ; 
 Sae e'en we'll baud ourselves content 
 
 Wi" thac wee bits o' leavins ; 
 
 X 
 
 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 \ 
 hare's car. '^ water can. ■' lengths of gut.
 
 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. 
 
 II 
 
 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 1 take heed 1 his eye is bright 
 
 As falcon's in the sky ; 
 But artful feather hove aright, 
 
 Will hood a keener eve. 
 
 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 man>' a gallant fin I trow 
 Under the ribbed 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. 
 
 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. 
 
 Oh I then the heart bounds pleasantly, 
 And its thoughts are pleasant things. 
 
 Gushing in joyous purity, 
 Like mirthful water-springs.
 
 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 vSeasons 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 gathei-'d in the dew ; 
 Should they wither before night, 
 
 Flowers and blossoms bring anew. 
 
 II 
 Sorrow, sorrow, speed away 
 
 To our anglci-'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 I 
 
 Watcher of the April morn I 
 
 III 
 Sorrow at the poor man's hearth I 
 
 Sorrow in the hall of pride I 
 Honour waits at the grave of worth. 
 
 And high and low stand side by side, 
 ilrother angler ! slumber on. 
 
 Haply thou slialt wave the wand, 
 When the tide of Time is gone, 
 
 In some far and happier land. 
 
 Thomas Ton .Stodo.\kt, Am^hrs A'.nn/i/cs, 1866.
 
 SHOOTING 
 
 The Death of Robert, Eaiie 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 hes deade, 
 Therefore sigh as you sing. 
 Here Hes 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 \\ ill l)e in waite for our Game, 
 With our bent Bowes all in our hand,
 
 SHOOTING 
 
 271 
 
 What life is there Hke to Robin Hood, 
 
 It is so pleasant a thing a : 
 In merry S/iiriuoodhe spends his dayes, 
 
 As pleasantly as a King a. 
 
 No man may compare with Robin Hood, 
 With Robin Hood, Scathlockc, and John 
 
 Their like was never, nor never will be, 
 If in case that they were gone. 
 
 
 
 
 
 Where we will lye in waite for our Game 
 
 They will not away from merry Shirivood, 
 
 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 (ireene-wood : 
 
 Where our best service is daily spent, 
 For our master, Robin Hood. 
 
 Anthony Munuay, Metropolis Coronata, 1615.
 
 2 72 THE POETRY OF SPORT 
 
 On the Royal Company of Archers, 
 shooting for the Bowl, July 6, 1724 
 
 Oti which Day his Grace James Duke of Hamilton was chosen 
 their Captain General ; and Mr. David Drummond their 
 Presses won the Prize. 
 
 Again the Year returns the Day, 
 That's dedicate to Joy and Play, 
 
 To Bonnets, Bows, and Wifie. 
 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 ilow 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 e.xil'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.
 
 'And see the Royal Bowmen strive 
 Wha far the feather'J Arrows drive.
 
 SHOOTING 27J 
 
 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 Dav, 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 l\v;in^, 
 
 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 F'amc 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 whiteand green. 
 
 To busk the Victor's Brow. 
 The Victor crown, who with his Bow, 
 In spring of Youth and am'rous Glow, 
 
 Just fifty Years sinsync. 
 The Silver Arrow made his Prize, 
 Yet ceases not in Fame to rise, 
 And with new Keats to shine. 
 
 1 forlhwilh. - Plutk.
 
 274 
 
 THE POETRY OF SPORT 
 
 May every Archer strive to fill, 
 His Bonnet, and observe, 
 
 The Pattern he has set with skill, 
 And Praise like him deserve. 
 
 Ai i.AN Ramsay, Poems, \'j'2'6. 
 
 Away to the Stubbles, away 
 
 Hurrah ! once again for September I 
 
 Get ready the dogs and the gun 1 
 And be sure you don't fail to remember 
 
 The whiskey-fiask marked No i. 
 And boy, above all, don't be sleeping 
 
 When rises the bright star of day, 
 For soon as gray morning is peeping 
 
 We'll haste to the stubbles, away I 
 
 Away to the stubbles, awav ! 
 
 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 !
 
 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 awav. 
 
 275 
 
 Elegy 
 
 Written on the first of September, 1 763 
 
 When the still night withdrew her sable shroud, 
 And left these climes with step sedate and slow ; 
 While 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 I too well thy lowering mien 
 Foretells the slaughter of the approaching day ; 
 The gloomy sky laments with tears the scene 
 Where crimson slaughter reassumcs her sway. 
 
 ' Ah luckless train I Ah fate devoted race ! 
 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 featheHd 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.
 
 :76 
 
 THE POETRY OE SPORT 
 
 She said, when lo I the pointer winds his ]3re\\ 
 The rusthny stubble gives the fear'd 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 scatter'd offspring swim before her sight. 
 And, bathed in blood, she flutters, pants, and dies. 
 
 HEiNRV Jame.S Pye, Farriiigdoii 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 1 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 ! 
 
 (io 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.
 
 SHOOTING 
 
 277 
 
 Seek, mangled w retch, some place of wonted rest. 
 No more of rest, but now thy dying bed ! 
 The sheltering rushes whistling o'er thy head, 
 
 The cold earth with thy bloody bosom prest. 
 
 Oft as by winding Nith I, 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. BiKNS, Poems, 1793. 
 
 An Epitaph 
 
 ['792] 
 
 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 . .
 
 >78 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 call'd, 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 Tlirockuiortoii. 
 
 W. CovvPER, 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. 
 
 Spo?-iii/g Magazine, 1793. 
 
 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 morn. 
 
 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 
 
 Frighten'd she rises, with a piercing scream.
 
 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 mark 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. 
 
 Spor////o- Magazine, 1798. 
 
 Different Kinds of Birds which 
 abound in Scotland 
 
 The lakes and mountains swarm \\ ith copious game ; 
 
 The wildgoose gray, and heathcock hairy-Iegg'd, 
 
 White soland, that on Bass and Ailsa build ; 
 
 The woodcock slender billed, and marshy snipe, 
 
 'J"he free-bred duck, that scorns the wiles of men. 
 
 Soaring beyond the thunder of the gun ; 
 
 ^'et 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 an.xious 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. LiCVDEN, Sto/tis/i Dc.urip/ivc Poeiiii, 1803. 
 
 The Bowman's Song" 
 
 (iay comjianions of the bower, 
 
 Where inshrined A])ollo reigns ; 
 Cherish long the social hour. 
 That recalls us to these jjlains ; 
 Where unbending 
 Cares, and blending 
 Honest pastime, danre, and song, 
 
 Ever the golden round extending. 
 Smoothly fly the hours along.
 
 28o THE POETRY OE SPORT 
 
 O'er the heath in mellow winding, 
 
 Hark ! 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, 
 While 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 quaffing. 
 
 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 Spai-isman's Foral Cabinet, 1830.
 
 SHOOTING 
 
 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 ; 
 
 Pick the fat, let the lean rascals go. 
 Under favor 'tis meet that we tall men should eat,— 
 
 Nock a shaft and strike down that proud doe I 
 
 Well deli\ ered, 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 !— 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 1 
 
 Then forward, my Hearts : 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 I 
 
 WlI.I.IA.M MOTHliKWELL, Pufticul Worki, 1847. 
 
 Away! to the Woodlands Away 
 
 Tunc : ' .-\way to the Stubbles ! ' 
 
 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.
 
 282 THE POETRY OF 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 1 to the woodlands away 1 ' 
 By the old-holly-bush, where, up-gushing. 
 
 The burn 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 sorrows 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 ! ' 
 
 Henrv Brandreth, The Sportsman, 1833. 
 
 The First of September 
 
 Loiterer, rise 1 the morn hath kept 
 
 For thee her orient pearls unwept : 
 
 Haste, and take them, while the light 
 
 Hangs on the dew-locks of the night. 
 
 See 1 Aurora throws her fair 
 
 Fresh tinted colours through the air : 
 
 Come forth ! come forth ! 'tis very sin 
 
 And profanation to keep in 1 
 
 There's joy and gladness in the skies, 
 
 Loiterer, from thy couch arise 1 
 
 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 bovv'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 1
 
 SHOOTING 2S3 
 
 Haste ere the sun hath drunk the dews 
 Uoon Nature to her banquet woos : 
 Around the smihng 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. 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 . 
 
 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 ; 
 
 I'eace in our Highland vales, 
 
 Health on our mountain gales 
 Who would not hie to the Moorlands away : 
 
 Far from the haunts of man 
 
 Mark the grey Ptarmigan, 
 Seek the lone Moorcock, the pride of our dells. 
 
 Birds of the wilderness '. 
 
 Mere is their resting place, 
 Mid the brown heath where the mounlain-roe dwells. 
 
 Come then ! 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 I 
 
 1. W. C, Sporting Magazinr. 1834.
 
 284 THE POETRY OF SPORT 
 
 Hawkstone Bow-Meeting 
 
 ' C'eleri certare sagitta 
 In vital (|ui forte velint, et prasmia ponit.' 
 
 Ain. lib. V. 
 
 I 
 
 Farew ell to the Dane and the Weaver I 
 
 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 corner, 
 
 My bridle and saddle below, 
 I call on the Muse and adorn her 
 
 With baldrick, and quiver, and bow. 
 
 Bright Goddess I 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. 
 
 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 comprest. 
 
 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 ; 
 Y or 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.
 
 'Another a love laic bclrayin« 
 Is aim'J with a blush at llie red."
 
 SHOOTING 28: 
 
 Pride pointing profanely at heaven, 
 
 Humility sweeping the ground, 
 The arrow of gluttony driven 
 
 Where ven'son and sherry abound I 
 At white see the maiden unmated 
 
 The arrow of innocence draw, 
 While the shaft of the matron is fated 
 
 To fasten its pomt in the straw. 
 
 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 ; 
 We've an Eyton could prove to the Switzer, 
 
 Such a feat were again to be done. 
 Should our host and his lady think fit, Sir, 
 
 To lend us the head of their son ! 
 
 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. E(;kkton Wauiukton, 1835. 
 
 The Highland Moors 
 
 The Highland Moors 1 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 1 
 
 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 (irouse 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 :
 
 286 
 
 THE POETRY OF SPORT 
 
 The voice of the City the tumult of men — 
 
 Lost to the car, and far from the ken ! 
 
 The spaniels around have made their bed 
 
 On the frayrant lieath, 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 Moorcock 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 ! the purple Moors 
 The Morn 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 liegun — 
 See, o'er the heath the spaniels range 
 With speed of light : anon they change
 
 SHOOTING 287 
 
 The track, but still ' up wind ' they go, 
 Thev 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 1 
 And ere the noon, with burning ray, 
 Shall warn us to a brief delay, 
 Full manv 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 Summers 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 .\ir '.' 
 
 Hut, hark, what sounds from the thicket rise ! 
 
 What meaneth that rustling sjjray ? 
 ^'Tis the white-horn'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 \ ' he gaily sings. 
 
 While Echo sighs forth ' Hilliho '. '
 
 288 
 
 THE POETRY OE SPORT 
 
 Alas, 'twas not the white-horn'd doe 
 
 He saw in the rustHng grove, 
 I]ut 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 murmui-'d, ' I die, I die !' 
 
 Poetical IVin'ks of Thomas Moore, 1840.
 
 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. 
 
 Loiig-l' lelcl, Long-Slop, I'.owl or I'.at, 
 
 All different posts engage ; 
 Hall struck not caught a notf h for that, 
 
 O cricketing's all the rage !
 
 JQO 
 
 THE POETRY OE 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 ! 
 
 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 ! 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 ! 
 
 Ballad. 
 
 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.
 
 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. 
 
 Derrj' down, &c. 
 
 No stings of remorse hurt the cricketer's mind, 
 To innocent aninials 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 alive 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 every 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 tx-'tween 
 this game and others, particularly Billiards, Bowls, and Tennis. Exhorta- 
 tion to Britain to leave all meaner Sjiorts, and cultivate Cricket only, as 
 most adapted to the Freedom and Hardiness of its Constitution. The 
 Counties most famous for Cricket are describ'd, as vying with one another 
 for E.xcellency. 
 
 While others soaring on a lofty Wing, 
 Of dire Bcllonds cruel Triumphs sing ; 
 Sound the shrill Clarion, mount the rapid Car, 
 .\nd rush delighted thro' the Ranks of War ; 
 My lender Muse, in humbler, milder .Strains, 
 Presents a bloodless Conquest (mi the Plains ; 
 Where vig'rous Youth, in Life's fresh IJloom resort, 
 Kor pleasing fixercise and healthful .Sport. 
 Where Emulation fires, where (Jlory draws, 
 And active Sportsmen struggle for Applause ; 
 Expert to Jioivl, to Nun., to S/(>/>, to Tlirow, 
 Each Nerve collected at each mighty Hlow.
 
 292 THE POETRY OF SPORT 
 
 Hail Cricket 1 glorious, manly, British game ! 
 First of all Sports I be first alike in Fame I 
 To my fir'd Soul thy busy Transports bring, 
 That I may feel thy Raptures, while I sing ! 
 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 seagirt Isle ; 
 When new-born Nature deck'd in vivid Green, 
 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 BaWs 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 I 
 What matchless Trophies to thy Worth belong ! 
 Look round the Globe, inclin'd to Mirth, and see 
 What daring Sport can claim the Prize from thee ! 
 
 Not puny Bi/liivds, 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 Strikei^s Hand : 
 Where nothing can your languid Spirits move, 
 Save when the Marker bellows out. Six Love ! 
 Or when the Ball, close cushioned, slides askew. 
 And to the op'ning Pocket 7'uns, 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 Rub ; O Plee, you Ling'rer, 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.
 
 CRICKET 293 
 
 O Parent Britain I Minion of Renown I 
 Whose far-extended Fame all Nations own ; 
 Of Sloth-promoting Sports, forewarned beware I 
 Nor think thy Pleasures are thy meanest Care ; 
 Shun with Disdain the squeaking .Masquerade, 
 Where fainting \'ice calls Folly to her Aid. 
 Leave the dissolving Song, the baby Dance, 
 To soothe the Slaves of Italy and France : 
 While the firm Limb, and strong brac'd Xerve are thine. 
 Scorn Eunuch Sports ; to 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, 
 .•\nd taught thy Sons to slight ing^lorious Ease : 
 And see where busy Counties strive for Fame, 
 Each greatly potent at this iiiiglity (jame ! 
 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 bard'rous Earth, 
 Seven Cities struggl'd \\hich gave Homer birth. 
 
 BOOK II 
 
 The Argument of t/u- Sccui/d Ikok. — Kent challenges all the other Counties. 
 The Match determined. A Description of the Place of Contest. The 
 particular Qualifications and Excellencies of each Player. The Counties 
 go in. 
 
