035 
 
 R55GJL LAYS OF THE 
 
 I HERTFORDSHIRE HUNT 
 
 GEORGE ROBINS 
 
THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
LAYS OF THE 
 HERTFORDSHIRE HUNT 
 
LAYS OF THE 
 HERTFORDSHIRE HUNT 
 
 AND OTHER 
 
 SPORTING VERSES 
 
 BY 
 
 GEORGE ROBINS 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 ARTHUR L. HUMPHREYS 
 
 187 PICCADILLY, W. 
 
 1912 
 
?R 
 
 JL 
 
 WITH EVERY HOPE THAT THE SPORT OF THE FUTURE 
 
 MAY ECLIPSE THAT OF THE PAST, 
 
 THESE VERSES ARE 
 
 DEDICATED 
 
 TO 
 
 THE EARL OF CAVAN, M.F.H. 
 
 * A man we all know, 
 A man we all swear by, a friend of our own , 
 
 With hounds running hardest he's safest to go, 
 And he's always in front, and he's often alone.' 
 
 WHYTE-MELVILLE. 
 
 . 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 THE MEN WHO HAVE GONE BEFORE ..... 1 
 
 SHARPENHOE KHOWI. . 5 
 
 A BALLAD OF BARON DACRE 7 
 
 IVIVGHOE HILL 11 
 
 HERTFORDSHIRE SAMPLER 13 
 
 THE PLACE AND THE MAN 16 
 
 OUR FRIENDS THE FARMERS .18 
 
 TO ONE WHO WENT HOME EARLY . . . . . .20 
 
 BULLS GREEN .......... 23 
 
 A PLEA FOR THE PROVINCES ....... f5 
 
 TO AN OLD HUNTING DIARY .28 
 
 THE MAN WHO HOLDS OPEN THE GATE 29 
 
 ' THE CRANE ' 31 
 
 A LAMENT FOR THE LADY OF LILLEY . . . . .33 
 
 THE PUPPY-WALKER PROPHESIES ...... 34 
 
 A RHYME WITH A REASON 36 
 
 THE ODD-JOBS MEN . 37 
 
 TO OUR HUNTSMAN ON GOING ABROAD . . . . .39 
 
 I. A REMONSTRANCE (TO HOSIE) 40 
 
 II. A REPLY 41 
 
 HOW I LOST THE GALLOPABAD CUP 42 
 
 BLACK BESS 44 
 
 PONYLAND .......... 48 
 
 AN OXFORD AFTERMATH ........ 50 
 
 A FAREWELL TO FOX-HUNTING 52 
 
LAYS OF THE 
 HERTFORDSHIRE HUNT. 
 
 The Men who have Gone Before. 
 
 (A lay of the Hertfordshire Hunt Club.) 
 
 9* I MS meet when we're in merry mood 
 
 -*- To let our thoughts hark back 
 To the men who made our country 
 
 And the men who bred our pack. 
 We reap the fruits their hands have sown, 
 
 And Time's effacing flight 
 Shall naught avail against our vow 
 
 To keep their memory bright. 
 
 A lady holds the pride of place 
 
 In the roll of honour's front ; 
 Tis the grand old dame of the Cecil house 
 
 Who founded the Hatfield Hunt. 
 
LAYS OF THE HERTFORDSHIRE HUNT. 
 
 A health to the gallant Marchioness ! * 
 
 The noble name she bore 
 Still heads the toast we honour most 
 
 4 The men who have gone before/ 
 
 And next we fill a glass to one 
 
 Who knows a world-wide fame; 
 4 The Noble Science 1 our toast shall be, 
 
 And Delme RadclinVs f name. 
 Where Beckford, Vyner, 4 Nimrod <> stand 
 
 He fitly takes his place, 
 With Surtees and with Somerville 
 
 The classics of the Chase. 
 
