Songs of Action

MASTER

   Master went a-hunting,      When the leaves were falling;   We saw him on the bridle path,      We heard him gaily calling.‘Oh master, master, come you back,For I have dreamed a dream so black!’   A glint of steel from bit and heel,      The chestnut cantered faster;   A red flash seen amid the green,      And so good-bye to master.   Master came from hunting,      Two silent comrades bore him;   His eyes were dim, his face was white,      The mare was led before him.‘Oh, master, master, is it thusThat you have come again to us?’   I held my lady’s ice-cold hand,      They bore the hurdle past her;   Why should they go so soft and slow?      It matters not to master.

H.M.S. ‘FOUDROYANT’

[Being an humble address to Her Majesty’s Naval advisers, who sold Nelson’s old flagship to the Germans for a thousand pounds.]

Who says the Nation’s purse is lean,   Who fears for claim or bond or debt,When all the glories that have been   Are scheduled as a cash asset?If times are black and trade is slack,   If coal and cotton fail at last,We’ve something left to barter yet —      Our glorious past.There’s many a crypt in which lies hid   The dust of statesman or of king;There’s Shakespeare’s home to raise a bid,   And Milton’s house its price would bring.What for the sword that Cromwell drew?   What for Prince Edward’s coat of mail?What for our Saxon Alfred’s tomb?      They’re all for sale!And stone and marble may be sold   Which serve no present daily need;There’s Edward’s Windsor, labelled old,   And Wolsey’s palace, guaranteed.St. Clement Danes and fifty fanes,   The Tower and the Temple grounds;How much for these?  Just price them, please,      In British pounds.You hucksters, have you still to learn,   The things which money will not buy?Can you not read that, cold and stern   As we may be, there still does lieDeep in our hearts a hungry love   For what concerns our island story?We sell our work – perchance our lives,      But not our glory.Go barter to the knacker’s yard   The steed that has outlived its time!Send hungry to the pauper ward   The man who served you in his prime!But when you touch the Nation’s store,   Be broad your mind and tight your grip.Take heed!  And bring us back once more      Our Nelson’s ship.And if no mooring can be found   In all our harbours near or far,Then tow the old three-decker round   To where the deep-sea soundings are;There, with her pennon flying clear,   And with her ensign lashed peak high,Sink her a thousand fathoms sheer.      There let her lie!