 And now the sons oi Ke/it mimortal grown. 
 By a long .Series of acquire! Renown, 
 Smile at each weak Attempt to shake their Fame ; 
 And thus with vaunting Pride, their Might proclaim. 
 Long have we bore the l^alm, triumphant still, 
 No County fit to match our wond'rous .Skill : 
 Hut that all tamely may confess our Sway, 
 And own us Masters of the glorious L>ay ; 
 Pick the best .Sportsmen from each sev'ral S/t/re, 
 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 oi Kent. 
 The boastful Challenge sounded far and near ; 
 And spreading, reacli'd at length Great N 's E.ir:
 
 294 THE POETRY OF SPORT 
 
 Where, with his Friend, all negligent he laugh'd, 
 And threatened future (jlories, 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 I 
 
 What then is N 'j- 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 Alctnena's sinew'd Son, I swear, 
 
 Whose dreadful Blow no mortal Strength can bear I 
 
 B)' Hermes^ Offspring too of thund'ring_/fz'^ ! 
 
 Whose winged Feet like nimble Lightning move ! 
 
 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 liall 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 -ii ! 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 listen'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 levell'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 Biiff-coat fires, and shuts his Eyes, 
 To the pleas'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 th plies, with strenuous Arm, the smacking Whip, 
 
 Back to the Line th' affrighted Rebels skip. 
 
 The Stumps are pitch"d. Each Heroe now is seen, 
 Springs o'er the Fence, and bounds along the Green
 
 CRICKET 
 
 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 ! 
 
 Bold R y first, before the Kentish Band 
 
 God-like appear'd, and seizd the chief Command. 
 
 Judicious Swain I whose quick-discerning Soul 
 
 Observes the various Seasons as they roll. 
 
 Well-skill'd to spread the thriving Plant around ; 
 
 And paint with fragrant 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 Play'r. 
 
 He, at Mid-ii'ickct, disappoints the Foe ; 
 
 Spruigs at the coming Ball and mocks the Blow. 
 
 E\'n thus the Rattle-Snake, as Trav'lers say, 
 
 With stedfast Eye observes it's destin'd Prey ; 
 
 Till fondly gazing on the glitt'ring Balls, 
 
 Into her >Iouth th' unhappy \'ictim 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. 
 
 BroinleaiJ M .f attends the Kentish Throng ; 
 
 And R n from liis Size, surnam'd the Long. 
 
 Six more, as ancient Custom has thought meet, 
 With willing Steps, th' intrepid IJand compleat. 
 On th' adverse Party, tow'ring o'er the rest. 
 
 Left-handed N c/ fires each arduous Breast. 
 
 From many a bounteous Crop, the foodful Grain 
 With swelling .Stores rewards his useful l^ain : 
 While the glad I-'arnier, with delighted Eyes, 
 Smiles to behold his close-cram'd Oan'rics rise. 
 
 Next li 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 few, save him, th' exalted Honour claim 
 To play with Judgment, all the various Game. 
 
 Next, his accomplislvd Vigour, C y tries ; 
 
 Whose sheit'ring Hand the neat-form'd (iarlj supplies. 
 
 To the dread Plain her 1) e Surry sends, 
 
 And W — - k on the jovial Train attends. 
 Equal in Numbers, bravely tliey begin 
 The dire Dispute. — 7'he l-'oes o/ Kent go in. 
 
 295
 
 296 THE POETRY OF SPORT 
 
 BOOK. Ill 
 
 The Argument of the Third Book. — The Game. Five on the Side of the 
 Counties are out for three Notclies. The Odds run high on the Side of 
 Kent. Bryan and Newland go in ; they help the Game greatly. 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 Green, 
 Th' ambitious Chiefs of fruitful Ke7rt 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 JVickcts stand, 
 
 And each by Turns, the flying Ball command : 
 
 Four times from // 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 ! 
 
 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, 
 
 Sprmgs from the Cannon to the batter'd Wall ; 
 
 Nor swifter yet the pointed Arrows go. 
 
 Launched 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 tlf unecjual Fray, 
 While Kent usurps the Honours of the Day ; 
 Loud from the Ring resounds the piercing Shout, 
 Three Notches only gain'd, five Eeaders out. 
 
 But while the drooping Plafr invokes the Gods, 
 The busy Better calculates his Odds, 
 Swift round the Plain, in buzzing Murmurs run, 
 J'll hold you Ten to Four, Kent. — Done Sir. — Done. 
 
 What Numbers can with equal Force, describe 
 Th' increasing Terrors of tne losing Tribe ! 
 When, vainly striving" 'gainst the conq'ring Ball, 
 They see their boasted Chiefs, dejected fall 1 
 Now the two mightiest of the fainting Host 
 Pant to redeem the Fame their Fellows lost. 
 Eager for Glory ; — For the worst prepared ; 
 With pow'rful Skill, their ihreat'ned Wickets guard. 
 
 B ;z, collected for the deadly Stroke, 
 
 First cast to Hcav''n a supplicating Look ;
 
 CRICKET 297 
 
 Then pray'd. —Propitious Pow'rs ! Assist my Blow, 
 And grant tJic flying Orb may shock the Foe ! 
 This said ; he wav'd his Bat with forceful Swing, 
 And drove the batter'd Pellet o'er the Ring. 
 Then rap\dflt'e times cross'd the shining Plain, 
 E'er the departed Ball return'd again. 
 
 Nor was thy Prowess valiant iV d, 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 -// .' oh beware I 
 
 Too heedless Swain, when such a Foe is near. 
 Fir'd with Success, elated with his Luck, 
 He glow'd with l-iage, regardless how he struck ; 
 But, forc'd the fatal Negligence to mourn, 
 
 K s crush'd his Stumps, before the Youth could turn. 
 
 The rest their unavailing Vigour try, 
 And by the Pow'r oi Kent, demolish'd die. 
 Awakened Kccho speaks the Innings o'er, 
 And forty Xotchcs deep indent the Score. 
 
 Now Ke7it 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 ?"amc, the conq'ring Host give Way ; 
 And head by thirteen .Strokes, the toilsome Fray. 
 
 Fresh rous'd to Arms, each Labour-lo\ing .Swain 
 Swells with new Strength, and dares the Field again 
 Again to Heav'n aspires the Chearful Sound ; 
 The Strokes rc-eccho o'er the spacious tiround. 
 The Champion strikes. When, scarce arriving fair. 
 The glancing Ball mounts upwards in the .'Xir? 
 The Batsman sees it, and with mournful Eyes, 
 P'ix'd on th' ascending Pellet as it flies. 
 Thus suppliant Claims the Favour of the Skies. 
 O mighty yfT/<7 .' and all ye I'ow'rs above I 
 Let my regarded i'ray'r your pity move I 
 (irant me but this. Whatever Youth shall dare 
 .Snatch at the Prize, descending thro' the ,\ir; 
 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 .S' e, where he stood, 
 
 Th' approaching Pall witli cautious Pleasure view'd ;
 
 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 elastick 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 untry'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 oiun 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 oblicjuely driv'n, 
 Cuts the pure ^£"///^r, soaring up to Heav'n. 
 
 W k was ready : W /', all must own. 
 
 As sure a Swain to catch as e'er \\as known ; 
 
 Yet, whether /^■z/i', 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 ! 
 
 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. 
 
 James Love, An Heroic Poem, Ilhtstratcd uut/i the Critical 
 Observations of Scriblcrus Maxim us (1765 ?) 
 
 Surry Triumphant, or the Kentish- 
 Mens Defeat 
 
 God prosper long our harvest-work, 
 
 Our rakes and hay-carts all ! 
 An ill-tim'd cricket match there did 
 
 At Bishopsbourn 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.
 
 CRICKET 299 
 
 The active Earl of Tankerville 
 
 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 supi)cr-time they did 
 
 Near tourscore notches gain ; 
 Then having slept, they, in their turn, 
 
 Stopp'd, caught, and bowFd amain. 
 
 The fieldmen, station'd on tiic law n. 
 
 Well able to endure. 
 Their loins with snow-white sattin vests. 
 
 That day had guarded sure. 
 
 Full fast the Kentish wickets fell, 
 
 While Higham house and mill, 
 And Barham's upland down, wiili siiouts 
 
 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 :
 
 300 THE POETRY OF SPORT 
 
 ' If that I thought, 'twould not be di)', 
 
 No longer would I play.' 
 With that, a shrewd young gentleman 
 
 Thus to the Knight did say : 
 
 ' Lo ! 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, 
 
 ' That 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 
 
 Was noble Tankerville ; 
 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 : 
 1 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 
 With colds or sprains, these harmless men, 
 
 f^or they have done no ill. 
 
 ' The Master of the Onlinarv.
 
 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 dcny'd 1 ' 
 
 Then stept a gallant 'squire forth, 
 
 Bartholomew was his name, 
 Who said, ' I would not ha\e 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 povv'r to stand ; 
 While I have pow'r to wield my bat, 
 
 ril 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 Iwoths, 
 
 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 
 
 I'ut 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 
 
 Kan 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.'
 
 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 niiss'd my catch ! 
 
 'In sooth, my very heart doth bleed 
 With sorrow for thy sake ; 
 
 For sure, a more good-temper'd Knight 
 A match did never make.' 
 
 A 'Squire of Western Kent there was 
 Who saw his friend out-caught. 
 
 And straight did vow reveng^e 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 every 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 ;
 
 CRICKET 303 
 
 Against this well-intended ball 
 
 "His hand so rightly held, 
 That, ere the foe could ground his bat, 
 
 His ardour Lewis queird. 
 This game did last from Monda>- morn 
 
 Till Wednesday afternoon, 
 For when Bell > Harry rung to prayers. 
 
 The batting scarce was done. 
 With good Sir Horace, there was beat 
 
 Hussey of Ashford town, 
 Davis, for stops and catches fanrd, 
 
 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 agam, 
 
 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 Surrv, eight were byes ; 
 The rest were balls, which, boldly struck, 
 
 Re-echo"d to the skies \ 
 Their husbands woful case that night 
 
 Did manv 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 <;lean. 
 And to that fatal paddock bcgg'd 
 They ne'er would go agam. 
 
 ' At CanK-rlniry Catlu-dnil.
 
 304 THE POETRY OE 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 ! ' 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 Bishopsbourn, 
 
 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 ! 
 
 Ballad, 177^. 
 
 Extract from the •Kentish Gazette' 0/ Saturday, July 24, i772>- 
 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 were howled out ; C catched out. 
 
 Surry 
 Names Out by whom 
 
 Lord Tankerville . B. out by May 
 
 Mr. Bartholomew . C. out by Simmons 
 Mr. Lewis . . . B. out by the Duke 
 Mr. Stone . . . B. out by the Duke 
 
 Out by whom 2d 
 
 C. out by Mr. Davis . 3 
 B. out by Miller . . 10 
 Last Man in . . .21 
 B. out by Miller . . 24
 
 CRICKET 
 
 305 
 
 Name> Out by whom 
 
 Stevens, alias Lumpey B. out by ^liller . . . 
 John Woods . . . C. out by Sir H. Mann 
 Palmer .... C. out by Mr. Davis 
 Thomas White . . B. out by the Duke . 
 
 Yaldin Last Man in . . . 
 
 Childs B. out by xVIay . . 
 
 Francis ... II out by the Duke . 
 
 Eves 
 
 Names 
 Duke of Dorset . 
 Sir Horace .Mann 
 
 Mr. Davis 
 Mr. Hussex . 
 
 Ke.nt 
 
 Out by whom 
 B. out by VVoods 
 B. out by Woods 
 
 B. (jut by Woods 
 Last .Mail in . . . 
 
 17 
 
 77 
 
 Out by whom 
 
 B. out by ^Miller . 
 
 C. out b\' R. May 
 (". out by the Duke 
 C:. out by Mr. Hussev 60 
 B. out by the Duke 
 B. out by the Duke 
 C out by Wood . 
 
 Bves . 
 
 217 
 
 Out by whom 
 
 B. out by W'oods . . 
 
 C. out by L. Tanker- 
 ville 
 
 C. out by Mr. Lewis 
 B. out by Woods . . 
 
 Miller ( '. out by Valdiu 
 
 Simmons . . . . B. out by Lumpey 
 R. May 
 
 Thomas May 
 Louch . . 
 Pattenden 
 Wood of Se;ile 
 
 b. out by Woods 
 
 B. out by Lumpey . 
 
 C. out by .Mr. Stone 
 C. oat by Mr. Lewis 
 C out l)y Woods . 
 
 Bves . 
 
 13 
 
 Rim out .... 
 C. out by Yaldin . 
 Last Man in . 
 C. out by Childs . 
 B. out b)' Lumpey 
 
 B. out by Lumpey 
 
 C. out by Mr. Bartho 
 lomew 
 
 Byes 
 
 63 
 
 26 
 
 78 
 
 
 i 
 
 ^:A 
 
 1; '•sA' v^^/ *
 
 VARIOUS 
 
 Hawking for the Partridge 
 
 Sith Sickles and the sheering Sythe, hath shorne the Feilds of late, 
 Now shall our Hawkes and we be blythe, Dame Partridge ware your 
 pate : 
 
 -rt,e Ic^iclulL Pitt.' Ji,e te.,1^ -,.-...« Bs <^u^ -. I U.r K cr l. ..•.>.. J i..oo.ii ..^^ 
 
 Our murdring Kites, 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 Love, whur ret, hey 
 
 dogs hey.
 
 VARIOUS 
 
 307 
 
 Ware haunt, he)' Scinpstir, ret Fa^'cr, ret Minx, ret Dido, ret 
 Civilly ret Leiiiinon, ret whur whur, let flie let flie. 
 
 O well flowne well flowne eager Kite, markc\ inarkc, O markc 
 belowe the Le\-, 
 
 This was a fayre, most fayre and kingly flight, 
 
 We Falkncrs thus make sullen Kites yeeld pleasure tit for Kings, 
 
 And sport with them and in those delights, and oft, and oft in other 
 things, and oft in other things. 
 
 Thomas Ra\ enscroft, A Brief Discourse of Degrcs, 1614. 
 
 Country Pastimes 
 
 There were three Ravens sat on a tree, 
 Downe a downe, hay dow n, 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 dow ne derrie, derrie, derrie, downe, downe. 
 
 The one of them said to his mate, 
 down adownc hey downe. 
 
 The one of them said to his mate, 
 with adowne : 
 
 The one of them said to his mate 
 
 Where shall we our breakfast take ? 
 with adowne dcry downe. 
 
 I^ownc in yonder greene field, 
 
 downe adowne hey downe, 
 Uowne 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 feete, 
 
 downe adowne hey downe. 
 His hounds ihey lie downe at his feetc, 
 
 with ad(iwne. 
 His hounds they lie downe at his feetc 
 So well they can their Master keepe, 
 
 with adowne
 
 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. 
 
 Uowne there comes a fallow Doc, 
 
 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. 
 