 And here's to every gallant soul, 
 
 To every hound and horse, 
 That saw the end at Wendover 
 
 That day from Kens worth Gorse.* 
 To Grimston and to Daniell 
 
 There was but one man more 
 So for all the three our toast shall be 
 
 4 To the men who have gone before. 1 
 
 * The second Marchioness of Salisbury, who established 
 the Hunt about 1775, and held office until her seventieth year, 
 in 1819. 
 
 + Mr. Delme Radcliffe, author of The Noble Science of 
 Foxhunting, Master of the Hertfordshire, 1835-1839. 
 
 J This 'famous run, during which hounds covered upwards 
 of thirty miles, occurred during Mr. Delme Radcliffe 's master- 
 ship, March 17th, 1837. The Hon. E. Grimston, Mr. Daniell, 
 and the Second Whipper-in (whose name is not recorded) 
 were the only men who saw the finish. A contemporary 
 chronicle puts the point at 28 miles, and the time at 2 hours 
 35 minutes. 
 
LAYS OF THE HERTFORDSHIRE HUNT. 
 
 Lord Dacre* claims his mead of praise 
 
 Our Master twice was he 
 And the builder of our kennels, too, 
 
 The generous Gerard Leigh.f 
 While of the men of later date 
 
 Who ride among us yet 
 Kingswalden's open-handed squire J 
 
 Not lightly we'll forget. 
 
 And hundreds more we honour, too 
 
 Your sire, maybe, and mine : 
 The men who wore the scarlet 
 
 And the men who rode the line. 
 The huntsmen of an earlier day, 
 
 Well versed in kennel lore, 
 These we applaud, from Wells to Ward 
 
 ' The men who have gone before.' 
 
 Oh ! sportsmen of the present day, 
 
 Look to the matter thus : 
 The country is a heritage 
 
 Our fathers left to us. 
 See that the trust of sevenscore years 
 
 Be safely handed on, 
 And guard the honour of the Hunt 
 
 W T hose uniform ye don. 
 
 * Master from 1839-1866, and (jointly) f rom 1875-1885. 
 t Master from 1866-1875. 
 
 J Mr. Fenwick Harrison, Joint-Master 1698-1901, and 
 Master, 1901-1909. 
 
 3 
 
LAYS OF THE HERTFORDSHIRE HUNT, 
 
 See that your foxes still be wild, 
 
 As those bred by your sire ; 
 See that your face be set against 
 
 The thrice-accursed wire. 
 So shall the glories of the Chase 
 
 Wax ever more and more, 
 And praise ye shall earn from your sons in 
 turn 
 
 As * the men who have gone before.' 
 
LAYS OF THE HERTFORDSHIRE HUNT. 
 
 Sharpenhoe Knowl. 
 
 MINE be the song of the hill-fox in January, 
 Staking his life on his stoutness and speed, 
 Scorning the woodlands to right and to left of him, 
 
 Seeking the hills in the hour of his need. 
 Maybe you found him at Tingrith or Toddington, 
 
 Maybe from Maulden's famed cover he stole, 
 Facing the vale since his hills lie to South of it, 
 Setting his head straight for Sharpenhoe Knowl. 
 
 See how they drive down the Pulloxhill pasture- 
 lands ! 
 
 Gallant old Whimbrel* and Wary drop back 
 Youth will be served when its 'sterns down and 
 hackles up 1 
 
 Sanguine and Sally are leading the pack. 
 Fastest of horses must gallop to live with them, 
 
 Gaping vale ditches are taking their toll, 
 Look to yourself, now, old traveller in front of them, 
 
 If you would ever see Sharpenhoe Knowl ! 
 
 Whoop ! He's to ground, and the bitches are 
 baulked of him ; 
 
 Hark how they bay round the earth on the hill! 
 Forty-five minutes, and never a check in it 
 
 Even the thrusters have had all they will. 
 
 * Poor old Whimbrel was killed on the line at Ampthill 
 on February 28th, 1919, but she well deserves such post- 
 humous honour as my verse can afford her. 
 
LAYS OF THE HERTFORDSHIRE HUNT. 
 
 Well he has beaten them, fairly and gallantly, 
 Made good his point and won home to his goal : 
 
 There was he bred, and there fitly finds sanctuary 
 Under the shadow of Sharpenhoe Knowl. 
 