THE FARNSHIRE CUP

Christopher Davis was up upon Mavis   And Sammy MacGregor on Flo,Jo Chauncy rode Spider, the rankest outsider,   But he’d make a wooden horse go.There was Robin and Leah and Boadicea,   And Chesterfield’s Son of the Sea;And Irish Nuneaton, who never was beaten,   They backed her at seven to three.The course was the devil!  A start on the level,   And then a stiff breather uphill;A bank at the top with a four-foot drop,   And a bullfinch down by the mill.A stretch of straight from the Whittlesea gate,   Then up and down and up;And the mounts that stay through Farnshire clay   May bid for the Farnshire Cup.The tipsters were touting, the bookies were shouting   ‘Bar one, bar one, bar one!’With a glint and a glimmer of silken shimmer   The field shone bright in the sun,When Farmer Brown came riding down:   ‘I hain’t much time to spare,But I’ve entered her name, so I’ll play out the game,   On the back o’ my old gray mare.‘You never would think ’er a thoroughbred clinker,   There’s never a judge that would;Each leg be’ind ’as a splint, you’ll find,   And the fore are none too good.She roars a bit, and she don’t look fit,   She’s moulted ’alf ’er ’air;But – ’  He smiled in a way that seemed to say,   That he knew that old gray mare.And the bookies laughed and the bookies chaffed,   ‘Who backs the mare?’ cried they.‘A hundred to one!’  ‘It’s done – and done!’   ‘We’ll take that price all day.’‘What if the mare is shedding hair!   What if her eye is wild!We read her worth and her pedigree birth   In the smile that her owner smiled.’And the whisper grew and the whisper flew   That she came of Isonomy stock.‘Fifty to one!’  ‘It’s done – and done!   Look at her haunch and hock!Ill-groomed!  Why yes, but one may guess   That that is her owner’s guile.’Ah, Farmer Brown, the sharps from town,   Have read your simple smile!They’ve weighed him in.  ‘Now lose or win,   I’ve money at stake this day;Gee-long, my sweet, and if we’re beat,   We’ll both do all we may!’He joins the rest, they line abreast,   ‘Back Leah!  Mavis up!’The flag is dipped and the field is slipped,   Full split for the Farnshire Cup.Christopher Davis is leading on Mavis,   Spider is waiting on Flo;Boadicea is gaining on Leah,   Irish Nuneaton lies low;Robin is tailing, his wind has been failing,   Son of the Sea’s going fast:So crack on the pace for it’s anyone’s race,   And the winner’s the horse that can last.Chestnut and bay, and sorrel and gray,   See how they glimmer and gleam!Bending and straining, and losing and gaining,   Silk jackets flutter and stream;They are over the grass as the cloud shadows pass,   They are up to the fence at the top;It’s ‘hey then!’ and over, and into the clover,   There wasn’t one slip at the drop.They are all going still; they are round by the mill,   They are down by the Whittlesea gate;Leah’s complaining, and Mavis is gaining,   And Flo’s catching up in the straight.Robin’s gone wrong, but the Spider runs strong,   He sticks to the leader like wax;An utter outsider, but look at his rider —   Jo Chauncy, the pick of the cracks!Robin was tailing and pecked at a paling,   Leah’s gone weak in her feet;Boadicea came down at the railing,   Son of the Sea is dead beat.Leather to leather, they’re pounding together,   Three of them all in a row;And Irish Nuneaton, who never was beaten,   Is level with Spider and Flo.It’s into the straight from the Whittlesea gate,   Clean galloping over the green,But four foot high the hurdles lie   With a sunken ditch between.’Tis a bit of a test for a beast at its best,   And the devil and all at its worst;But it’s clear run in with the Cup to win   For the horse that is over it first.So try it, my beauties, and fly it, my beauties,   Spider, Nuneaton, and Flo;With a trip and a blunder there’s one of them under,   Hark to it crashing below!Is it the brown or the sorrel that’s down?   The brown!  It is Flo who is in!And Spider with Chauncy, the pick of the fancy,   Is going full split for a win.‘Spider is winning!’  ‘Jo Chauncy is winning!’   ‘He’s winning!  He’s winning!  Bravo!’The bookies are raving, the ladies are waving,   The Stand is all shouting for Jo.The horse is clean done, but the race may be won   By the Newmarket lad on his back;For the fire of the rider may bring an outsider   Ahead of a thoroughbred crack.‘Spider is winning!’  ‘Jo Chauncy is winning!’   It swells like the roar of the sea;But Jo hears the drumming of somebody coming,   And sees a lean head by his knee.‘Nuneaton!  Nuneaton!  The Spider is beaten!’   It is but a spurt at the most;For lose it or win it, they have but a minute   Before they are up with the post.Nuneaton is straining, Nuneaton is gaining,   Neither will falter nor flinch;Whips they are plying and jackets are flying,   They’re fairly abreast to an inch.‘Crack ’em up!  Let ’em go!  Well ridden!  Bravo!’   Gamer ones never were bred;Jo Chauncy has done it!  He’s spurted!  He’s won it!’   The favourite’s beat by a head!Don’t tell me of luck, for its judgment and pluck   And a courage that never will shirk;To give your mind to it and know how to do it   And put all your heart in your work.So here’s to the Spider, the winning outsider,   With little Jo Chauncy up;May they stay life’s course, both jockey and horse,   As they stayed in the Farnshire Cup.But it’s possible that you are wondering what   May have happened to Farmer Brown,And the old gray crock of Isonomy stock   Who was backed by the sharps from town.She blew and she sneezed, she coughed and she wheezed,   She ran till her knees gave way.But never a grumble at trip or at stumble   Was heard from her jock that day.For somebody laid against the gray,   And somebody made a pile;And Brown says he can make farming pay,   And he smiles a simple smile.‘Them sharps from town were riled,’ says Brown;   ‘But I can’t see why – can you?For I said quite fair as I knew that mare,   And I proved my words was true.’

