Iâ€™ve never ceased to curse the day I signed A seven yearsâ€™ bargain for the Golden Fleece. â€™Twas a bad deal all round; and dear enough It cost me, what with my daft management, And the mean folk as owed and never paid me, And backing losers; and the local bucks Egging me on with whiskys while I bragged The man I was when huntsman to the Squire.
Iâ€™d have been prosperous if Iâ€™d took a farm Of fifty acres, drove my gig and haggled At Monday markets; now Iâ€™ve squandered all My savings; nigh three hundred pound I got As testimonial when Iâ€™d grown too stiff And slow to press a beaten fox.
The Fleece! â€™Twas the damned Fleece that wore my Emily out, The wife of thirty years who served me well; (Not like this beldam clattering in the kitchen, That never trims a lamp nor sweeps the floor, And brings me greasy soup in a foul crock.)
Blast the old harridan! Whatâ€™s fetched her now, Leaving me in the dark, and short of fire? And whereâ€™s my pipe? â€™Tis lucky Iâ€™ve a turn For thinking, and remembering all thatâ€™s past. And nowâ€™s my hour, before I hobble to bed, To set the works a-wheezing, wind the clock That keeps the time of life with feeble tick Behind my bleared old face that stares and wonders.
. . . . Itâ€™s queer how, in the dark, comes back to mind Some morning of September. Weâ€™ve been digging In a steep sandy warren, riddled with holes, And Iâ€™ve just pulled the terrier out and left A sharp-nosed cub-face blinking there and snapping, Then in a moment seen him mobbed and torn To strips in the baying hurly of the pack. I picture it so clear: the dusty sunshine On bracken, and the men with spades, that wipe Red faces: one tilts up a mug of ale. And, having stopped to clean my gory hands, I whistle the jostling beauties out of the wood.
Iâ€™m but a daft old fool! I often wish The Squire were back againâ€”ah! he was a man! They donâ€™t breed men like him these days; heâ€™d come For sure, and sit and talk and suck his briar Till the old wife brings up a dish of tea.
Ay, those were days, when I was serving Squire! I never knowed such sport as â€™85, The winter afore the one that snowed us silly.
. . . . Once in a way the parson will drop in And read a bit oâ€™ the Bible, if Iâ€™m bad, And pray the Lord to make my spirit whole In faith: he leaves some â€™baccy on the shelf, And wonders I donâ€™t keep a dog to cheer me Because he knows Iâ€™m mortal fond of dogs!
I ask you, whatâ€™s a gent like that to me As wouldnâ€™t know Elijah if I saw him, Nor have the wit to keep him on the talk? â€™Tis kind of parson to be troubling still With such as me; but heâ€™s a town-bred chap, Full of his college notions and Christmas hymns.
Religion beats me. Iâ€™m amazed at folk Drinking the gospels in and never scratching Their heads for questions. When I was a lad I learned a bit from mother, and never thought To educate myself for prayers and psalms.
But now Iâ€™m old and bald and serious-minded, With days to sit and ponder. Iâ€™d no chance When young and gay to get the hang of all This Hell and Heaven: and when the clergy hoick And holloa from their pulpits, Iâ€™m asleep, However hard I listen; and when they pray It seems weâ€™re all like children sucking sweets In school, and wondering whether master sees.
I used to dream of Hell when I was first Promoted to a huntsmanâ€™s job, and scent Was rotten, and all the foxes disappeared, And hounds were short of blood; and officers From barracks over-rode â€™em all day long On weedy, whistling nags that knocked a hole In every fence; good sportsmen to a man And brigadiers by now, but dreadful hard On a young huntsman keen to show some sport.
Ay, Hell was thick with captains, and I rode The lumbering brute thatâ€™s beat in half a mile, And blunders into every blind old ditch. Hell was the coldest scenting land Iâ€™ve known, And both my whips were always lost, and hounds Would never get their heads down; and a man On a great yawing chestnut trying to cast â€™em While I was in a corner pounded by The ugliest hog-backed stile youâ€™ve clapped your eyes on. There was an iron-spiked fence round all the coverts, And civil-spoken keepers I couldnâ€™t trust, And the main earth unstoppâ€™d. The fox I found Was always a three-legged â€™un from a bag, Who reeked of aniseed and wouldnâ€™t run. The farmers were all ploughing their old pasture And bellowing at me when I rode their beans To cast for beaten fox, or galloped on With hounds to a lucky view. Iâ€™d lost my voice Although I shouted fit to burst my guts, And couldnâ€™t blow my horn.