 Here's to the hill, and the foxes that run to it ; 
 
 Long may ' The Clappers ' stand square to the 
 
 gale, 
 Landmark for all men from Weston to Westoning, 
 
 Keeping good guard o'er the Harlington vale. 
 Kerens a full glass to the sportsmen whose home 
 it is, 
 
 Luck to the acres that own their control; 
 Long may the litters be bred in security, 
 
 Long may they farm under Sharpenhoe Knowl. 
 
LAYS OF THE HERTFORDSHIRE HUNT. 
 
 A Ballad of Baron Dacre.* 
 
 FROSTY and grey the morning dawned 
 And a bitter North wind blew, 
 And the wild-fowl skimmed o'er a frozen lake 
 
 In the park at Kimpton Hoo, 
 And the bold Lord Dacre looked in wrath 
 
 On the land where the white mist lay, 
 But his gentle lady craved as a boon 
 
 That he rode not out that day. 
 ' You shall come to harm on the ice-bound roads, 1 
 
 Said she, 'an ye venture forth, 
 And Silsoe lies under Ampthill town, 
 
 Full seven leagues to the North.' 
 Lord Dacre's heart was sad, I ween, 
 
 As he granted his lady's prayer, 
 For his eye was bright and his heart right young, 
 
 In spite of his silvered hair. 
 ' But whether I go or stay, 1 quoth he, 
 
 Come frost, come snow, come mist, 
 I swear by Hugo Meynell's horn 
 
 My hounds shall keep their tryst. 1 
 And forth he hath sent a messenger, 
 
 At a good steed's fleetest pace, 
 
 * Although the date of this fine run and extraordinary coin- 
 cidence has been lost sight of, the facts are exactly as recorded 
 in the ballad. The writer had the story from the present 
 Master, who had it from his father. 
 
LAYS OF THE HERTFORDSHIRE HUNT. 
 
 To bid his huntsman take the road 
 
 And hie to the trysting-place. 
 And this was the rede his Master sent, 
 
 If by any means he may, 
 He shall find a fox and hunt a fox, 
 
 And kill a fox that day. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 It was the hour of the mid-day meal, 
 
 At the full of high noontide, 
 And the Baron bold he sat at meat 
 
 With his lady by his side. 
 He sat him down to the plenteous cheer, 
 
 But he started up amain : 
 Quoth he, 'An I hear not Bob Ward^s horn 
 
 May I never hunt fox again ! "* 
 And e'en as he spoke, through the startled air 
 
 The loud ' who-whoop ! ' there pealed, 
 That speaks the death of a gallant fox 
 
 When he dies in open field. 
 Forth to the park Lord Dacre sped. 
 
 And looked with wondering eye, 
 Where Bob Ward stood with his baying pack, 
 
 And a great fox held on high. 
 * What make you here with hound and horn ? ' 
 
 The Baron spake in wrath, 
 *Lies Silsoe not under Ampthill town, 
 
 Full seven leagues to the North ? 
 If ye have not keep to the tryst this day 
 
 I hold by the oath I swore, 
 And, though your skill were as Nimrod's own, 
 
 Ye shall hunt my hounds no more. 1 
 8 
 
LAYS OF THE HERTFORDSHIRE HUNT. 
 
 Sharp and loud as the thunder peals 
 
 Was the Baron's wrath outpoured, 
 But broad and bland as the sun at noon 
 
 Was the smile of old Bob Ward. 
 * We found him in Buckle Grove, my lord, 
 
 And he set his mask due South ; 
 I had never a need to cheer a hound, 
 
 Or to set my horn to my mouth. 
 They carried a head, they drove, they raced, 
 
 Twere a gallant sight to see, 
 Till " Leader "" nailed him by yonder gate, 
 
 My lord, and here he be ! ' 
 