THE GROOM’S STORY

Ten mile in twenty minutes!  ’E done it, sir.  That’s true.The big bay ’orse in the further stall – the one wot’s next to you.I’ve seen some better ’orses; I’ve seldom seen a wuss,But ’e ’olds the bloomin’ record, an’ that’s good enough for us.We knew as it wa’s in ’im.  ’E’s thoroughbred, three part,We bought ’im for to race ’im, but we found ’e ’ad no ’eart;For ’e was sad and thoughtful, and amazin’ dignified,It seemed a kind o’ liberty to drive ’im or to ride;For ’e never seemed a-thinkin’ of what ’e ’ad to do,But ’is thoughts was set on ’igher things, admirin’ of the view.’E looked a puffeck pictur, and a pictur ’e would stay,’E wouldn’t even switch ’is tail to drive the flies away.And yet we knew ’twas in ’im, we knew as ’e could fly;But what we couldn’t git at was ’ow to make ’im try.We’d almost turned the job up, until at last one dayWe got the last yard out of ’im in a most amazin’ way.It was all along o’ master; which master ’as the nameOf a reg’lar true blue sportman, an’ always acts the same;But we all ’as weaker moments, which master ’e ’ad one,An’ ’e went and bought a motor-car when motor-cars begun.I seed it in the stable yard – it fairly turned me sick —A greasy, wheezy engine as can neither buck nor kick.You’ve a screw to drive it forrard, and a screw to make it stop,For it was foaled in a smithy stove an’ bred in a blacksmith shop.It didn’t want no stable, it didn’t ask no groom,It didn’t need no nothin’ but a bit o’ standin’ room.Just fill it up with paraffin an’ it would go all day,Which the same should be agin the law if I could ’ave my way.Well, master took ’is motor-car, an’ moted ’ere an’ there,A frightenin’ the ’orses an’ a poisonin’ the air.’E wore a bloomin’ yachtin’ cap, but Lor’! wot did ’e know,Excep’ that if you turn a screw the thing would stop or go?An’ then one day it wouldn’t go.  ’E screwed and screwed again,But somethin’ jammed, an’ there ’e stuck in the mud of a country lane.It ’urt ’is pride most cruel, but what was ’e to do?So at last ’e bade me fetch a ’orse to pull the motor through.This was the ’orse we fetched ’im; an’ when we reached the car,We braced ’im tight and proper to the middle of the bar,And buckled up ’is traces and lashed them to each side,While ’e ’eld ’is ’ead so ’aughtily, an’ looked most dignified.Not bad tempered, mind you, but kind of pained and vexed,And ’e seemed to say, ‘Well, bli’ me! wot will they ask me next?I’ve put up with some liberties, but this caps all by far,To be assistant engine to a crocky motor-car!’Well, master ’e was in the car, a-fiddlin’ with the gear,And the ’orse was meditatin’, an’ I was standin’ near,When master ’e touched somethin’ – what it was we’ll never know —But it sort o’ spurred the boiler up and made the engine go.‘’Old ’ard, old gal!’ says master, and ‘Gently then!’ says I,But an engine won’t ’eed coaxin’ an’ it ain’t no use to try;So first ’e pulled a lever, an’ then ’e turned a screw,But the thing kept crawlin’ forrard spite of all that ’e could do.And first it went quite slowly and the ’orse went also slow,But ’e ’ad to buck up faster when the wheels began to go;For the car kept crowdin’ on ’im and buttin’ ’im along,And in less than ’alf a minute, sir, that ’orse was goin’ strong.At first ’e walked quite dignified, an’ then ’e ’ad to trot,And then ’e tried a canter when the pace became too ’ot.’E looked ’is very ’aughtiest, as if ’e didn’t ’e mind,And all the time the motor-car was pushin’ ’im be’ind.Now, master lost ’is ’ead when ’e found ’e couldn’t stop,And ’e pulled a valve or somethin’ an’ somethin’ else went pop,An’ somethin’ else went fizzywiz, and in a flash, or less,That blessed car was goin’ like a limited express.Master ’eld the steerin’ gear, an’ kept the road all right,And away they whizzed and clattered – my aunt! it was a sight.’E seemed the finest draught ’orse as ever lived by far,For all the country Juggins thought ’twas ’im wot pulled the car.’E was stretchin’ like a grey’ound, ’e was goin’ all ’e knew;But it bumped an’ shoved be’ind ’im, for all that ’e could do;It butted ’im an’ boosted ’im an’ spanked ’im on a’ead,Till ’e broke the ten-mile record, same as I already said.Ten mile in twenty minutes!  ’E done it, sir.  That’s true.The only time we ever found what that ’ere ’orse could do.Some say it wasn’t ’ardly fair, and the papers made a fuss,But ’e broke the ten-mile record, and that’s good enough for us.You see that ’orse’s tail, sir?  You don’t!  No more do we,Which really ain’t surprisin’, for ’e ’as no tail to see;That engine wore it off ’im before master made it stop,And all the road was littered like a bloomin’ barber’s shop.And master?  Well, it cured ’im.  ’E altered from that day,And come back to ’is ’orses in the good old-fashioned way.And if you wants to git the sack, the quickest way by farIs to ’int as ’ow you think ’e ought to keep a motor-car.