 VII 
 
 She lift up his bloudy hed, 
 
 dow ne 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. 
 
 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 adow ne. 
 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.
 
 VARIOUS 309 
 
 X 
 
 God send every gentleman 
 
 down adowne. 
 God send every gentleman 
 
 with adowne. 
 ( k)d send every gentleman 
 Such haukcs, such hounds, and such a Lcman 
 
 with adowne. 
 
 Thomas Ravenscroft, MiUsimita, 1611. 
 
 Hide Parke 
 
 A Couicdic^ as it was presented by her Majesties Serxants, 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 frog-gcs, 
 Nor of the well mouth'd hunting dogges. 
 
 Let me be just all praises must, 
 
 lie given to well breath'd lilian Thrust. 
 
 Young ConstalDle and kill deeres famous, 
 The Cat the Mouse and Noddy Cray, 
 With nimble I'egabrig you cannot shame us, 
 With .Spaniard nor with .SpinoJa. 
 
 Jlill climing white-rose, praise doth not lacke, 
 Hansome L)unl)ar, and yellow Jack. 
 Ikit if 1 be just all praises must, 
 lie given to well breath'd lilian Thrust. 
 
 Sure spurr'd Sloven, true running Robin, 
 Of young shaver I doe not say lessc, 
 Strawbery .Soaine, and let Spider pop in, 
 Fine I'rackly and brave lurching IJcsse. 
 
 Victorious too, was herring shotten, 
 
 And .... is not forgotten. 
 ]5ut if I be just all honour must 
 \W given to well breathe! lilian Thrust.
 
 THE POETRY OF SPORT 
 
 IV 
 
 Lusty (iorge and yentlemen, harkc yet, 
 To wining Mackarell fine mouth'd Freake, 
 Bay Tarrall what won the cup at Newmarket, 
 Thundring tempest, black dragon eake. 
 
 Pretious sweeteHppes, 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. 
 
 JAMKS SHIRI.KY, 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 tlwowes, 
 
 How he siuaggers^ how he croivcs. 
 
 As if the Day newly brake. 
 
 How his Mistris cackles, 
 
 Thus to find him in shackles, 
 
 And tyed to a Packc-thfead Garter ? 
 
 Oh the Bcares and the Bulls, 
 
 Are but Corpulent Gulls 
 
 To the \'aliant Shrove-Tide Martyr: 
 
 M. Llewellyn, Men MU-acks, i6.|.6. 
 
 The Orders in Verse, as I found them 
 fram'd for a very ancient Billiard Table 
 
 1. The Leading-ball the upper end ma)n'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.
 
 VARIOUS 31 
 
 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 )ou 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 beings set, who moves the same 
 With hand or stick shall lose that end or Game. 
 
 12. 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 lAMOLS (.RENIIOUNI) 1\ VWV. SHIRK OF FIFE 
 
 Alas, alas, quo' bonny Heck, 
 On former Days when 1 reflect ! 
 I was a Dog much in Respect 
 
 For doughty Deed : 
 Ikit now I must hing by the Neck 
 
 Without Remeed. 
 
 O fy, Sirs, for black burning Shame, 
 Ye'll luring a J»lundcr on your Name 1 
 Pray tell me wherein I'm to blame? 
 
 Is't in PLffect, 
 iJccause I'm Criple, Auld and Lame, 
 
 Quo' bonny Ileck.
 
 312 THE POETRY OF SPORT 
 
 What great Feats I have clone my Scl 
 Within CHnk of Kilrcuiiy Bell, 
 When I was Souple. Young and Fell ' 
 
 But Fear or Dread : 
 John Ness and Pateison can tell, 
 
 Whose Hearts may bleid. 
 
 They'll witness that I was the Vi 
 Of all the Dogs within the Shire, 
 I'd 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 Kittg^s-Muir, and KclIy-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 slay 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 1 be well Cauld ? 
 
 a cruel Deed ! 
 
 1 clever. - nimble. ^ tail. ' sagacious. . ^ fierce crafty head. 
 
 •-' fearless. ' cause of quarrel.
 
 VARIOUS 313 
 
 Now Honesty was ay my Drift, 
 An innocent and harmless Shift, 
 A Kaill-pot-hd g^ently to hft, 
 
 or Amry-Sneck.* 
 Shame fa the Chafts, dare call that Thift, 
 
 quo' bonny Heck. 
 
 So well's I cou'd play Hocus Pocus, 
 And of the Servants nxAck Jodoctts, 
 And this I did in every Locus 
 
 throw their Neglect. 
 And was not this a 'Slurry Jocus 
 
 cjuo' bonn\- Heck ? 
 
 Ikit tiow, j^ood 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 I'm unto my £xit making : 
 Sirs, ye may a' gae to the Hawking, 
 
 and there Reflect, 
 ^'c'l ne'er get sick a Dog for Makin 
 
 as bonny Heck. 
 
 lUit if my Puppies ancc were ready, 
 
 Which I gat on a bonny Lady : 
 
 The>'i be baith Cliver, Keen, and Beddy,'- 
 
 and ne'er Neglect, 
 r<j Clink it ^ like their ancient Deddy 
 
 the famous Heck. 
 
 WlI.MAM ilAMII/roN. 
 
 A Choice Culler I iiin of Comic and Sicriatn Scots Poems both Ancient and 
 Modern. By several Hands. 1706. 
 
 The King" and the lM)rrester 
 
 You subjects of England, com*- listen a while ; 
 Here is a new ditty will make you to smil( , 
 It is of a king and a keeper also, 
 Who met in a forest some winters ago. 
 
 iii|)l)<);ird-l.itth. -' atti-ntive. ' follow up.
 
 ;i4 THE POETRY OF SPORT 
 
 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 prepar'd 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 Mar)-, our most royal queen, 
 ' My gracious lord, pray ^here 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 atford.' 
 
 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 I 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'ythee 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.'
 
 VARIOUS 31 
 
 ' 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 appeard 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 I my poor heart in my breast is cold ; 
 
 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 ever)- one was as faithful as thee. 
 
 What a blessed prince would King William be I 
 
 ' 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 fea:, 
 I'll make thee my ranger of parks far and near.' 
 
 A'.'xbini'/i,: /1„1/.u/k 
 
 -Note. I lierc was .111 oUlfr version of this song calk-il ' The Loyal rorristcr, 
 published in 1696, but we have not been able to find a copy of it.
 
 3i6 THE POETRY OF SPORT 
 
 Song A-la-mode 
 
 O'er the Desert, cross the Meadows, 
 
 Hunters blew the merry Horn ; 
 Phoebus chas'd the flying Shadows : 
 P2ccho, she reply'd, in Scorn ; 
 Still adoring. 
 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 iMountains, 
 Fishes bit the naked Hooks ; 
 Still admiring. 
 And desiring : 
 When shall Phillis be a Wife. 
 
 ('has. Sedi.ev, Works, 1707. 
 
 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, 
 v",o 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 telfyou what the)- call'd her dam, and what her noble sire. 
 With all the cups that she has won and purses fiU'd with gold. 
 Since in the racing calendar Beeswing has been enroll'd. 
 
 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, 
 l)Ut 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 J5eeswing 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.
 
 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 \et \\ as 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 Neucastle-upon-Tyne I am happy for to say, 
 This year she has beat Charles XII., and took the cup away. 
 
 Now to conclude and end my song, it is the sportsman's list. 
 And when you come your gold to sport don't let Beesu ing 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, 
 
 .\nd Men to gaming fall ; 
 Love is the court, Hope is the house. 
 
 And favour ser\'es 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 shifis ; 
 
 The Stoppers, jealousy, 
 Which hath, .Sire .\rgus' hundred e\es, 
 
 Wherewith to watch and pr\ . 
 
 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 dame the ground. 
 
 The Racket strikes the Ball a\\a\, 
 
 .\nd there is oversight ; 
 A bandy, ho ! the people ( r\ , 
 
 And so the Ball takes fliglit.
 
 3i8 THE POETRY OF SPORT 
 
 Now at the length good hking proves 
 
 Content to be their gain ; 
 Thus, in the Tennis-Court, Love is 
 
 A Pleasure mixed with Pain. 
 
 Fishing and Shdo/iag \1j20]. 
 
 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 poit/iitis^, as you shall quickly hear, 
 
 O 'tis my delight, in a shinning night, in the season of the year. 
 
 As me and my avnarade 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 coiiiarade 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 m)' 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 polchcr 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 
 
 Tunc : ' The Hounds are all out, (S: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 Crickct-lxall 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.
 
 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 ne'rvous Arm that could twang the long Row, 
 
 Was accustonrd to throw the broad Quoit. 
 
 Tunc : ' 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, 
 \\Tio picturd Life was pleas'd to say, Sir, 
 
 P'or every Class, 
 
 There alw ays 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 ; 
 
 CJood, 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 tumljle. 
 
 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 ; 
 
 ' Verv sninll (pioil^.
 
 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. 
 
 Poinding 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, FoUt'ual Songster, 1790. 
 
 The Game of Fives 
 
 Tunc : ' Welcome e\ery friendh- 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 observe the Markers 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.
 
 VARIOUS 321 
 
 For an Evening's active Sport, 
 To the Aiigel we resort, 
 Where in heart-felt sportive glee, 
 Worn down \'et'rans smile to see : 
 Youthful vigour tripping round, 
 Pleasure's consecrated Ground. 
 
 Fives amongst the Sons of Fame, 
 Was the antient Britons Game, 
 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 Somrstcr. 1790. 
 
 The High-mettled Racer 
 
 See the course throng'd with gazers, the sports arc begun. 
 
 Confusion but hear, I bet you sir, done : 
 
 Ten thousand strange murmurs resound far and near. 
 
 Lords, hawkers, and jockies, assail the tird ear ; 
 
 While with neck like a rainbow erecting his crest, 
 
 Paniper'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 born for sports of the field and the course. 
 Always sure to C(jme 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. 
 
 <irown 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, 
 
 'I'ell his dame won this sweep, his sire won that race, 
 
 Anfl 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. 
 
 Y
 
 322 
 
 THE POETRY OF SPORT 
 
 Till at last having labour'd, dragy'd 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 Ballads and Songs. Found also among » 
 CollectioJi of Songs by Charles Dibdin. 
 
 Sonnet on Bathing 
 
 When late the trees were stript by winter pale, 
 
 Young Health, a dryad-maid in vesture green, 
 
 Or like the forest's silver-qui\er'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 to breath, 
 While cooling drops distill from arches dim. 
 
 Binding her dewy locks with sedgy wreath, 
 
 She sits amid the quire of Naiads trim. 
 
 Taos. Wakton, Poems, 1777. 
 
 The Skaiter's March 
 
 {Composed for tJte Skaiter'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,
 
 '1 lirouRli llie sii.-irkliii;^ sikiw 
 A skniliiig we k"-"
 
 VARIOUS 323 
 
 Our poise still we keep, 
 
 Behold how we sweep, 
 
 The face of the deep, 
 With a fal, 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, Sporti /I sr Magazine, 1802. 
 
 The Boy in Yellow 
 
 When first I strove to win the prize, 
 
 I 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 '.
 
 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 ecjual 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 the Ckace, i8ti. 
 
 Poor old Mike 
 
 I was reared in Doncaster some forty years ago, 
 But times are very different, as many of you know ; 
 I've had my share of sunshine, of course I can't complain. 
 Ikit the good old days have passed away, and they'll never come 
 again. 
 
 Poor old Mike. 
 
 For 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 si.\ years old, they first put me across 
 One of Lord Derby'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 httle Mike 1 
 
 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, 
 For 1 always acted on the square, and never 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, ' Ya hip !' crack goes the whip, rattling down the 
 
 road. 
 
 Merry little Mike.
 
 VARIOUS 325 
 
 But steam soon run us oft" the road, and rheumatizm set in, 
 'Twas then I first knew po\erty, 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 deaf'ning cry. 
 
 And quite confound all question and reply ; 
 
 Yet order still o'er madness holds her rule, 
 
 And Cockers self might learn in GuUey's school. 
 
 The storm increases, swells the pencill'd score ; 
 
 And lords and senators and bullies roar. 
 
 The statelier crew, their speculation made, 
 
 Forsake the rabble, and invest the glade ; 
 
 Where, just led out, the paragons are seen 
 
 To press, not wound, with glut'ring hoof the green. 
 
 Each arching neck's impatient of the rein. 
 
 Fire in each e\e, 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 I>unl:)ury's breed. 
 
 Whom Jersey's Earl and (irafton's Duke succeed ; 
 
 Their care, their hope, their profit, and their pride 
 
 A moment may o'erturn, and must decide. 
 
 That monient comes,— the bell 1 the saddling bell. 
 
 Sounds fortunes proudest triumph or her knell ! 
 
 How beats our heroS pulse 't or wliere his heart? — 
 
 They're oft" ! but order'd back for a false start. 
 
 They're ranged again I and now arc oft" I- 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 (ilenaitne)- miglit with ease have won. 
 
 rill- .\f(tri of Toll : a Satire. 1828.
 
 326 THE POETRY OE SPORT 
 
 The Jolly Curlers 
 
 THK laird's ditty 
 Tunc : ' O for him liack again 1 ' 
 
 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. 
 
 C]ioi'us. — O for the channel-stane, 
 
 The fell-gude game, the channel-stane I 
 There's ne'er a game that e'er I 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 tec should be the Northern IFaz'n ; 
 Another, bright Orion's ray ; 
 
 A comet for a channel-stane. 
 
 O for the, &c. 
 
 TAe Caledonian, 1821. 
 
 The following additional verse was printed in the version which appeared 
 in the Kilmarnock ' Treatise on Curling,' which appeared in 1828 : 
 
 I've played at quoiting in my day, 
 
 And maybe 1 may do't again, 
 But 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 ' Noctes .\mbrosianje ' 
 of ' Blackwood's Magazine.'
 
 VARIOUS 3^7 
 
 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 tains : no. habeas corpus ; ^ 
 For our licence \'enus grants. 
 Lef s be grateful— here's a bumper : 
 For her Ijounty— 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 irouble, 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 crj-stal goblet up : 
 Pigeons, swift as wind, abounding. 
 Detonating guns resounding. 
 See the tow'ring victims fall. 
 With Apollo science vying, 
 \'iesv the heaps of dead and dying, 
 Forc'd to pay the deljt of nature- 
 Matters it, or soon or later : 
 Fill the crystal goblet up. 
 
 The Spoilsman a lural C.iUnet, 1830. 
 
 Steeple Chases 
 
 THK ORIC.IN OF THK STKEPI.K CIIASK 
 
 The days of palmy Chivalry arc o'er : , , , , 
 
 IMumed morion, corskl, faulchion, spear, and slu( Id 
 
 Shine in the gorgeous Tournament no mort- : 
 No Herald summonses the Icaguer'd Ik Id : 
 ' The suspension.
 