 * * # * 
 
 Woe for the glades of Buckle Grove, 
 
 Which the foxes once possessed ! 
 For the pheasant rules in selfish state 
 
 In the lordly park at Wrest. 
 But I look that the day shall surely dawn 
 
 (Heaven speed it on apace!) 
 When its lord shall come to his own again, 
 
 For well he loves the chase. 
 The stout Bob Ward* is lowly laid 
 
 With his faithful horse and hound, 
 And he waits the day of the last great meet 
 
 When the last dread horn shall sound. 
 And few be left who have heard his cheer, 
 
 But his memory still lives on ; 
 
 * Charles Ward, always known as * Bob,' hunted the Hert- 
 fordshire Hounds for forty years (1844-1884). He was originally 
 trained in the Burton country, under the great Osbaldeston, 
 and was subsequently with the Cambridgeshire and Lord 
 Southampton before coming to Lord Dacre. 
 
 9 
 
LAYS OF THE HERTFORDSHIRE HUNT. 
 
 And our sons shall speak of his prowess yet 
 
 When a hundred years are gone. 
 The Bold Lord Dacre sleeps in peace, 
 
 With his lady by his side ; 
 But as long as a foxhound follows a fox 
 
 We shall speak his name with pride. 
 And a Brand of his line wears scarlet yet, 
 
 As his sons shall wear it too ; 
 May they ride in front in as good a hunt 
 
 To their park at Kimpton Hoo. 
 
 10 
 
LAYS OF THE HERTFORDSHIRE HUNT. 
 
 Ivinghoe Hill. 
 
 HERE, where three counties join hands in 
 alliance, 
 
 Terrace on terrace and glade upon glade, 
 Ashridge looms up like a keep of the giants, 
 Buttressed with beech woods from Aldbury to 
 
 Gade. 
 Northwards the vale stretches smiling and spacious, 
 
 Spurs of the Chilterns the far distance fill ; 
 Never held dreamland a prospect more gracious : 
 Sunlight and shadow on Ivinghoe hill. 
 
 Here, uneffaced by two thousand years' 1 weather, 
 
 Scarred on the chalk down and stamped in the 
 
 clay, 
 Linking the Eastland and Westland together, 
 
 Runs the long line of the great Ickneild Way. 
 Here, in the days of the dawning of history, 
 
 Marched the Iceni to plunder and kill ; 
 Over it all hangs the glamour of mystery : 
 
 Shades of the past under Ivinghoe hill. 
 
 Y Glider's the knoll where the beacon was lighted, 
 Northward and eastward the red message runs : 
 
 ' Philip's tall ships in the Channel are sighted ; 
 Arm, for your country hath need of her sons ! * 
 
 11 
 
LAYS OF THE HERTFORDSHIRE HUNT. 
 
 Straightway they rose and flung back the Armada. 
 
 Lives the same spirit within our hearts still ? 
 Can England muster such champions to guard her ? 
 
 Mists of the future round Ivinghoe hill. 
 
 Hush ! A brown form through the gorse stems is 
 stealing, 
 
 Off to the vale with a wave of his brush ! 
 Heedless of aught that the future's concealing, 
 
 Back to the present we come with a rush. 
 One ringing shout to the horsemen who follow, 
 
 Waking the woods till they echo and thrill ; 
 Now the horn answers : Hark holloa ! hark holloa ! 
 
 Huntsman and hound upon Ivinghoe hill. 
 
 12 
 
LAYS OF THE HERTFORDSHIRE HUNT. 
 
 Hertfordshire Sampler. 
 
 By Mr. Wroughtoris Spanker South Cheshire Tarnish. 
 
 Whelped 1905. 
 
 Champion Dog Hound at Peterborough, 1907. 
 Died 1912. 
 
 ' '1T7ITH a Corbet to guide us we cannot go 
 * wrong, 1 
 
 And the truth of the old song's shown, 
 For the credit of Sampler's breeding rests 
 
 On the South Cheshire Kennel alone ; 
 But puppyhood's days he'd the luck to spend 
 In the best of walks at Porter's End, 
 Where plenty of Hertfordshire milk would tend 
 
 To give him size and bone. 
 