WITH THE CHIDDINGFOLDS

   The horse is bedded down      Where the straw lies deep.   The hound is in the kennel;      Let the poor hound sleep!   And the fox is in the spinney      By the run which he is haunting,   And I’ll lay an even guinea      That a goose or two is wantingWhen the farmer comes to count them in the morning.   The horse is up and saddled;      Girth the old horse tight!   The hounds are out and drawing      In the morning light.   Now it’s ‘Yoick!’ among the heather,      And it’s ‘Yoick!’ across the clover,   And it’s ‘To him, all together!’      ‘Hyke a Bertha!  Hyke a Rover!’And the woodlands smell so sweetly in the morning.   ‘There’s Termagant a-whimpering;      She whimpers so.’   ‘There’s a young hound yapping!’      Let the young hound go!   But the old hound is cunning,      And it’s him we mean to follow,   ‘They are running!  They are running!      And it’s ‘Forrard to the hollo!’For the scent is lying strongly in the morning.   ‘Who’s the fool that heads him?’      Hold hard, and let him pass!   He’s out among the oziers      He’s clear upon the grass.   You grip his flanks and settle,      For the horse is stretched and straining,   Here’s a game to test your mettle,      And a sport to try your training,When the Chiddingfolds are running in the morning.   We’re up by the Coppice      And we’re down by the Mill,   We’re out upon the Common,      And the hounds are running still.   You must tighten on the leather,      For we blunder through the bracken;   Though you’re over hocks in heather      Still the pace must never slackenAs we race through Thursley Common in the morning.   We are breaking from the tangle      We are out upon the green,   There’s a bank and a hurdle      With a quickset between.   You must steady him and try it,      You are over with a scramble.   Here’s a wattle!  You must fly it,      And you land among the bramble,For it’s roughish, toughish going in the morning.   ’Ware the bog by the Grove      As you pound through the slush.   See the whip!  See the huntsman!      We are close upon his brush.   ’Ware the root that lies before you!      It will trip you if you blunder.   ’Ware the branch that’s drooping o’er you!      You must dip and swerve from underAs you gallop through the woodland in the morning.   There were fifty at the find,      There were forty at the mill,   There were twenty on the heath,      And ten are going still.   Some are pounded, some are shirking,      And they dwindle and diminish   Till a weary pair are working,      Spent and blowing, to the finish,And we hear the shrill whoo-ooping in the morning.   The horse is bedded down      Where the straw lies deep,   The hound is in the kennel,      He is yapping in his sleep.   But the fox is in the spinney      Lying snug in earth and burrow.   And I’ll lay an even guinea      We could find again to-morrow,If we chose to go a-hunting in the morning.

A HUNTING MORNING

Put the saddle on the mare,   For the wet winds blow;There’s winter in the air,   And autumn all below.For the red leaves are flyingAnd the red bracken dying,And the red fox lying   Where the oziers grow.Put the bridle on the mare,   For my blood runs chill;And my heart, it is there,   On the heather-tufted hill,With the gray skies o’er us,And the long-drawn chorusOf a running pack before us   From the find to the kill.Then lead round the mare,   For it’s time that we began,And away with thought and care,   Save to live and be a man,While the keen air is blowing,And the huntsman holloing,And the black mare going   As the black mare can.