 328 THE POETRY OF SPORT 
 
 The roviny 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 Lo\e exchange the soft salute — 
 
 The God of Battles smoothes his rufifled 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 ! let not your spirits cease 
 
 Their daring in these ' piping time of peace ! ' 
 
 Lo 1 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 beauty speeds the while 
 O'er the bright waters of the summer seas. 
 
 Grant l)ut the gale, and when did landsman feel 
 
 The wild, fierce rapture of the bounding keel 1 
 
 Light as the meteor glances through the gloom ; 
 
 Swift as the eagle in his stoop of pride ; 
 Away ^\•ith 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 ! 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 I ween 
 
 Small s)mpath\' will mingle with your taste, 
 
 And the dark forms that haunt the murky scene : 
 
 See ! how among that ghastly cluster glide 
 
 The swindler — robber — perjurer — homicide !
 
 VARIOUS 329 
 
 Summer, and l:)looni and fragrance, all are past, 
 And Winters 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 vain 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 ! 
 
 On, (iallants, on I there's nought your track can stay, 
 Or check, or daunt your generous coursei^'s fire. 
 
 But lo I they ]3ause : to mar such merriment, 
 
 ' Surgit (iina)i (i/iqiiid}'- The Scent 1 
 
 Such was the fate of all \\ ho 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 (ioddess 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 Magaziui', April 1836. 
 
 The Tantivy Trot 
 I 
 
 Here's to the old ones, of four-in-hand fame, 
 
 Harrison, I'cyton, 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, 
 C.ive me the speed of the Tantivy Trot.
 
 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, >!s;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 1 
 Let the steam pot, &c. 
 
 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 'em when gone, 
 
 Still to a gallop inclin'd, Sir : 
 Heads in the front with no bearing reins on ! 
 
 Tails with no cruppers behind. Sir 1 
 Let the steam pot, &c. 
 
 Here's to the dragsmen 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 ! Sir. 
 Let the steam pot, &c. 
 
 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. Egekton Warhukton, 183^.
 
 VARIOUS 
 
 331 
 
 Hawkincr 
 
 o 
 A 1,AV 
 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 lierre and gos-hawks fair, 
 Their bcwits tinkling shrill and clear. 
 How bonnily they ride I
 
 332 THE POETRY OF SPORT 
 
 Now, startled by their merry shout, 
 
 Away the fleet deer bound ; 
 The skulking fox has sped away ; m 
 
 The timid hare, the squirrel grey, '^ 
 
 Sit humbling at the sound. 
 
 But now aloft the wild fowl rise. 
 
 With outstretch'd 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 I 
 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 ! 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 Hawke, at the 
 time when the Dnke of Beaufort, then Marquis of Worcester, tooled 
 the Criterion Brighton coach. 
 
 As cjuick 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 dri\es the team, 
 
 Thorough-bred, or near it. 
 Of '■all the talents 'he's the cream — 
 
 Upset I — who can fear it?
 
 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 I'otosi'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 restram 
 
 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 w ind 1 
 
 The hunter boasts his gallant steed 
 
 That flies o'er hill and dale, 
 .But we can beat his fastest speed. 
 
 And tell a brighter talc '. 
 
 We've no blank days, no want of scent. 
 
 To check our forward course ; 
 ?>esh teams await when this is spent, 
 
 This beats his second horse .' 
 
 And, hark 1 the bugle sounds alarms 
 
 Thro' every country place. 
 The village beauties show their charms, 
 
 Displaying every grace : 
 
 Then, here's my toast and till it up, 
 
 ' Success the Road attend .' ' 
 And he that will not pledge llic cup 
 
 To talent is no friend 1 
 
 M. H., Spor/iiii,' Miigazinc, IJco'iiiber 1840.
 
 334 
 
 THE POETRY OE 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 gallant Hunter I — 
 
 Forth he fares, and mounts his steed ; 
 Over heath and hollow bounding. 
 While the merry horn resounding, 
 
 Bids the healthful pastime speed ! 
 
 II 
 When the day, in sunny brightness. 
 
 Paces on — a summer guest ! 
 And the zephyr sighs in lightness 
 
 O'er the river's quiet breast ; 
 Forth he fares — the wily Angler ! — 
 
 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 coming 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 ! 
 
 Major Caldek Campbkll, Sportsman, 
 
 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, darting eye : 
 Each tenant of the wat'ry plain 
 Becomes the skilful angler's gain. 
 When August brings its sultry hours, 
 Teeming plains, and fruits, and flowers ;
 
 VARIOi'S 335 
 
 Then lin^-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 Scptcmbtr 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, 
 Equal 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 j'olden pheasants there repair. 
 And brakes conceal the fearful hare. 
 Come, bleak Novembers gloomy hours, 
 Swift-descending, fleecy showers ; 
 For woodcocks, range the briery fens. 
 And flush them from their rushy dens. 
 
 Hark '. the merrN" hounds and horn, 
 
 Welcome Deccmbei's short-lived morn ; 
 
 Reynard leaves his fav'rite cave, 
 
 And flies afar, his life to save : 
 
 (Jr the swift and doubling hare 
 
 Demands the sportsman's early care. 
 
 Ere wintrv storms forbid the sport. 
 
 At dawn of morn the season court : 
 
 Gently guide the courser's flight. 
 
 With echoing cry, till fall of night. 
 
 Snow and frost, a i:)o\\"rful train. 
 
 Too soon shall cover all the plain ; 
 
 Tread then, the winding nv'let s shore, 
 
 Where the whirling cataracts roar ; 
 
 'Iwill'ring snijjcs, and wild-ducks too, 
 
 Shall there become a prey to you. 
 
 Such, surely, is the sportsman's joy,— 
 C.av sports, which wintry hours employ. 
 ChJingcd to thaw, the rapid hare 
 And well-l^red greyhound daims thy caie . 
 Then seek the healthful uokls in haste, 
 The freshness of the air to taste : 
 Far removed from noise and strife, 
 'I'here view tlie joys of rural life. 
 Crant me, ye gods, contented hours. 
 Sue h valued sports and sylvan bowers. 
 
 Hon. Maktin Hawkk, Sporlin^ h\-vi,ii; 1840.
 
 336 THE POETRY OF SPORT 
 
 Song of the Old English Falconer 
 
 Away, away, to the woods with me. 
 Fair is the dew on the yrassy lea, 
 Pure and bright is the dawn of day. 
 Hie to the woodlands, hie away I 
 
 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 huntei-'s horn and roundelay. 
 Away, iS:c. 
 
 Up, up. Sir Knight 1 to horse, to horse I 
 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 1 'tis the matin hour ; 
 Hark to the chimes from the belfry tower 1 
 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 Grky, Sporting Magazine, December 1841. 
 
 1 In the old books on hawking the marlyon is set down as the hawk 
 •jsroperly belonging to a kidy. 
 
 - The hawk's bells made at Milan were much in repute among our ances- 
 tors at one time. 
 
 ' Meithinkes these Millane bcls do sound too full, 
 And spoile the mounting of your hawke.' — Old Play.
 
 VARIOUS 337 
 
 Ballad 
 
 Lorraine, Lorraine, Lorree 
 
 Are you ready for your steeplechase, Lorraine, Lorraine, Lorree ? 
 
 Barum, Barum, Barum, Barum, Barum, Barum, Baree, 
 You're booked to ride your capping race to-day at Coultcrlce, 
 You're booked to ride Vindictive, for 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-born baby, poor Lorraine, Lorraine, Lorree. 
 ' I cannot ride \'indictive 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?' 
 
 Ill 
 
 ' 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 ; 
 liut oh : to ride \'indictive while a baby cries for mc, 
 And be killed across a fence at last for all the world to see ! ' 
 
 .She mastered young \'indictive^oh ! the gallant lass was she — 
 And kept him straight and won the race as near as near could be ; 
 I'>ut he killed her at the brook against a pollard willow tree. 
 Oh : he killed her at the brook, the brute, for all the world to sec, 
 And no one but the baby cried for poor Lorraine, Lorree. 
 
 CiiAKi.i.s KiN(;si.r.v. Last poem written in illness, June 1874.
 
 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 1 
 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, Rill, 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, iS:c.
 
 HUMOROUS SONGS AXD PARODIES— HUNTING 339 
 
 Ve"d very near to Epping got, 
 Vhen 'Charley cries I tell you vot, 
 I feels as how so \ery 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'U dash thro' thick and thin, 
 And perhaps the stag hunt we may vin. 
 He hadnt time to say no more. 
 For the stag upset him vot a bore ! 
 Right slap at Tommy Rounding's door. 
 
 \'hen 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 
 
 \'e rode again soon arter that, 
 Vhen Tommy Thompson fell down flat, 
 Anrl Hilly Valker lost his hat, 
 While ve vos out a huntinjr.
 
 343 
 
 THE POETRY OF SPORT 
 
 At their disasters I laugh'd loud, 
 And of myself 1 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 [had] been not ; 
 They made us stand [right] 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 I'm sure can brag, 
 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 
 Who had just sought the shelt'ring hall.
 
 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-famd Nimrod balk 
 His fancy for an hour's talk. 
 
 Ni>iirod 
 
 ' 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,) 
 IVIy life has never ceas'd to be 
 One scene of rural jollity : 
 But hurrying Time has fled so fast, 
 My former pastimes all are past : 
 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 cv'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 I 
 The last, when midnight heard the strain 
 Which sung the pleasures of the plain.' 
 
 Syntdx 
 
 ' 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 cloathing of tlie pard.' 
 
 Nii)irod 
 
 ' I've not quite lost the little knowledge, 
 Which I obtain'd in school and college :
 
 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, 
 , They'd turn and eat their huntsman up. 
 
 — No, Sir, my books enjoy themseh'es 
 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 tlocks to shear ; 
 The autumn chd its fruitage yield 
 In ev'ry orchard, ev'ry field. 
 And the emptied casks receive 
 The juice Pomona loves to give. 
 The winter comes and once again 
 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 see. 
 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, 
 1 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 Darling, in the scented track 
 Would often lead the clam'rous pack ; 
 While Reynard chill despair would feel 
 When Favonritc 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 :
 
 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-mouth'd 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 Hea\en, 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 decaj-. 
 
 But the libations of the night, 
 
 To which 1 owe this piteous plight. 
 
 Now of this mansion take a view, 
 
 And, Doctor, I believe it true. 
 
 Could it be gag'd and fill'd with liquor. 
 
 Myself, my sportsmen and the \'icar, 
 
 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 school, 
 
 That some prime feeli;ig doth preside 
 
 In each man's bosom as his guide. 
 
 Or right or wrong, as it may pro\e 
 
 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 thev strav.
 
 344 THE POETRY OF SPORT 
 
 But I ne'er thought of moving higher 
 
 Than a plain, hunting Country-'Squire, 
 
 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 Combk, 1820. 
 
 The Epping Hunt 
 
 ' On Monday they began to hunt.' — Chevy Ch.isr. 
 
 John Huggins 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 ?Lpaf. 
 
 Six days a week beheld him stand. 
 
 His business next his heart. 
 At counter with his apron tied 
 
 About his counter-part. 
 
 The seventh in a sluice-house box, 
 
 He took his pipe and pot ; 
 On Siindays for ^Y/-piety, 
 
 A very noted spot. 
 
 Ah, blest if he had never gone 
 
 Beyond its rural shed 1 
 One Easter-tide, some evil guide 
 
 Put Epping in his head 1
 
 HUMOROUS SONGS AND PARODIES— HUNTING 345 
 
 Epping for butter justly famed 
 
 And pork in sausage pop't ; 
 Where winter time, or summer time, 
 
 Pig's flesh is always chop't. 
 
 But famous more, as annals tell, 
 
 Because of Easter chase ; 
 There ev'r>' 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 morn, and hark and bark, 
 
 And echo's answering sounds, 
 All poet's wit hath every writ 
 
 In dog-x€i. verse ol hounds. 
 
 Alas ! there was no warning voice 
 
 To whisper in his ear. 
 Thou art a fool in lea\ing Cheap 
 
 To go and hunt the deer I 
 
 No thought he had of twisted spine. 
 
 Ox broken arms or legs : 
 Not chicken-hearted \\^, altho' 
 
 'Twas whisper'd of his eggs.' 
 
 Ride out he would, and hunt he would. 
 
 Nor dreamt of ending ill ; 
 -Mayhap with Dr. Ridoufs fee, 
 
 And Surgeon Huntet^s bill. 
 
 So he drew on his .Sunday boots. 
 
 Of lustre superfine ; 
 The liquid black they wore that day. 
 
 Was Warren-itd to shine. 
 
 His yellow buckskins fitted close, 
 
 .As once upon a stag ; 
 Thus well equipt he gaily skipt, 
 
 .\t 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.
 
 346 THE POETRY OF SPORT 
 
 To say the horse was Huggins' own, 
 
 Would only be a brag ; 
 His neighbour ¥\g 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 tit. 
 
 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 c?-oss. 
 
 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. 
 
 I
 
 HUMOROUS SONGS AND PARODIES— HUNTING 347 
 
 And many a score behind — before — ■ 
 
 The self-same route incHn'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-eard 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 inclin'd to Hiint^ 
 
 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 ! 
 
 And lo I a cart that held a squad 
 
 Of costermonger line ; 
 With one poor hack, like Pegasus, 
 
 That slav'd for all the Nine ! 
 
 Yet marvel not at any load, 
 
 That any horse might drag ; 
 When all, that morn, at once were drawn 
 
 Together by a stag I 
 
 Now when they saw John Huggins go 
 
 At such a sober pace ; 
 ' Hallo I' cried they ; 'come, trot away. 
 
 You'll never sec the chase I ' 
 
 But John, as grave as any judge. 
 
 Made answers quite as blunt ; 
 ' It will be time enough to trot. 
 
 When 1 begin to hunt !' 
 
 And so he paced to Woodford Wells, 
 
 Where many a horseman met, 
 And letting go the reins., of course. 
 
 Prepared for heuTV ivet. 
 
 And lo I within the crowded door. 
 
 Stood Rounding, jovial elf; 
 Here shall the Musf frame no excuse. 
 
 But frame tlic man himself.
 
 348 
 
 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. 
 
 But Huggins, hitching on a tree, 
 Branch d 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 ]3ob and Tom, 
 
 In red already ride ; 
 'Tis but a step^ and on a horse 
 
 You soon may go astride.^ 
 
 So off they scamper'd, man and horse, 
 
 As time and temper press'd ; — 
 Ikit Huggins, hitching on a tree, 
 
 Branched o'H ixom. all the rest.
 
 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 ' I 
 Bakers intent upon a buck, 
 
 Neglectful of the dougJi .' 
 
 Change Alley Bears to speculate. 
 