 And he grew and furnished in every way 
 
 That hound-men most desire, 
 In symmetry and in quality, 
 
 In substance, scope, and fire. 
 
 And he showed in his work that for nose and drive 
 You could match him with any hound alive, 
 Till they said at the great show he should strive 
 
 For the honour of Hertfordshire. 
 
 So he went to the flags at Peterboro' 
 
 For the world to praise or blame, 
 And his splendid rivals mustered strong 
 
 From every kennel of fame. 
 
 13 
 
LAYS OF THE HERTFORDSHIRE HUNT. 
 
 Warwickshire, Brocklesby, Graftons best, 
 Beaufort and Cattistock up from the West, 
 Milton and Meynell, and all the rest, 
 The pick of England came. 
 
 To which of the broad grass-acred shires 
 
 Shall the Championship go back ? 
 There were some who swore by the Cottesmore 
 
 blood, 
 
 And some by the Pytchley crack. 
 But the judges 1 verdict doubt dispels 
 And a jealous murmur of wonder swells, 
 For the Champion Cup goes home with Wells* 
 To the old plough-country pack. 
 
 The grass grows green on the old dog's grave, 
 
 But endless the good he wrought, 
 For his sons and his daughters flourish yet, 
 
 His legacy to sport. 
 
 First on the flags when the pack is drawn, 
 First in the field when they fly to the horn, 
 I tell you that huntsmen still unborn 
 Shall swear by the Sampler sort. 
 
 They have run for a hour, but they check at last, 
 
 And the cast is made in vain ; 
 But see that hound of the Belvoir tan, 
 
 Who speaks to it up the lane ! 
 
 * William Wells hunted the Hertfordshire Hounds for 
 sixteen seasons (1893-1909). He had previously whipped-in 
 to the following packs during a career which started in 1863, 
 viz., Lord Portsmouth's, Brocklesby, V. W. H., Heythrop, 
 Quorn, and Belvoir. He was also huntsman to the Pucke- 
 ridge from 1882-1893. 
 
 14 
 
LAYS OF THE HERTFORDSHIRE HUNT. 
 
 Then 'hoic to the Sampler bitch" 1 they cry, 
 And on to the cheer her comrades fly, 
 And another fox is doomed to die 
 By the staunch old Sampler strain. 
 
 They have raced four miles with a scent breast- 
 high, 
 
 They have distanced every steed ; 
 Now on the hill they catch a view, 
 
 And the flyers show their speed. 
 Then out from the pack with quickened stride 
 A couple of hounds press side by side, 
 And two of his sons claim place of pride 
 
 For stout old Sampler's breed. 
 
 15 
 
LAYS OF THE HERTFORDSHIRE HUNT. 
 
 The Place and the Man. 
 
 (A Lay of the Litany Bushes.) 
 
 THE place we all know it, the Romans before 
 us did, 
 
 Totternhoe's ramparts above it look down ; 
 Watling Street runs to the North in full view of it, 
 
 Hard by the outskirts of Dunstable town. 
 Never a gunshot disturbs its tranquillity, 
 Never a cur-dog its privacy mocks ; 
 This takes first rank as yet, 
 Never drawn blank as yet, 
 Haunt of the rabbit and home of the fox. 
 
 The man we all know him how cheery his welcome 
 When meeting at Tilsworth we ride to the fray ; 
 And still more familiar to many among us, 
 
 The view of his back when its ' forrard away ! ' 
 Whether the line be for Leighton or Toddington, 
 Long hunting run or a ten-minute burst, 
 Timber or ditch it is, 
 Never mind which it is, 
 Bet you a fiver the Colonel goes first ! 
 
 This is the toast I would ask you to honour then 
 You who love fences strong-growing and tall : 
 
 4 Dunstable's vale and the man who has " made " it, 
 The man who can cross it the best of us all.' 
 
 16 
 
LAYS OF THE HERTFORDSHIRE HUNT. 
 
 Eighteen times running we've found at the Litany 
 Show me a record beats that if you can ; 
 Covert well tended 
 And sportsman so splendid, 
 
 Then long may they flourish the Place and the 
 Man ! 
 