THE OLD GRAY FOX

We started from the Valley Pride,   And Farnham way we went.We waited at the cover-side,   But never found a scent.Then we tried the withy beds   Which grow by Frensham town,And there we found the old gray fox,      The same old fox,      The game old fox;Yes, there we found the old gray fox,   Which lives on Hankley Down.         So here’s to the master,         And here’s to the man!      And here’s to twenty couple      Of the white and black and tan!   Here’s a find without a wait!   Here’s a hedge without a gate!   Here’s the man who follows straight,      Where the old fox ran.The Member rode his thoroughbred,   Doctor had the gray,The Soldier led on a roan red,   The Sailor rode the bay.Squire was there on his Irish mare,   And Parson on the brown;And so we chased the old gray fox,      The same old fox,      The game old fox,And so we chased the old gray fox   Across the Hankley Down.         So here’s to the master,         And here’s to the man!            &c. &c. &c.The Doctor’s gray was going strong   Until she slipped and fell;He had to keep his bed so long   His patients all got well.The Member he had lost his seat,   ’Twas carried by his horse;And so we chased the old gray fox,      The same old fox,      The game old fox;And so we chased the old gray fox   That earthed in Hankley Gorse.         So here’s to the master,         And here’s to the man!            &c. &c. &c.The Parson sadly fell away,   And in the furze did lie;The words we heard that Parson say   Made all the horses shy!The Sailor he was seen no more   Upon that stormy bay;But still we chased the old gray fox,      The same old fox,      The game old fox;Still we chased the old gray fox   Through all the winter day.         So here’s to the master,         And here’s to the man!            &c. &c. &c.And when we found him gone to ground,   They sent for spade and man;But Squire said ‘Shame!  The beast was game!   A gamer never ran!His wind and pace have gained the race,   His life is fairly won.But may we meet the old gray fox,      The same old fox,      The game old fox;May we meet the old gray fox   Before the year is done.         So here’s to the master,         And here’s to the man!      And here’s to twenty couple      Of the white and black and tan!      Here’s a find without await!      Here’s a hedge without a gate!      Here’s the man who follows straight,         Where the old fox ran.

’WARE HOLES

[‘’Ware Holes!’ is the expression used in the hunting-field to warn those behind against rabbit-burrows or other suck dangers.]

A sportin’ death!  My word it was!   An’ taken in a sportin’ way.Mind you, I wasn’t there to see;   I only tell you what they say.They found that day at Shillinglee,   An’ ran ’im down to Chillinghurst;The fox was goin’ straight an’ free   For ninety minutes at a burst.They ’ad a check at Ebernoe   An’ made a cast across the Down,Until they got a view ’ullo   An’ chased ’im up to Kirdford town.From Kirdford ’e run Bramber way,   An’ took ’em over ’alf the Weald.If you ’ave tried the Sussex clay,   You’ll guess it weeded out the field.Until at last I don’t suppose   As ’arf a dozen, at the most,Came safe to where the grassland goes   Switchbackin’ southwards to the coast.Young Captain ’Eadley, ’e was there,   And Jim the whip an’ Percy Day;The Purcells an’ Sir Charles Adair,   An’ this ’ere gent from London way.For ’e ’ad gone amazin’ fine,   Two ’undred pounds between ’is knees;Eight stone he was, an’ rode at nine,   As light an’ limber as you please.’E was a stranger to the ’Unt,   There weren’t a person as ’e knew there;But ’e could ride, that London gent —   ’E sat ’is mare as if ’e grew there.They seed the ’ounds upon the scent,   But found a fence across their track,And ’ad to fly it; else it meant   A turnin’ and a ’arkin’ back.’E was the foremost at the fence,   And as ’is mare just cleared the railHe turned to them that rode be’ind,   For three was at ’is very tail.‘’Ware ’oles!’ says ’e, an’ with the word,   Still sittin’ easy on his mare,Down, down ’e went, an’ down an’ down,   Into the quarry yawnin’ there.Some say it was two ’undred foot;   The bottom lay as black as ink.I guess they ’ad some ugly dreams,   Who reined their ’orses on the brink.’E’d only time for that one cry;   ‘’Ware ’oles!’ says ’e, an’ saves all three.There may be better deaths to die,   But that one’s good enough for me.For mind you, ’twas a sportin’ end,   Upon a right good sportin’ day;They think a deal of ’im down ’ere,   That gent what came from London way.