 As usual, for a fall ; 
 And green and scarlet runners, such 
 
 As never climb'd a wall I 
 
 'Twas strange to think what difference 
 
 A single creature made ; 
 A single stag had caused a whole 
 
 Stagr\2X\ovi in their trade. 
 
 Now Huggins from his saddle rose, 
 
 And in the stirrups stood ; 
 And lo 1 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 deer alive, 
 
 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 I 
 
 His antler'd head shone blue and red 
 
 Bcdcck'd with ribbons fine ; 
 Like other bucks that come to 'list 
 
 The hawbucks in the line. 
 
 One curious gaze of mild amaze, 
 
 He turn'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.
 
 350 
 
 THE POETRY OF SPORT 
 
 Away he went, and many a score 
 
 Of riders did the same, 
 On horse and ass — hke high and low 
 
 And Jack pursuing game I 
 
 Good lord ! to see the riders now, 
 Thrown off with sudden whirl, 
 
 A score within the purhng brook, 
 Enjoy'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 ho .saw the beast 
 Come charsrins; 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 1 O dear ! ' now might you hear, 
 
 ' I've surely broke a l-one ; ' 
 ' My head is sore,' — with man> 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.
 
 HUMOROUS SONGS AND PARODIES— HUNTING 351 
 
 And hunters good, that understood, 
 Their laughter knew no bounds, 
 
 To see the horses ' throwing oft',' 
 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 .'' 
 
 Fowler and Jowler — howlers all. 
 
 No single tongue was mute ; 
 The stag had led a hart, and lo I 
 
 The whole pack follow'd 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 ! 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 off at furious pitch ; - 
 A perfect Tam o' Shantcr 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 ilorse I'atrole. 
 
 A member of police, for whom 
 
 The county found a nag. 
 And, like .\ctfon in the tale. 
 
 Me found himself in stag I
 
 352 THE POETRY OE SPORT 
 
 Away they went then doj,'^ and deer, 
 
 And hunters all away, — 
 The maddest horses never knew 
 
 Mad staggers such as they 1 
 
 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 learn'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 ! '
 
 HUMOROUS 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 1 
 And now he bounded up and down. 
 
 Now like a jelly shook : 
 Till bump'd and galFd— yet not where Ciall, 
 
 For bumps did ever look 1 
 And rowing with his legs the while, 
 
 As tars are apt to ride ; 
 With eveiy kick he gave a prick, 
 
 Deep in the horse's side I 
 
 'yf.:<<.^ii:\\-^- 
 
 Ahd l.kc .1 bird was singing out, 
 While sitting on a thorn 
 
 IJut soon the horse was well avenged, 
 
 For cruel smart of spurs, 
 For, riding through a moor he pitched 
 
 His master in a furze I 
 Where sharper set than hunger is 
 
 He squatted all forlorn ; 
 And like a bird was singing out 
 
 While sitting on a thorn I 
 Right glad was he, as well might be. 
 
 Such cushion to resign : 
 ' Possession is nine points,' but his. 
 
 Seemed more than ninety-nine.
 
 354 THE POETRY OF SPORT 
 
 Yet worse than all the prickly points 
 That enter'd 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 ; 
 
 F^or down upon her knees she went, 
 To many a stock and stone ! 
 
 Now seeing Huggins' nag adrift, 
 This farmer, shrewd and sage, 
 
 Resolv'd, 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 mare ' 
 
 So up on Huggins' horse he got. 
 And swiftly rode away. 
 
 While Huggins mounted on the mare 
 Done brown upon a bay I 
 
 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 ! with one that rode so well 
 In vain it was to strive ; 
 
 A dab was he, as dabs should be — 
 All leaping and alive I 
 
 And here of Nature's kindly care. 
 Behold a curious proof. 
 
 As nags are meant to leap she puts 
 A frog in every hoof !
 
 HUMOROUS SONGS AND PARODIES— HUNTING 
 
 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 1 the dim and distant hunt 
 
 Diminish'd in a trice : 
 The steeds, like Cinderella's team, 
 
 SeenVd dwindling into mice ; 
 
 ^*=259^*-*'*»^2^i^-^"^-i' -^U^ 
 
 but tho' there was no toll at all, 
 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 I 
 
 But sad at soul John Huggins turn'd : 
 
 No comfort could he find ; 
 Whilst thus the ' Huntin.14 Chorus' sped 
 
 To stay five bars behind. 
 
 For tho' by dint of spur he got 
 
 A lea|) in spite of fate — 
 But tho' then; was no toll at all, 
 
 They could not clear the gate.
 
 356 
 
 THE POETRY OF SPORT 
 
 And, like Fitzjames, he cursed the hunt, 
 
 And sorely cursed the day, 
 And mused a new Gray's elegy 
 
 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 call'd 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 returned. 
 
 The Epping Hunt was o'er ! 
 
 And many horse was taken out 
 
 Of saddle, and of shaft ; 
 And men, by aint 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 very horns 
 
 They knew could handle knives ! 
 
 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 ;
 
 HUMOROUS SOXGS AND PARODIES^HUNTINC 357 
 
 Now, Hbggins, when he heard the tale, 
 
 Jump'd up witli sudden glee ; 
 ' A goodly gray I why, then, I say 
 
 That gray belongs to me I 
 
 ' Let me endorse again my horse, 
 
 Ueliver'd safe and sound ; 
 And, gladly, I will give the man 
 
 A bottle and a pound 1 ' 
 
 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 1 
 
 Mora I, 
 
 Thus Pleasure oft eludes our grasp, 
 
 Just when we think to grip her ; 
 And hunting after Happiness, 
 
 We only hunt a sli]>pcr. 
 
 T. Hood, The F.pphii^ Hunt, 1829.
 
 3s8 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 they 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 Huntini^ 
 Journal of Sport i)i the West. 
 
 • Song 
 
 Stags in the forest lie, hares in the valley- o ! 
 
 Web-footed otters are spear'd in the lochs ; 
 Beasts of the chace that are not worth a Tally-ho ! 
 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 ! 
 
 II 
 Bulls in gay Seville are led forth to slaughter, nor 
 
 Dames, in high rapture, the spectacle shocks ; 
 Brighter in Britain the charms of each daughter, nor 
 Dreads the bright charmei- 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.
 
 HUMOROUS SONGS AND PARODIES— HUNTING 359 
 
 England's green pastures are graz'd in security, 
 Thanks to the Saxon who card 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. Im;kkto.n W'arhukton, 
 
 '845- 
 
 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 ; 
 liut the steed's brave hound, and the opening hound, 
 
 And the rattling burst for me.
 
 36o THE POETRY OF SPORT 
 
 Some track the deei- 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. 
 
 When 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, itc. 
 
 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 Griniston^ in kindly rente >nl> ranee 
 of nta?iy 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.
 
 HUMOROUS SONGS AND PARODIES— HUNTING 361 
 
 But chance and change 'tis folly to rue, 
 
 Say I, the devil may care ! 
 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 1 
 
 For all 1 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 I away I 
 
 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 I 
 She skims the fences, she scours the plain. 
 
 Like a creature winged, I swear. 
 With snort and strain on the yielding rein ; 
 
 Eor 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 I 
 So I draw her together, and over we sail, 
 
 With a yard and a half to spare I 
 Bank, bull-finch, and rail, it's the curse of the Vale I 
 
 But I leave it all to the mare. 
 
 Away I away 1 they've been running to kill I 
 
 With never a check from the find. 
 Away ! away I wc are close to them still, 
 
 And the field arc furlongs behind I 
 They can hardly deny they were out of the game, 
 
 Lost half 'the Fun of the Fair,' 
 Through the envious blame, and the jealous e.xclaim, 
 
 ' How that old fool buckets liis mare I '
 
 362 THE POETRY OF SPORT 
 
 Who-whoop 1 They have him ! They're round him ; how 
 
 They worry and tear when he's down ! 
 'Twas a stout hill-fox when they found him ; now 
 
 'Tis a hundred tatters of brown 1 
 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 ; I am nearly done ; 
 
 I have played the game all round ; 
 But 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 I 
 Though you're hovering near, there's no room for you here, 
 
 On the back of my good grey mare. 
 
 G. J. Whyte-Melville, Bailys Ma<^azi/ie, November 1871. 
 
 The 'unt 
 
 Wot makes the 'untsman's 'eart to beat, what makes 'im turn so pale? 
 It isn't jumpin' of the ditch, nor yet the post and rail ; 
 But it's everlastin' waitin' on the everlastin' rack 
 For the 'untsman of the stag'ounds and the yelpin' stag'ound pack. 
 O the 'unt I 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. 
 
 What 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 'unt ! O the 'unt I O the dashin', slashin' 'unt ! 
 
 A flyin' and a rushin' to the fray ; 
 With the boasters soon be'ind and the usual ones in front. 
 An' 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. 
 But 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 O the 'unt I the appallin', fallin' 'unt I 
 
 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.
 
 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 I O the bumptious, scrumptious 'unt ! 
 When the gin 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 1 the glorious finish when the deer is brought to book, 
 And is bathin' of her beauties in a beastly dirty brook. 
 When 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 I O the 'unt ! O the variegated 'unt I 
 
 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 'cr 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 li''. 
 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 I O the 'unt I O the lyin', flyin' 'unt ! 
 That we all can bcjast 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 l:)iped thing that clambered upon my 
 
 back, 
 And I'm in at the death, though I'm panting for JMeath, rigiit l^ang 
 
 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 off for a spree 
 
 In a new and original way. 
 
 In my own most original way. 
 
 Oats I but my spirits were gay I 
 When 1 betted my bit that my rider should sit 
 
 Somewhere else ere the close of the day.
 
 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 letrs 
 
 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. 
 
 Cift . 
 
 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 I 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.
 
 HUMOROUS 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. 
 
 Ill the arms of a bold blackthorn 
 
 In my own most original way. 
 Oats 1 but my spirits were gay I 
 When I betted my bit that my rider should sit, 
 Somewhere else ere the close of the da)'. 
 
 Great Guns 
 
 By a .Me.mi!f,r of the Burstow Hunt 
 
 .Scorning the thickest of cover, scorning the closest of gorse, 
 Wc watch the keenest of sportsmen riding his old brown horse ; 
 With twenty couple around him, and to every youngster it's clear 
 Ihat only the pick of the puppies will hunt in the following year.
 
 366 THE POETRY OF SPORT 
 
 Yet they all love the Master — the Master he loves each one ! 
 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 
 
 faint ; 
 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 plan's the fool, why, he whispej's 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 cockne)' beginner, who doesn't know stubble from 
 
 \\'heat ! 
 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 
 
 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 1 
 
 Then away we can go from the cover, and lea\ing 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.
 
 HUMOROUS SONGS AND PARODIES— HUNTING 367 
 
 For you all love the Master — the Master he loves you ! 
 
 And when the fox breaks from the cover 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, il 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 standin;^ 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. 
 
 The spirit grinned a ghastly grin 
 
 Right througii the drip])ing clouds they dipped and down and 
 
 down they fell. 
 Till at last they ramo 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 ;
 
 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 men 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. 
 So 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 I ' 
 ' 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 I ' 
 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. 
 
 \
 
 HUMOROUS SONGS AND PARODIES— HUNTING 369 
 
 Yea, none shall tell that ere it fell, that I once suflfered scorn 
 From the keenest of British sportsmen that ever in town was 
 
 bom. 
 Sit down, sit down upon the slag, while we are getting ready, 
 A ride in that old sack would make a very fox unsteady 1 ' 
 Then did our sportsman being free, look up and up and 
 
 up; 
 And ' Sure ! ' said he, ' my sorrow is o erflowlng of its cup I ' 
 And then he looked all round and round and loudly uttered 
 
 ' Zounds 1 ' 
 
 .\ bisj, black, bouiulinK steed 
 
 P'or Hell seemed overflowing loo and pouring out its iiounds 
 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 I ' 
 He saw a sight that well might fright the boldest human heart. 
 Two hundred mounted foxes ail a-waiting for the start I 
 He got confused, the hounds drew near, he scanned the country 
 
 round, 
 lUit not a sign of shrub or tree could anywhere be found ; 
 
 B V.
 
 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 shpped his brown tops off, but found they'd done him 
 
 brown. 
 For those who brought him here, alas ! had left the trees in 
 
 town. 
 Then through his brain there flashed a thought, straight as a well- 
 sent rocket. 
 He had a sporting novel put within h-'s great coat pocket ; 
 So out he took it, and in haste he dived beneath the cover, 
 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 o\er-eaten fox he bolted fo.' 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 (orrocks 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 a.ny t^aine or meet ; 
 While y?y///^ all my flesh doth crawl, I'm blown before I die. 
 Ay?j' 's laid on me, how I wish they'd lay me on ay?y.' 
 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 
 ' ( jO 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,
 
 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 loud too-too, and took his prey \\ ith 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 I should gi\e you pain, 
 ' But I do not see the way,' said he, ' to start you off 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 I ' he heard, 'now tear 'im up and 
 
 eat 'im.' 
 The steel drove through his quivering lips a very piercing scream 
 Which, ]3enetrating slumber sound, cut up his mangled dream. 
 
 The Young British Sport.sman 
 
 When the sporting young cockney comes out for a ride 
 He acts like a fool, and he shows too much side, 
 .•\nd he thinks men admire when they only deride 
 The form that he shows as a sportsman. 
 
 Now all )-ou 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. 
 
 First mind you keep clear of the breakfast some give. 
 For your wisdom's not great, and as sure as you li\c 
 The liquor will wash it away through your sieve. 
 
 And ){)u'll need all you've got as a sportsman. 
 
 When the funk takes your heart — as it will jjast a doubt 
 Keep your hand from the flask that you long to take out. 
 For when whiskey goes in there'll be folly about. 
 
 And it muddies the brain of a s|)ortsman. 
 
 1; u 2
 
 1 
 
 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 vou try to show off you will meet with the fate 
 
 Of fools who would like to be sportsmen 1 
 
 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 I 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 gi\e to the j'oung 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.
 
 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, 
 Voull be judged by your deeds, not the words that \ou say, 
 And the boaster is seldom a sportsman. 
 
 All Revoir 
 
 There's a feel in the air, and a look of dont 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, 
 W'hen we cannot g^o 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 ox our play, 
 
 And float round the Earth while we live, 
 We may try ever)- resort ot 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.
 
 374 THE POETRY OF SPORT 
 
 There's a joy in the thought of the time, clear 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 I'm 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, 
 I'hen 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-houncl or horse, 
 If N'ou gave them their way they would hunt ever\' day 
 And ask for no other resource. 
 
 For whatever they do in the summer, dear bo)'S, 
 
 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'll 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. 
 
 \
 
 HUMOROUS SONGS AND PARODJES^HUNTING 375 
 
 1 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.
 
 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, 1810, 
 From The Angler s Song Book. Compiled and edited by 
 Robert Blakey. 1855.
 