And when I woke, Emily snored, and barn-cocks started crowing, And morn was at the window; and I was glad To be alive because I heard the cry Of hounds like church-bells chiming on a Sunday. Ay, thatâ€™s the song Iâ€™d wish to hear in Heaven! The cry of hounds was Heaven for me: I know Parson would call me crazed and wrong to say it, But whereâ€™s the use of life and being glad If Godâ€™s not in your gladness?
Iâ€™ve no brains For book-learned studies; but Iâ€™ve heard men say Thereâ€™s much in print that clergy have to wink at: Though many Iâ€™ve met were jolly chaps, and rode To hounds, and walked me puppies; and could pick Good legs and loins and necks and shoulders, ay, And feetâ€”â€™twas necks and feet I looked at first.
Some hounds Iâ€™ve known were wise as half your saints, And better hunters. That old dog of the Dukeâ€™s, Harlequin; what a dog he was to draw! And what a note he had, and what a nose When foxes ran down wind and scent was catchy! And that light lemon bitch of the Squireâ€™s, old Dorcasâ€” She were a marvellous hunter, were old Dorcas! Ay, oft Iâ€™ve thought, â€˜If there were hounds in Heaven, With God as master, taking no subscription; And all His blessÐ¸d country farmed by tenants, And a straight-necked old fox in every gorse!â€™ But when I came to work it out, I found Thereâ€™d be too many huntsmen wanting places, Though some Iâ€™ve known might get a job with Nick!
. . . . Iâ€™ve come to think of God as something like The figure of a man the old Duke was When I was turning hounds to Nimrod King, Before his Grace was took so bad with gout And had to quit the saddle. Tall and spare, Clean-shaved and grey, with shrewd, kind eyes, that twinkled, And easy walk; who, when he gave good words, Gave them whole-hearted; and would never blame Without just cause. Lord God might be like that, Sitting alone in a great room of books Some evening after hunting.
Now Iâ€™m tired With hearkening to the tick-tack on the shelf; And pondering makes me doubtful.
Riding home On a moonless night of cloud that feels like frost Though stars are hidden (hold your feet up, horse!) And thinking what a task I had to draw A pack with all those lame â€™uns, and the lot Wanting a rest from all this open weather; Thatâ€™s what Iâ€™m doing now.
And likely, too, The frostâ€™ll be a long â€™un, and the night One sleep. The parsons say weâ€™ll wake to find A country blinding-white with dazzle of snow.
The naked stars make men feel lonely, wheeling And glinting on the puddles in the road.
And then you listen to the wind, and wonder If folk are quite such bucks as they appear When dressed by London tailors, looking down Their boots at covert side, and thinking big.
. . . . This worldâ€™s a funny place to live in. Soon Iâ€™ll need to change my country; but I know â€™Tis little enough Iâ€™ve understood my life, And a power of sights Iâ€™ve missed, and foreign marvels.
I used to feel it, riding on spring days In meadows pied with sun and chasing clouds, And half forget how I was there to catch The foxes; lose the angry, eager feeling A huntsman ought to have, thatâ€™s out for blood, And means his hounds to get it!
Now I know Itâ€™s God that speaks to us when weâ€™re bewitched, Smelling the hay in June and smiling quiet; Or when thereâ€™s been a spell of summer drought, Lying awake and listening to the rain.
. . . . Iâ€™d like to be the simpleton I was In the old days when I was whipping-in To a little harrier-pack in Worcestershire, And loved a dairymaid, but never knew it Until sheâ€™d wed another. So Iâ€™ve loved My life; and when the good years are gone down, Discover what Iâ€™ve lost.
I never broke Out of my blundering self into the world, But let it all go past me, like a man Half asleep in a land thatâ€™s full of wars.
What a grand thing â€™twould be if I could go Back to the kennels now and take my hounds For summer exercise; be riding out With forty couple when the quiet skies Are streaked with sunrise, and the silly birds Grown hoarse with singing; cobwebs on the furze Up on the hill, and all the country strange, With no one stirring; and the horses fresh, Sniffing the air Iâ€™ll never breathe again.
. . . . Youâ€™ve brought the lamp, then, Martha? Iâ€™ve no mind For newspaper to-night, nor bread and cheese. Give me the candle, and Iâ€™ll get to bed.