 17 
 
LAYS OF THE HERTFORDSHIRE HUNT. 
 
 Our Friends the Farmers. 
 
 LET the city-bred pessimist wear a long face, 
 And prove us (by figures) a decadent race, 
 Two things to the honour of England remain 
 The thoroughbred horse and the old yeoman strain. 
 Then proudly may Hertfordshire hold up her head, 
 For five classic winners at Child\vick were bred ; 
 And for fair open dealing and genuine worth 
 The Hertfordshire farmer's the salt of the earth. 
 Our field through the season is never complete 
 If a score of staunch yeomen are not at the meet, 
 And when hounds mean business they're mostly in 
 
 front 
 The farmers who follow the Hertfordshire Hunt. 
 
 Then hundreds of others our sport never share, 
 For they haven't the time or the money to spare ; 
 But the true sporting spirit they well understand, 
 And a red coat's a passport all over their land. 
 Good health and good markets I'd wish to them all, 
 If their holdings are large or their acreage small ; 
 Good luck to their crops and good luck to their kine, 
 May their Aprils be moist and their Augusts be fine. 
 I've known them a lifetime, but hardly I met 
 A knave or a churl of their company yet, 
 Though, like every good man, they'd resent an 
 
 affront 
 
 The farmers who welcome the Hertfordshire Hunt. 
 
 18 
 
LAYS OF THE HERTFORDSHIRE HUNT. 
 
 Hunting folk, by your leave, I've a moral for you : 
 Be courteous, be careful, be generous too ; 
 Shut gates and shun ewes, and, oh, never forget 
 'Ware beans all the time and 'ware seeds when it's 
 
 wet. 
 
 Buy forage from farmers that hunters may eat 
 The oats that were trod by their galloping feet. 
 Put your hand in your pocket, and don't be afraid 
 When the Royal Benevolent asks for your aid. 
 So haply some day when misfortunes befall, 
 As they will in bad seasons the best of us all, 
 You may help in enduring adversity's brunt 
 Some farmer who welcomed the Hertfordshire Hunt. 
 
 19 
 
LAYS OF THE HERTFORDSHIRE HUNT. 
 
 To One who went Home Early. 
 
 (.4?i Echo of the Dancing Season.) 
 
 IF all of us always thought the same, 'twere a 
 dreary world and a glum, 
 As the Roman wrote it, ' de gustibus non est dis- 
 
 putandum. 1 
 Let us go the ways that our hearts incline, for the 
 
 world to all is free, 
 
 So we'll wish each other the best of luck and agree 
 to disagree. 
 
 For you are the lights of the rose-decked room and 
 
 the rhythmic fall of feet, 
 The lilt of the waltz that is sometimes sad, but is 
 
 always passing sweet. 
 Riot of beauty, silks, and gems, and the eyes that 
 
 starlike shine, 
 Mirrored more bright on a festal night in the glint 
 
 of the golden wine. 
 The clasp of the hand as a tale untold, the glance 
 
 like a song unsung 
 That has thrilled the pulse of a million men since 
 
 the days when the world was young. 
 
 20 
 
LAYS OF THE HERTFORDSHIRE HUNT. 
 
 To dance a deal to love a little, till dawn an 
 
 ending brings, 
 These be your choice and in these rejoice, for they 
 
 are goodly things. 
 
 For me who am stiff of tongue and limb, with a 
 
 streak of grey in the hair, 
 Whose foot in the dance were all uncouth as the 
 
 foot of a grizzly bear : 
 For me who have done with all these things, their 
 
 ecstasy and pain, 
 In the autumn glow of a middle age, these other 
 
 things remain. 
 For me is the sport of the afternoon that the many 
 
 never knew, 
 When the babbling crowd of the morning meet 
 
 gives place to the faithful few. 
 For me is the deep and savage note from the 
 
 brambled dell hard by, 
 When Caliph speaks to a fox afoot, and the whole 
 
 pack score to cry. 
 For me that splendour of sound and sight in the 
 
 misty eventide, 
 When twenty couple o 1 great dog-hounds crash out 
 
 from the covert-side. 
 For me is the thrill of the wild ' who-whoop ' when 
 
 the fox's race is run, 
 And the grim pack bay for their lawful prey in the 
 
 light of the setting sun. 
 21 
 
LAYS OF THE HERTFORDSHIRE HUNT. 
 