 HUMOROUS SOA'GS AND PARODIES^ VARIOUS 377 
 
 Heredity 
 
 Treat children's sport with laughter, 
 
 Or, if ) ou 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 playlul 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 apiMoaching strife, 
 Ah, should that rod clismember. 
 
 What scjrrow and regret 
 'Twill be but to remember, 
 
 Yet harder to forget. 
 
 Now from those hidden places 
 
 The carp's soft well-hned 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 j)ain.
 
 378 THE POETRY OE SPORT 
 
 Fain would he now unbidden 
 
 Return the tempting bait, 
 In which was deftly hidden 
 
 The deadly barb ot' 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 take, 
 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. 
 I feel the dying ember 
 
 Of sport burns in me yet. 
 What childhood's days remember 
 
 Age scarcely will forget. 
 
 From a MS. No date, but evidently after one of Swinburae's Ballads.
 
 The net is waiting ready."
 
 HUMOROUS SONGS AND PARODIES—VARIOUS 379 
 
 Going out a vShooting 
 
 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 Harry Blunt and Bobby Blower, 
 Besides old Muggins and Dickey Moore, 
 I think in all full half a score. 
 Towards the autumn's drear\' 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-strcct 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 ! 
 What's in those bundles Come, lei's (see?) 
 With that a dreadful fight arose. 
 And Muggins got a broken nose, 
 So off we to the .Station-liouse 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.
 
 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 Uad 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 powder, wadding, &c. 
 
 Ballad.
 
 HUMOROUS SONGS AND PARODIES- -VARIOUS 
 
 Don't talk of September 
 
 Don't talk of September ! — a lady 
 
 Must think it of all months the worst 1 
 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 juy game of ecarte, 
 
 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 1) 
 And slighting viy sweets and vty trifles. 
 
 Prefer my Lord HarYy^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 arc all sparing of words ; 
 And now, 'stead (y{ popping the questio?!. 
 
 They set off to pop at the birds. 
 
 (io, false ones, your aim is so horrid, 
 
 That love at the sight of you dies ; 
 You care not for locks on the forehead,- 
 
 The loehs made by ^lanton you prize ! 
 All thoughts sentimental exploding, 
 
 VW^Jlints 1 behold ycju 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 doiihle barrel discussions 
 
 Exhaust double bottles of |)ort ! 
 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 Haynks Bayi.v, The Sportsman, 1833.
 
 382 THE POETRY OF SPORT 
 
 The Double Barrel 
 
 When round the Sportsman's festive board 
 
 The sparkhng bumper passes, 
 With joyous toasts each flask is stored, 
 'The Queen I ' and ' All good Lasses ." 
 The Turf^ the Stubble^ Fox, or Stag, 
 The Harriers, or some winning Nag, 
 
 The ' Long Dogs ' or the Race .' 
 Some drink a fav'rite Pointer, some 
 
 The ' Patrons of the Chace.^ 
 Next SJiooting, Coursing, Angling, come 
 
 The flowing bowl to grace ; 
 But ever, while we live. 
 The '■Barrel." let us give, 
 
 With three times three, huzza I 
 For we hoop the Barrel and Jill the Barrel, 
 And tap the Barrel and swill the Barrel, 
 We load the Barrel and prime the Barrel, 
 Present the Barrel and Jire the Barrel, 
 And shoulder the Barrel and (^(?///^ the Barrel, 
 
 And drink and yfr(? away I 
 
 CHORUS 
 
 We shoulder the Barrel and ^^///d' the Barrel, 
 And drink and Jire away I 
 
 For table sports there's Meux's Entire, 
 
 And Barclay mixed with Perkins, 
 And Hanb'ry's Barrels full of yire. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 P"or we hoop, &c. 
 
 The Sporting Farmet^s Harvest Night 
 
 The Barrel's value prizes ; 
 And Old October makes more brig^ht 
 
 Fairs, Races, or Assizes.
 
 HUMOROUS SONGS AND PARODIES— VARIOUS 383 
 
 The soldier^ who at Waterloo 
 Or Egypt, reap'd the /iafi>est due, 
 
 Where BritisJi arms pre\ail, 
 The Barrel gaily broach'd, when full 
 
 His spirits to regale ; 
 And glass or trigger, took a pull 
 
 At powder or of <j/^. 
 Then ever while we live, 
 The Barrel let us give, 
 
 With three times three, huzza I 
 For we hoop, &c. 
 
 And may good-natured y^/z««j' 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 ho?iest 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. DiBDiN, 7"^t' .S'/(y/-/jW(j'//, August 1839. 
 
 Sonnet 
 
 TO LORD WHARNCI.IFFP:, on his (lAMK MILL 
 
 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 glory,- 
 
 Teal, widgeons, plovers, birds in all their types : 
 
 All these are in your care, Faw-giving I'eer, 
 
 And when you next address your Lordly Babel, 
 
 Some clause put in your Hill, precise and clear. 
 
 With due ancl fit provision to enable 
 
 A man that holds all kinds of game so dear 
 
 To keep, like Crockford, a good (laming Table. 
 
 Thomas Hood, Poetical Works, Boston 1856.
 
 384 THE POETRY OE SPORT 
 
 Elegy in the Kennels 
 
 The rising- mist foretells the opening day, 
 
 The foxhounds slowly mo\e toward the meet, 
 
 The huntsman onward plods his weary way 
 And leaves me wrapt 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 burn, 
 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 arc 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
 
 HUMOROUS SONGS AND PARODIES— VARIOUS 38: 
 
 Can pin-stored cushion or an inkstand bring 
 Back to its stall the dear departed steed ; 
 
 Can honours 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. 
 
 I5ut 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 
 Hctween the blinkers, in a London cab. 
 
 Some Isinglass that once with matchless speed 
 Might well ha\e heard victorious shouts of joy 
 
 Is deemed by ignorance a worthless weed. 
 And gallops round the Row a lady's toy. 
 
 Far from the madding crowd's more noble strife 
 
 His sober wishes never learned to stray, 
 Rut round the ring of fashionable life 
 
 He keeps the even canter of his way. 
 
 The thoughtless world to \ictory may bow, 
 
 Exalt the winner, idolise success; 
 But in these ])recintcs 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 ]ilace 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'(;r some distant mead, 
 .Sec them, as scattered tombstones, fleck the green. 
 
 And on each one a different writing read 
 In memory of misfortunes that have been ? 
 
 c c
 
 386 THE POETRY OE Sl'ORT 
 
 P^PITAPH 
 Here rests a comrade who, upon tliis earth, 
 
 Had neither fame nor happy fortune known. 
 They worked and starved him from his very birth 
 And left us nothing hut his skin and bone. 
 
 Anon. 
 
 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 ! w^hat 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 ! ' 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, ' Garr)' Owen and glory.' 
 
 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.' 
 
 W^hen the players came to town, what a funny set was the)', 
 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. 
 
 Cramptoii Ballads.
 
 HUMOROUS SONGS AND PARODIES^VARIOUS -:,Z7 
 
 The Dirge of the Defaulter 
 
 A fra(;mkntarv parody 
 
 Comrades, leave me here a little, while as yet the place is still ; 
 Leave me here, and when you want mc, 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 1 
 l-'.psom Downs that in the distance overlook the smiling plain. 
 And the smoky crown of London brooding over dome and fane. 
 .Many a time from )-on 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 tlic dreaded 
 
 curve. 
 Where the game 'uns make their eftbrt, and the craven coursers 
 
 swerve ; 
 There about the Ring I wandered, filling up with anxious care 
 Tliat tiny-pencilled voluinc, not as yet beyond 'compare ;' 
 When the 'centuries' before me, like a glorious vision shone, 
 .\nd I stuck to every dead 'un like a limpet to a stone ; 
 When I dipt into the future, far as human pluck could dip, 
 Kre 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 'fancv' slightlv turns his thought to 
 
 bet. 
 I'hen his cheek was rather redder than it was before he dined, 
 .^nd I fully thought to fathom all the secrets of his mind : 
 And 1 said, ' My lovely William, speak and tell the truth to me ; 
 I'eople 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 twigg'd a twinkle in the corner of his eye : 
 .Saying, ' I have hifl his failings, fearing they should knock him 
 
 out ; ' 
 Saying, ' Do they back him, Joey ?' I lejilied, 'Without a cU)ubt.' 
 Up I took my betting-book, and laid against him like a man, 
 Kvcry time 1 wrote his name, my hand in 'golden numbers' ran, 
 ^'et 1 kidded as I betted, and I tipped m\- friends aright ; 
 ' Costcr-iiionger for the Derby Coster beats 'em out of sight.' 
 Many a morning at the Corner difl 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 tiie market's tone. 
 And my spirits rose exulting when I found he hadn't ' gone.' 
 
 c c 2
 
 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 ! 
 
 Falser than a Welsher'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 Hill' 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 dofiPd the many-fashioned hat. 
 Far and wide a might}' murmur through the craning myriads ran, 
 ' Costermonger for a monke)',' and I watched him in the van 
 Till the frenzy had subsided, and his number on the rope 
 Brought 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 dr)', 
 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 I 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 omen'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 '
 
 HUMOROUS SONGS AND PARODIES—VARIOUS 389 
 
 Xothing to remind of England ; 'mellow peers,' or penny shies, 
 Groups of lords and legs in friendly cluster, cards, and leaded dice. 
 Never knocks the midnight bailiff, or the creditor at noon, 
 Xips 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 : 
 1 myself the handicapper, clerk of course, and referee, 
 Shall lay the odds ' to monkeys ' to the plunging chimpanzee I 
 Fool, to maunder thus and drivel I Don't I know it can't be so ? 
 Conscience whispers, ' Not for Joseph, if he knows it ; Oh dear no 1 ' 
 I to make a book on dodos I 1 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? 
 1, that rather held it better to perft)rm upon the dead 
 Than be troubled by the living, and be beaten by a head? 
 Is there nothing I can turn to ? nothing worth a happy toss ? 
 Let the shilling spin decisive of my profit or my loss ; 
 Heads -I start the tipping business, a la Vouatt William (iray ; 
 Tails — 1 tout for shilling swindles ' in a quiet sort of wa).' 
 Some disinterested party, with a hundred pounds to lend. 
 Lay my bills, and sc|uarc the bailiff— be the poor defaulter's friend ! 
 Ah I 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 P2psom Downs, 
 Now the lists are full against me, now on me the bagman frowns. 
 Conies 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. 
 'Ampiiiqn,' Hitily's Miigtizine, March 1868.
 
 390 
 
 THE POETRY OE SPORT 
 
 Bookey 
 
 ( With apologies to ' Toiiunv ') 
 
 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 bawlinff odds 
 
 O it's Bookey this, and Bookey that, and ' Bookey, g^o 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 me : 
 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.
 
 HUMOROUS SONGS AXD PARODIES— VARIOUS 391 
 
 For its 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 time comes 
 
 round to pay ; 
 You feel safest with the Bookeys when the time comes round 
 
 to pa\-. 
 
 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 ; 
 () it's 'Where's my best of Bookeys?' when the numbers do 
 appear. 
 
 We ain't all whitewashed angels, nor wc ain't all blacklegs, too. 
 But men as fancies betting, most remarkable like you ; 
 And if )'Ou 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 Bookey that, and ' Bookey, fall 
 
 behind ; ' 
 But they come and look us up at times, when tips are in the 
 
 wind ; 
 When tips arc 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 ! ' 
 
 If we, like other folks get broke, or trot oft" to the bad ; 
 
 And it's Bookey this, and Bookey that, and treat him as you 
 please ; 
 
 I'jUt Bookey ain't a blooming ass you bet that I5ookcy sees. 
 
 s I . OUTWOOU.
 
 392 THE POETRY OE 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. 
 
 Sforfii/g Magaziftc, September 1793. 
 
 To Ride or not to Ride? 
 
 To ride or iiot 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 wear}- 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 brawn)' porters in the crowded streets. 
 
 When he himself might his cjuietus make 
 
 Upon a gentle pony? who would fardels bear. 
 
 To groan and sweat under a heavy load ? 
 
 But that the dread of ev'ry untried horse. 
 
 Whose undiscover'd humours and whose tricks 
 
 No traveller returns well pleased to tell, 
 
 And makes us rather walk in clouted shoes 
 
 Than fix to horses that we 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, 
 
 W^ith this regard, from Tattersall's turn away, 
 
 And lose the name of horsemen. 
 
 Spo)ii//g Magazii/(\ March 1815.
 
 HUMOROUS SONGS AND PARODIES— VARIOUS 393 
 
 The Sporting Philosopher; or, The 
 Loser's Consolation 
 
 In every sport, I wish'd by all, 
 
 Top sinuycr to be reckoned ; 
 And tho' m^g/it no pri/icipii/, 
 
 I've often been a second .' 
 If on the Turf no first-rate Swell, 
 
 Prime Sportsman, or Head Buck, 
 \\'ith /iw brother Whip can tell, 
 
 'Tis all the fault of htck .' 
 But win or lose, whate'er my lot, 
 
 I've learnt in Fortune's school, 
 That come Life's crosses e'er so liot, 
 
 'Tis best to take things cool ! 
 
 I've follow'd luck at Easter-tide 
 
 With City Pack so nice. 
 Because in three days' dashing ride 
 
 I ne'er was thrown but twice .' 
 With rod or tine, with spur or boof^ 
 
 Whene'er my chance I try. 
 The game I neither catch nor shoot, 
 
 I've cash enough to buy. 
 
 Then win or lose, &c. vS;c. 
 
 One day with neat percussion Cap 
 
 I gently took my aim, — 
 The barrel burst — I got a rap - 
 
 So luck preserv'd the Came 1 
 With pu?it, like patience in a boat, 
 
 Anf)thcr time I fish'd, 
 When two mad Bleak junip'd down my throat, 
 
 And I was nearly dish'd ! 
 ^'ct win or lose, &.C. &.c. 
 
 A game at W/iist I love to play, 
 
 But 'tis an awkward joke, 
 That, thrraigh ill luc/c, as some folks say, 
 
 I now and then revoke .' 
 At Cricket when we try ;i match. 
 
 It's luck beyond a doubt — 
 For when the game I'm safe to catch. 
 
 They're sure to catch me out I ! 
 Yet win or lose, &c. Ike.
 
 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 CoHar grin, 
 Or jump in sacks — no matter what — 
 
 My rivals always win. 
 
 Yet win or lose, (S:c. iXzc. 
 
 A Lotfry Ticket once I found — 
 
 Such luck had I 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 I 
 
 T. DiHDix, The Sportiinu)!, August 1839. 
 
 Bowling 
 
 The rudiments of sciences 
 In bowling may be found ; 
 
 For 'tis in vain to think to bowl, 
 'Till vou first know the sjround. 
 
 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 ; 
 
 F2ach jostles t'other out of place, 
 And plays a sep'rate game.
 