THE HOME-COMING OF THE ‘EURYDICE’

[Lost, with her crew of three hundred boys, on the last day of her voyage, March 23, 1876. She foundered off Portsmouth, from which town many of the boys came.]

Up with the royals that top the white spread of her!   Press her and dress her, and drive through the foam;The Island’s to port, and the mainland ahead of her,   Hey for the Warner and Hayling and Home!Bo’sun, O Bo’sun, just look at the green of it!   Look at the red cattle down by the hedge!Look at the farmsteading – all that is seen of it,   One little gable end over the edge!’‘Lord! the tongues of them clattering, clattering,   All growing wild at a peep of the Wight;Aye, sir, aye, it has set them all chattering,   Thinking of home and their mothers to-night.’Spread the topgallants – oh, lay them out lustily!   What though it darken o’er Netherby Combe?’Tis but the valley wind, puffing so gustily —   On for the Warner and Hayling and Home!‘Bo’sun, O Bo’sun, just see the long slope of it!   Culver is there, with the cliff and the light.Tell us, oh tell us, now is there a hope of it?   Shall we have leave for our homes for to-night?’‘Tut, the clack of them!  Steadily!  Steadily!   Aye, as you say, sir, they’re little ones still;One long reach should open it readily,   Round by St. Helens and under the hill.‘The Spit and the Nab are the gates of the promise,   Their mothers to them – and to us it’s our wives.I’ve sailed forty years, and – By God it’s upon us!   Down royals, Down top’sles, down, down, for your lives!’A grey swirl of snow with the squall at the back of it,   Heeling her, reeling her, beating her down!A gleam of her bends in the thick of the wrack of it,   A flutter of white in the eddies of brown.It broke in one moment of blizzard and blindness;   The next, like a foul bat, it flapped on its way.But our ship and our boys!  Gracious Lord, in your kindness,   Give help to the mothers who need it to-day!Give help to the women who wait by the water,   Who stand on the Hard with their eyes past the Wight.Ah! whisper it gently, you sister or daughter,   ‘Our boys are all gathered at home for to-night.’

THE INNER ROOM

It is mine – the little chamber,   Mine alone.I had it from my forbears   Years agone.Yet within its walls I seeA most motley company,And they one and all claim me   As their own.There’s one who is a soldier   Bluff and keen;Single-minded, heavy-fisted,   Rude of mien.He would gain a purse or stake it,He would win a heart or break it,He would give a life or take it,   Conscience-clean.And near him is a priest   Still schism-whole;He loves the censer-reek   And organ-roll.He has leanings to the mystic,Sacramental, eucharistic;And dim yearnings altruistic   Thrill his soul.There’s another who with doubts   Is overcast;I think him younger brother   To the last.Walking wary stride by stride,Peering forwards anxious-eyed,Since he learned to doubt his guide   In the past.And ’mid them all, alert,   But somewhat cowed,There sits a stark-faced fellow,   Beetle-browed,Whose black soul shrinks awayFrom a lawyer-ridden day,And has thoughts he dare not say   Half avowed.There are others who are sitting,   Grim as doom,In the dim ill-boding shadow   Of my room.Darkling figures, stern or quaint,Now a savage, now a saint,Showing fitfully and faint   Through the gloom.And those shadows are so dense,   There may beMany – very many – more   Than I see.They are sitting day and nightSoldier, rogue, and anchorite;And they wrangle and they fight   Over me.If the stark-faced fellow win,   All is o’er!If the priest should gain his will   I doubt no more!But if each shall have his day,I shall swing and I shall swayIn the same old weary way   As before.