 For me the long jog darkling home, heedless of 
 
 wind and rain, 
 Huntsman and hound all clustered round for me 
 
 these things remain. 
 
 Let us go where our several hearts incline, for the 
 
 way of the world is free, 
 And we n ll wish each other the best of luck and 
 
 agree to disagree. 
 
 22 
 
LAYS OF THE HERTFORDSHIRE HUNT. 
 
 Bulls Green. 
 
 (A Lay of the Monday Country.) 
 
 I'VE seen some long hunts and some very quick 
 things 
 From Danesbury and Romerleys* and Wymondley 
 
 Springs. 
 
 I've a mask on the wall there that catches my eye 
 Of a dog-fox from Dowdells that Knebworth saw die. 
 But for genuine hunting commend me, I pray, 
 To a meet at Bulls Green on a good scenting day. 
 
 The hard-riding youngster may grumble and groan, 
 And hunger for fame and a cleft collar-bone ; 
 But the joy of the woodlands for me never fades, 
 And the cry of the pack as they drive down the 
 
 glades, 
 
 And when we're away on the Stapleford side 
 Young Sparks must stop talking and sit down to 
 
 ride. 
 
 You may try Alexanders or trot to Priest Wood, 
 Widows Bushes or Bramfield, the same thing holds 
 
 good, 
 
 You'll hear hounds give tongue as a matter of course, 
 
 And just watch the man on the big chestnut horse, 
 
 * Locally pronounced ' Umleys.' 
 
 23 
 
LAYS OF THE HERTFORDSHIRE HUNT. 
 
 For his face is alight with a smile at the thought 
 That his coverts once more are proved staunch to 
 the sport. 
 
 I am sick of the cant of political creeds, 
 
 Of speeches and articles nobody reads ; 
 
 Of ' popular ' measures that nobody likes, 
 
 Of die-hards and do-naughts and tariffs and strikes. 
 
 But a squire of broad acres who wears a red coat, 
 
 Whatever his views, is the man for my vote. 
 
 24 
 
LAYS OF THE HERTFORDSHIRE HUNT. 
 
 A Plea for the Provinces. 
 
 ' For I count the swell provincial lower than the Melton muff.' 
 
 BROMLEY-DAVENPORT. 
 
 OH, sportsman-poet, dear to our hearts as to 
 those of a byegone day, 
 I would join issue with you for this, these lines 
 
 that you wrote in play, 
 Though Ranksboro 1 Gorse shall be holy ground as 
 
 long as the Chase endures, 
 For the fame of the hunt to Woodwell Head in 
 
 those stirring lines of yours. 
 Though the Shires be the shrine of fox-hunting, 
 
 cradle of sport and throne, 
 
 111 fare the day when they hunt the fox in Leices- 
 tershire alone. 
 Then should the Chase lose pride of place as the 
 
 sport that all men knew, 
 And sink to a mere exotic cult as the pastime of 
 
 the few : 
 For we make our boast of a national sport that 
 
 all men understand, 
 With its roots deep down in a people's heart all 
 
 over our English land. 
 There is never a farm so far away or a hamlet so 
 
 remote 
 But welcomes the day when hounds go by or the 
 
 sight of a scarlet coat. 
 25 
 
LAYS OF THE HERTFORDSHIRE HUNT. 
 