 HUMOROUS SONGS AND PARODIES— VARIOUS 395 
 
 In bowling, as in battle, 
 
 The leaders 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 (ientlcman' 
 
 \'ou ask a song, and 'twould be wrong to disappoint your call, 
 A'et what was once thought passable will now scarce pass at all ; 
 Our songs arc all call'd vaudevilles^ our games are ^carta. 
 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, «S:c. 
 
 At fairs and wakes, tliough tabors, pi])cs, and fiddles were the 
 
 thing. 
 Our modern P.\(;a\1m bows now play but on one string. 
 And baited Hulls and Hears who liked the sport, now think it 
 
 strange. 
 That with lame Dueks they only are allow'd to sport and range, 
 With jobbers, underwriters, and good Peoples upon 'Change. 
 
 Chorus With jobbers, &c. 
 
 'Ihen since we yet have CRICKET left, in which we can rejoice, 
 1 only wish my muse could praise it with a criekefs voice ; 
 And if your critics catch me out, 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 .\nd guard, &( . 
 
 • )l.i) En(;i..\M) is a type of what good cricketers intend, 
 
 < )ur constitution is the jjost true batsmen will defend ; 
 
 < )ur enemies may give us balls, and glory in their guns. 
 While we stand lirm and stop 'cm all, {or John Hull never runs, 
 For as his fathers bravely f«)ught, so iigiit his gallant sons I 
 
 Chorus — For as his, &c.
 
 396 THE POETRY OF SPORT 
 
 Among our modern Cricketers^ 'tis whimsical to find 
 
 What matches have been made among the Imne, and deaf^ and 
 
 bhnd ! 
 Sometimes a set o{ one-anii\i vdQW into the Hsts have jump'd, 
 And one-eyed m&n ha\e taken arms, and their opponents thump'd, 
 For, what they could not catch or bowl^ they very neatly stimipd! 
 
 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, 
 But 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.N ! 
 And prosper Albert ! 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. DiBiJiN, The Sportsman, November 1840. 
 
 A Fragment 
 
 Beloved brotherhood of Sportsmen, heed ! 
 
 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 limpid 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 ; 
 
 We 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 da\s
 
 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 I enlivener of our world ! 
 
 Favour my joNous 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. I 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 I 
 
 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 I 
 
 Then, only then, shall I have power to grasp 
 
 The glories of thy all-absorbing sway. 
 
 And weave them into song. 
 
 I'rom .VIS. No date. .\ little after the stylo of I". H. .Shelley. 
 
 The Chicken ; or, My First Introduction 
 to the Ancient Game of Golf 
 
 {A Trifle after ' The Raven ') 
 
 Once upon a day most dreary, I was wandering weak and weary, 
 'thinking I had very seldom seen so drear a looking moor ; 
 l"'or 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 liirough my jaw. 
 And from pain I knew no more.
 
 -,98 
 
 THE POETRY OF SPORT 
 
 Ah, distinctly I remember, that it was a chill November 
 
 When I stood thus watching faintl)', 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 I ' 
 But I moved not in my horror, while they still kept shouting ' Fore 1 ' 
 Feeling pain and nothing more. 
 
 I'celing 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,
 
 HLLlfOROUS 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 hiughed 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 
 They were idiots who had broken, doubtless, through the asylum 
 
 door, 
 Idiots who'd escaped from Earlswood, having broken thiough the 
 
 door. 
 
 This alas ! and nothing more. 
 
 But while I, half bent on flying, still within my mind was trying. 
 To think out liow 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 I " ' 
 
 Then he swore and said no more. 
 
 Now through all my mind came stealing quite a different kind of 
 
 feeling, 
 As I thought I'd heard some speaking of a game like this before ; 
 So, by way of explanation, I flelivered an oration 
 Of a suitable duration, which I think they thought a bore : 
 And I said, 'I'll watch Nour playing,' but they muttered 'Cussed 
 
 bore I ' 
 
 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 I 
 And I said, 'You'll be agreeing that no earthly, living being 
 Ever yet was blessed by seeing such queer things as these liefore ? 
 Hooks and crooks of all descrijjtions 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 
 
 I'addy, 
 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.
 
 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 : 
 Faster 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 ciuick I don't )ou see I want my 
 
 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 try the hole no more. 
 
 So I thought the game \\as ended, but their talk \\as so much 
 
 blended 
 With a language unfamiliar which I had not heard before ; 
 For in argument quite stormy they disputed about ' dorniie,' 
 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 I 
 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 g-ood 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.
 
 fm^^.. -^^i 
 
 
 
 i^wj?* 
 
 42^ 
 
 I
 
 HUMOROUS AND PARODIES— VARIOUS \o\ 
 
 ' Ball,' I said, ' thou thing of evil I 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 I 
 
 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 I 
 
 S. F. OUTWOOD. 
 
 I) D
 
 INDEX 
 
 OF 
 
 AUTHORS AND COLLECTIOxNS OF POETRY 
 
 Ailamson, William (? -1639), The Muses Threnodie • • • 55 
 
 Amphion (publ. 1 868), The Dirge of the Defaulter . . 387 
 
 Angler's Song Book (publ. 1855), Saint Patrick .... 376 
 
 Anon : 
 
 .\ Fragment . | ^ ..... . 396 
 
 Elegy in the Kennels - Copyright • . . . . 384 
 
 Heredity . . i ' 377 
 
 Syr Eglatnoure of Artoys ....... 34 
 
 TheGoff 113 
 
 The Sfjuyr of Low Degre ....... 36 
 
 .\rm.strong, John ( 1709-1779), Art of Preserving Health . . 116 
 
 Baily's Mai;azine{Copyright ; by permission of Messrs. Vinton cr Co. ) : 
 
 A Dartmoor Fox ......... 228 
 
 Otter-Hunting on the Krme ....... 235 
 
 Spring Hunting ......... 229 
 
 The Dirge of the Defaulter 387 
 
 The Galloping Squire ...... 233 
 
 The Good Grey Mare ........ 360 
 
 The Lord of 1 he Valley 232 
 
 The Otier King 225 
 
 11 l> 2
 
 404 THE POETRY OF SPORT 
 
 I'AGE 
 
 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 . . . . . . . . 162 
 
 Limerick Races ......... 386 
 
 Poor Old Horse . . . . . . . ..171 
 
 Poor Old Mike 324 
 
 Princely Diversion . . . . . . . . . 140 
 
 Southerly Wind and a Cloudy Sky . . . . . .156 
 
 Surry Triumphant ......... 298 
 
 Syr Eglamoure of Artoys ....... 34 
 
 Tally Ho ! Hark Away . . . . . . . . 176 
 
 The Death of the Stag ........ 167 
 
 The Dusky Night ......... 161 
 
 The Fo.x Chase . . . . . . . . .154 
 
 The Gal way Sportsman . . . . . . . . 174 
 
 The Game of Cricket ........ 290 
 
 The High- mettled Racer . . . . . . . . 321 
 
 The Hunting of the Hare 158 
 
 The Jolly Angler 244 
 
 The Jolly Huntsman ........ 169 
 
 The Killruddery Fox Chace ....... 177 
 
 The King and the Forrester . . . . . . • 3^3 
 
 The Lincolnshire Poacher . . .. . . ..318 
 
 The Old English Squire ....... 204 
 
 The .Squyr of Lowe Degre ........ 36 
 
 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 J9 
 
 Beasts of Sport ......... 19 
 
 Brandreth, Henry (publ. 1S33), Away ! to the Woodlands Away ! . 281
 
 INDEX OF AUTHORS 405 
 
 I AGE 
 
 Brooke, Henry (1703- 1 783), The Fox Chase ..... 114 
 
 Browne, William ( 1 591-1643 ?), Britannia's Pastorals ... 54 
 
 Br>'ant, William Cullen (1794-1S78), The Hunter's Legend . . 218 
 
 Bunyan, John (1628-1688), Groping Trout ..... 250 
 
 Burger, G. A., The Chase (trans, l^y Sir Walter Scott) . . . 1S6 
 Burns, Robert (1759-1796) : 
 
 A Wounded Hare ......... 276 
 
 My Heart's in the Highlands ....... 180 
 
 Byron, George, Lord (178S-1824) : 
 
 Don Juan . . . . , . . . . . . 132 
 
 The Deformed Transformed . . . . . . -133 
 
 The Two t'oscari . . . . . . . . . 132 
 
 Caledonian, The (pul)l. 1S21), 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 ( 13407-1400) : 
 
 The Boke of the Duchesse ....... 30 
 
 Prologue to the Canterbury Pilgrims . . . . ■ }>}) 
 
 The Knyghtes Tale . . . . . . . ■ 'hZ 
 
 Chettle, Henry ( V -1607 ?) : 
 
 Death of Robert, Karle 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 (1731-1S00), Epitaph ...... 277 
 
 Crampton Ballads : 
 
 Fox Chase . . . . . . . . .154 
 
 Limerick Races ......... 386 
 
 .Southerly Wind and a Cloudy .Sky . . . . . . 1 56 
 
 Dance. .See Love 
 
 D'Avenant, Sir William (1606-1668), Gondibcrt . . 65 
 
 Decker, Thomas (1570 ?- 1641 ?), The Sun's-Darling ... 63 
 Denham, John (1615-1669), Coopers Hill . . . .71 
 
 Dcnnys, John ( ? - 1609), The .Secrets of Angling . 241 
 
 I )il>din, Charles (1745-1814), The Skaiter's March . 322 
 Dibdin, Thos. (1771-1841) : 
 
 Cricket ........... 395 
 
 The Double Barrel ......... 3S2 
 
 The Sporting Philosojihcr ....... 393
 
 4o6 THE POETRY OF SPORT 
 
 lAGE 
 
 Doubleday, Thomas (1790-1S70) : 
 
 Auld and Young ......... 258 
 
 The Morning Airly ........ 259 
 
 Drayton, Michael (1563-1631) : 
 
 Polyolbion .■••■..... 57 
 
 Muses Elizium . . . . . . . • • 59 
 
 Dryden, John (163 i-i 700) : 
 
 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, I'hineas (15S2-1650), Brittain's Ida 62 
 
 Ford, John (1586- 1640?) : 
 
 Perkin Warbeck ......... 63 
 
 Sun's-Darling .......... 63 
 
 Freeth, John (publ. 1790) : 
 
 Diversion of Quoit Playing ....... 318 
 
 Game of Fives .......... 320 
 
 Gascoigne, George (1525 ?-i577), 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 Amantis .... 29 
 
 Graves, John Woodcock (1795-1890), John Peel . . . . 199 
 
 Green, Matthew (1696-1737), The Spleen ..... 107 
 
 Grey, Sandie (publ. 1841), Song of the Old P3nglish Falconer . . 336 
 
 Grylls, James Willyam, The .Song of the Hunter .... 221 
 
 Hamilton, William (1704-1754), 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 (1783-1826), Hunting Song . . . . 206 
 
 Hemans, Felicia (1793- 1 835), The Angler ^53 
 
 Hogg, James (1770 ?-i835), Madoc of the Moor . . . . 206
 
 INDEX OF AUTHORS 407 
 
 tAGE 
 
 Hood, Tom (1799-1845) : 
 
 Epping Hunt 344 
 
 Sonnet to Lord Whamcliffe ....... 383 
 
 Howard. See Surrey 
 
 Johnson, Samuel (1709-1784), Verses on Skatini; . . . . 117 
 
 Jonson, Ben (1573-1637) : 
 
 Cynthia's Revells . . . . . . . . .152 
 
 Pans Anniversarie . . . . . . . 152 
 
 The Forrest .......... 54 
 
 Time Vindicated ......... 54 
 
 Kingsley, Charles (1819-1875) {Copyright ; by permission of Messrs. 
 Macmillaii Ss' Co.) : 
 
 Lorraine, Lorraine, Lorree ....... 2>2>7 
 
 My Hunting .Song ......... 224 
 
 South Wind .......... 260 
 
 The Find ........... 224 
 
 Knowles, fames Sheridan (1784-1S62), The Love Chase . 135 
 
 Langland, William (1330?- 1400 ?), \'ision 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, ne Dance (1722-1774), Cricket ..... 291 
 
 Lovelace, Richard (1618-1658), The Falcon ..... 73 
 
 Lydgate, John (1370 ?-i45i ?), .Satirical Description . . . . 20 
 
 Maidment, James (1795''- 1879), A B(jok of Scottish Pasquils (publ 
 
 1868) 
 
 Marston, John (1575?- 1634), Satyres 
 
 Masfjue, The (publ. 1768), .Song ...... 
 
 Mickle, William J. (1735-1788), Sir Mariyn .... 
 
 Moore, Thomas (1779- 1852) : 
 
 Cephalus and Procris ....... 
 
 Wind thy Horn 
 
 Motherwell, Wiliiam (1797- 1835), The Forester's Carol . 
 Munday, Anthony (1553- 1633) : 
 
 Death of Robert, Earl of Huntington .... 
 
 Metropolis Coronata ....... 
 
 147 
 
 25 
 
 17.5 
 
 250 
 
 2S7 
 221 
 2S1 
 
 270 
 270
 
 4o8 THE POETRY OF SPORT 
 
 FAGK 
 
 Neiv Sporting Magazine, 'Y\\&V\xiiY)^-^ olXh&^f^i'AQXi . . .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 
 
 Parnell, Dr. Thomas (1679-171S), Health . .... 82 
 
 Peacock, Thomas Love (1785-1866), Maid Marian's Song . . . 209 
 
 Piscator (publ. 1819), Trout Hall 251 
 
 Pope, Alexander (1688-1744), Windsor Forest . . . • • 95 
 
 Prior, Matthew (1664- 1721), Henry and Emma .... 83 
 Pye, Henry James (1745-1813) : 
 
 An Elegy 275 
 
 Farringdon Hill ......... 121 
 
 Quarles, Francis (1592- 1644) : 
 
 Divine Fancies .......... 63 
 
 Emljlemes .......... 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
 
 INDEX OF AUTHORS 409 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Roxburghe Ballads : 
 
 Princely Diversion . . . . . . • .164 
 
 The Hunting of the Hare 158 
 
 The King and the Forrester . . . . . . • 3^3 
 
 Scott, Sir Walter (1771-1S32) : 
 
 Hunting Song . . . • . . . . • • I93 
 
 Lady of the Lake 123, 197 
 
 Marmion . . . . . . . . . . . 128 
 
 The Chace .186 
 
 The Death of Keeldar I94 
 
 Sedley, Sir Charles (1639-1701), Song A-la-mode . . . -3^6 
 
 Shakspere, William (1564-1616) : 
 
 Antony and Cleopatra . . . . . . . . 48 
 
 As You Like It 45 
 
 Henr>' VI 47 
 
 Julius Ctesar .......... 48 
 
 Love's Labour Lost .......•• 49 
 
 Midsummer Night's Dream .....-• 47 
 
 Taming of the Shrew . . . . . . . . 46 
 
 Tempest ........•• 4^ 
 
 Venus and Adonis .......•• 49 
 
 Shelley, Percy Bysshe (1792- 1822), tEdipus Tyrannus . . .134 
 
 Ship of Fools (publ. 1508) I47 
 
 Shirley, James (1594 ?-i666), Hide Parke .... 70, 309 
 
 Sill, George G. (publ. 1840), Hawking . . . . . . 331 
 
 Somervile, William (1677-1743) : 
 
 Hunting Song . . . . . . . . . 179 
 
 The Chace .......... 84 
 
 Songs of the Chace (publ. 181 1) : 
 
 Boy in Yellow .......... 323 
 
 Hunting, Love, and Wine . . . . .198 
 
 Spenser, Kdmund (1553 -'-1599) : 
 
 Astrophel ........... 40 
 
 Faerie Queene ........ 24, 41 
 
 Mother Huljberd's Tale . . . . 40 
 
 Sonnet ........... 39 
 
 Visions of Petrarch ......... 39 
 
 Sporting; Maf^azine : 
 
 Epigram on Archery ........ 278 
 
 Hunting Song . . . . . . . . 172 
 
 Oh won't you let me go, Papa? . .215
 
 4IO THE POETRY OF SPORT 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Sporthtg 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 ....... 2S3 
 
 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 Reviciu : 
 
 Epitome of the Seasons ........ 334 
 
 Sportsman : 
 
 A Song for the Sportsman ........ 334 
 
 Away ! to the Woodlands Away ! . . . . . .281 
 
 Cricket 395 
 
 Don't talk of September . . . . . . . .381 
 
 Hawking . . . . . . . . . • • 33^ 
 
 My Old Horn 215 
 
 Otters ........... 220 
 
 The Double Barrel ........ 382 
 
 The Hunter's Legend . . . . . . . . 218 
 
 The Jolly Old Squire . . . . . . . .219 
 
 The Sporting Philosopher . . . . . . . . 393 
 
 The Sportsman's Vocal Cabinet (pul)l. 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) {Copyright ; by permission of 
 Miss Stoddart) : 
 
 A Peck o' Troubles ......... 266 
 
 My Fisher Lad ......... 265 
 
 Our Choice .......... 264
 
 INDEX OF AUTHORS 
 
 411 
 
 Stoddart, Thomas Tod : 
 
 Sonnet ......... 
 
 The Angler's Grave ....... 
 
 The Eden ......... 
 
 The Heron-Lake ........ 
 
 The Pirate of the Lakes ....... 
 
 The Taking of the Sahiion ..... 
 
 Surrey, Henry Howard, Earl of (1517-1547), Songes and Sonettes 
 Sweet Polly's Garland, The Hunting Song .... 
 Syr Eglamoure of Artoys (publ. 1570) ..... 
 
 260, 264 
 269 
 
 The Goff (publ. 1743) 
 
 The Man of Ton (puhl. 1828), 
 
 The Squyr of Lowe Degre (publ. 1550) . . . . 
 
 The Wisbech Cock Fight (publ. 1660) 
 Thompson, William ( ?-i736), An Hymn to INIay 
 Thompson, William Gill (publ. 1838), Summer Rambles 
 Thomson, James (1700-1748), The Seasons 
 Tickell, Thomas (1686-1 740), Hunting . 
 Turbervile, George (1530?- 1594) : 
 
 Epitaphs ........ 
 
 The Huntsman's Blazf)n . . . . . 
 
 \'aughan, Henry (1621-1695), On the Present of a Salmon 
 
 Waller, Edmund (1605-1687), On the Head of a Stag 
 Walton, Izaak (1593-1683), The Angler's Song 
 Warburton, R. E. Egerton (1804-1891): 
 
 Hawkstone Bow-Meeting .... 
 
 Song 
 
 The Dead Hunter ...... 
 
 The Little Red Rover .... 
 
 The Tantivy Trot ...... 
 
 Warton, Thonia.s (1728-1790), Sonnet on Bathing 
 
 Watson, Thomas ( ? -1592 ?), Tears of P'ancie . 
 
 Watis, W. (publ. 1836), Trolling 
 
 Westminster Drollery (publ. 1671) 
 
 Whitney, John (publ. 1700) The Genteel Recreation 
 
 Whittaker, John (1735- 1808) History of Manchester 
 
 Whyte-Melville, C. J. (1821-1878) : 
 
 The (ialloping Sc|uire .... 
 
 The (jf)od Grey .Marc ..... 
 
 The L<jrd of the Valley ....
 
 412 THE POETRY OF SPORT 
 
 PACK 
 
 Wilson, I'rofessor John (1785-1S54), Address to a Wild Deer . . 222 
 
 Wordsworth, William (i 770- 1830) : 
 
 The Excursion . . . . . . . . .130 
 
 The Prelude •-••...... 131 
 
 Wotion, Sir Henry (1568-1639), Fishing 246 
 
 Wyatt, Sir Thomas ( 1 503-1542), Sonet 151
 
 INDEX OF FIRST LINES 
 
 A birr ! a whirr ! a salmon's on . . . 
 
 A blessed lot is yours ..... 
 
 A grehounde shulde be heded like a snake 
 
 A hunter once in that grove reclined 
 
 A monk ther was, fair for the maistre 
 
 About fifty years ago when old George the third was Kin<. 
 
 Accept the Salmon that with this I send 
 
 Again the Year returns the Day 
 
 Alas, alas, quo' bonny Heck .... 
 
 All were like Hunters clad in cheerfull green 
 
 And as I lay thus, wonder lowde . 
 
 And as the hound that men the tumbler name . 
 
 And in the frosty season, when the sun . 
 
 And lothefull idlenes he doth detest . 
 
 And now all Nature seem'd in Love 
 
 And yee my clubs, you must no nuire prepare 
 
 -Anglers ! ye are a heartless, bloody race 
 
 Are you ready for your steeplechase . 
 
 As God himselfe declares, the life of man was lent 
 
 As hagard hauke presuming to contend 
 
 As inward love l)reefls outward talk 
 
 As quick as thought, there .see approach 
 
 As when a Greyhound (of the rightest strainc) 
 
 .Away, away, to the woods with me . 
 
 I-iack to its icy cave again .... 
 I'ehold, my friend ! the rosy-finger'<l morn 
 
 PAGE 
 
 26r 
 130 
 
 19 
 
 287 
 
 35 
 
 204 
 
 24S 
 
 272 
 
 3n 
 
 65 
 
 30 
 
 42 
 
 131 
 
 40 
 
 246 
 
 55 
 269 
 
 337 
 37 
 "41 
 
 247 
 
 332 
 
 55 
 
 33f^ 
 
 229 
 179
 
 414 
 
 THE POETRY OF SPORT 
 
 Being one day at my window all alone 
 
 Beleeve me Lords, 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 . 
 
 Calm the winds, the distant ocean 
 
 Cocke a doodle-doe, 'tis the bravest game . 
 
 Come all you P'oxhunters 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 Muses 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 . . . . 
 
 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 winds his bugle horn .... 
 Ere since of old, the haughty thanes of Ross 
 
 Fair Princesse of the spacious Air 
 
 P'arewell to the Dane and the Weaver ! . 
 
 First to the north direct your roving eyes . 
 
 For hark ! hark ! hark ! the dog doth bark 
 
 For my profession then, and for the life I lead . 
 
 For once, upon a Rawe and Gustie day . 
 
 For these nocturnal Thieves, Huntsman, prepare 
 
 Forward ! Hark forward's the cry ! 
 
 Foure maner bestys of venery there are
 
 INDEX OF FIRST LINES 
 
 4': 
 
 Gaily rock the lily beds .... 
 
 (iay companions of the bower . 
 
 (ji'e me ma gaud, ma guid auld gaud 
 
 Give me mine x\ngle, weele to th' River there 
 
 Give round the word — •' Dismount 1 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 .... 
 
 (iood friends I pray you list to me 
 
 Great John at all adventure and grave Jockey 
 
 Hark, hark, jolly sportsmen, awhile to my tale . 
 
 Hark I hark I the joy-inspiring horn . . 
 
 1 lark forward ! away, my brave boys, to the chase 
 
 Haste, ranger, to the Athol mountains blue I . 
 
 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 
 
 1 lere 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 recknn very good ..... 
 
 Huntsman I charge thee, tender wel )ny hounds 
 
 Huntsman, rest I thy chase is done 
 
 Hurrah I once again for September I . 
 
 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 ...... 
 
 Tm fond of partridges, I'm fond of sni])es 
 
 I've a head like a violin-case ; I've a jaw like a piece of steel 
 
 1 was reared in Doncaster some forty years ago
 
 4i6 THE POETRY OF SPORT 
 
 I went towards the Members' stand, my patrons to l)e near 
 If haply thou to Lethe's shore ..... 
 
 Impertinence at first is born 
 
 In autumne, at the Partrich makes a slight 
 
 In every sport, I wished by all . 
 
 In wrestling nimble, and in renning swift 
 
 Inhuman man ! curse on thy barb'rous art . 
 
 Into the Pit they're brought, and being there . 
 
 It is a sylvan scene ! A mountain lake . . . . 
 
 It's late, my Lad, to tak' the Gad 
 
 It's Mayday this ; the wale o' days 
 
 It's near Maxfield town boys as I heard them tell . 
 It was on the first of March, in the year of thirty-three 
 
 John Huggins was as bold a man ..... 
 
 Last Evening Lad, I met a noble Swayne . . . . 
 
 Let us our steps direct where Father Thames . 
 
 Loiterer, rise ! the morn hath kept . . . . . 
 
 Loke you so Strang my hearts, to see our limbes 
 
 Look, look ! brother Bob, to the meadows below 
 
 Looke when a Painter would surpasse the life 
 
 Lusty Hearts ! to the wood ...... 
 
 Lyke as a huntsman after weary chace . 
 
 Man is a Tenis-court : His Flesh, the Wall 
 
 Mankind will their favourite pleasures pursue , 
 
 My hawk is tired of perch and hood ..... 
 
 My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here . 
 
 My name's John Bull ; I am a famous hunter 
 
 Nay my good Lord, let me ore-rale you now . 
 
 No doubt, St. Patrick was an Angler . . . . 
 
 Now as an Angler melancholy standing .... 
 
 Now Jorrocks went to sleep one night . . . . 
 
 Now wend we together, my merry men all . 
 
 Now when the first foul Torrent of the Brooks . 
 
 Now winding, wandering pensively .... 
 
 O blessed drums of Aldershot ! . 
 
 O let me rather on the pleasant Brinke .... 
 O the jolly angler's life is the best of any . . . . 
 O'er crackling ice, o'er gulphs profound .... 
 O'er the Desert, cross the Meadows . . . . .
 
 INDEX OF FIRST LINES 
 
 417 
 
 Of a' the games that eer I saw ...... 
 
 Of all delights that Earth doth yeeki 
 
 Of all the Beasts which we for our veneriall uaiut- . 
 
 Of huntyng she beryth the greet pryse ..... 
 
 Of Pan we sing, the best of singers Pan .... 
 
 Oh I once I believed in a woman's kiss ..... 
 
 Oh, won't you let me go, papa 1 ..... . 
 
 Once upon a day most dreary, I was wandering weak ami weary 
 One Labour yet remains, celestial Maid ! . . . . 
 
 One Valentine's Day in the Morning ..... 
 
 Or, when atop the hoary western hill ..... 
 
 Ours is the skie ......... 
 
 Queene and Huntressc, chaste, and faire .... 
 
 Quivering fears. Heart-tearing cares ...... 
 
 .Say, what is wealth without delight ..... 
 
 Scorning the thickest of cover, scorning the closest of gorse 
 .See seated round the winter's fire ...... 
 
 .See the course throng'd with gazers ...... 
 
 .Sir he may live ......... 
 
 .Sith Sickles and the sheering .Sythe, hath siioi nc the 1- eilds ot late 
 .So we some antique Hero's strength . . . . 
 
 Some friends of mine for mirth and glee ..... 
 
 Some love to ride o'er the foaming tide ..... 
 
 Sorrow, sorrow, bring it green ! ...... 
 
 .Southerly wind and a cloudy sky ...... 
 
 Sprightly Sons of manly Sport 
 
 Stags in the forest lie, hares in the valley O ! . . . 
 
 Stand back, my friends, our first attempt l)e here 
 
 Take two stronge men and in Temes cast hem . 
 
 The breeze is on the Jleron-lake 
 
 The Chase I the Chase ! the glorious Chase 1 
 
 The chearful morn beams o'er the hills . 
 
 The craftie Foxe which Numbers doth deceave . 
 
 The days of palmy Chivalry are o'er 
 
 The destenye and the mynister general! 
 
 The dewilrop is clinging .... 
 
 The dusky night rides down the sky . 
 
 The fellow-anglers of my youthful days . 
 
 The grey eye of morning was dear to my )(nith . 
 
 The harmles hunter, with a \eMtrous e)e
 
 4i8 
 
 THE POETRY OF SPORT 
 
 The Highland Moors ! the Highland Moors ! 
 
 The Horn sonorous calls ; the Pack awak'd . 
 
 The hounds are 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 dispels 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'd 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 Gold 
 
 The sun has just peep'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 wel 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 our life long we are frolick and gay 
 
 Thy bold antlers call on 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 phthisic 
 
 To ride or not to ride ? that is the question
 
 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 anil ladies gay .... 
 
 We are oflFonce 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 jilays . 
 
 When dark December glooms the day 
 
 When Emma hunts, in huntsman's habit drest 
 
 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 Lincc)ln>hirc 
 
 When late the trees were stripjjt 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 sporting young cockney conies out for a 
 
 When the still night withdrew her sable shroud 
 
 Where torrents foam ..... 
 
 While fair Thaleslris ])()is'(i the shaft 
 
 While others .soaring on a lofty Wing 
 
 Whilst Rockingham was heard with these Reports to riiii 
 
 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 
 
 Wilh early horn salute the morn .... 
 
 With Horns and with Hounds, I waken the Day 
 
 With silver droppes the meade yet spred lor ruth 
 
 Worthy .<-ir, .sf)uls attract souls .... 
 
 Wot makes the 'untsman's 'earl to beal 
 
 ^'e hardy sons of Chace give ear . . 
 
 Ve vig'rous Swains ! while youth ferniiiii^ )our bloo 
 
 \'on sound's neither sheep- l)ell nor bark
 
 420 
 
 THE POETRY OF SPORT 
 
 TAGK 
 
 You ask a song, and 'twould be wrong to disappoint your call . . 395 
 You county Galway 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 
 
 if^ 
 
 V 
 
 PKlKtED BV 
 
 SfOTTlSWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE 
 
 LONDON
 
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