 From the moor where the Western rivers rise to 
 
 the fen-lands East of Trent, 
 From the frowning crags of Cumberland to the 
 
 garden fields of Kent, 
 
 We ride to hounds on every soil where a horse- 
 hoof may be put, 
 And where never a horse may safely stand we 
 
 hunt the fox afoot. 
 Oh, you who come from the 'sea of grass 1 for a 
 
 day in the land of plough, 
 We would show you the best of the lesser sport 
 
 our lesser means allow : 
 At the festal board, at the covert-side, a welcome, 
 
 an honoured guest, 
 Free when hounds run, as all are free, to prove 
 
 yourself the best. 
 But this we ask of your courtesy : you should ever 
 
 bear in mind, 
 We too take pride in the pack we know with its 
 
 record of years behind. 
 Though Belvoir's ducal coronet your coat should 
 
 proudly bear, 
 
 It is no Hunt of a lesser date whose livery we wear. 
 Though we needs must creep where we cannot fly, 
 
 though scent on our ploughs lies cold, 
 There be hounds as staunch in the Provinces and 
 
 hearts as keen and bold, 
 Though yours be the true champagne of sport and 
 
 for us is the ale instead, 
 There be foxes as stout in Hertfordshire as ever 
 
 the Hemploe bred. 
 28 
 
LAYS OF THE HERTFORDSHIRE HUNT. 
 
 Pasture and tillage, holt and hill, we know them 
 
 and find them good, 
 From the breeding earths at the Roaring Meg to 
 
 the depths of Bricket Wood ; 
 From the North, where the pines stand sentinel 
 
 round Woburn's circling wall, 
 To the South, where the oaks of Hatfield guard a 
 
 yet more stately hall. 
 And I think no sportsman worth the name shall 
 
 hold the man in scorn 
 Who rides to hounds as his fathers rode in the 
 
 home where he was born. 
 
 27 
 
LAYS OF THE HERTFORDSHIRE HUNT. 
 
 To an Old Hunting Diary. 
 
 WITHIN a bookshelf richly stored with annals 
 of the Chase, 
 A little tattered manuscript can claim an honoured 
 
 place : 
 It tells of sport in Hertfordshire while thrice ten 
 
 seasons ran, 
 
 And 1 94 completes the tale that '65 began. 
 Oh, dear dead hand that held the pen. lightly your 
 
 task has sped 
 If you had known how eagerly your records would 
 
 be read ! 
 And thinking of those early days and how you 
 
 played your part, 
 
 One wish, in all sincerity, is ever in my heart : 
 That I may serve the cause of Sport, as you before 
 
 have done, 
 And wear the scarlet worthily, as should befit your 
 
 son. 
 
 28 
 
LAYS OF THE HERTFORDSHIRE HUNT. 
 
 The Man who holds open the 
 Gate. 
 
 WHEN you come down to breakfast for hunting 
 arrayed 
 
 There's never a minute to spare ; 
 Your flask mast be filled and your sandwiches made, 
 
 And a hat must be chosen with care. 
 But though you have plenty of things to arrange, 
 
 And nobody likes to be late, 
 Remember to pocket your stock of small change 
 For the man who holds open the gate. 
 
 He comes from the sheep-pen, he leaves the plough's 
 tail, 
 
 Drops bill-hook and spade for a sight 
 Of the fox-hunting folk as they sweep down the 
 vale, 
 
 A pageant of scarlet and white. 
 And though you may be in a hurry to pass 
 
 And haven't a moment to wait, 
 Find time for a word and the price of a glass 
 
 To the man who holds open the gate. 
 
 It is well to be courteous for courtesy's sake, 
 
 But always remember, I pray, 
 That to play the curmudgeon's a stupid mistake, 
 
 For we live in democracy's day: 
 
 29 
 
LAYS OF THE HERTFORDSHIRE HUNT. 
 
 And maybe the time isn't very remote 
 When Fox-hunting's future and fate 
 
 Will depend on the hearty goodwill (and the vote) 
 Of the man who holds open the gate. 
 
 30 
 
LAYS OF THE HERTFORDSHIRE HUNT. 
 
 ' The Crane.' 
 
 Who has never once ' missed his turn ' in tlie 
 last four seasons. 
 
 SHORT on the leg and well ribbed up, 
 Long in the neck and rein, 
 For shoulders or quarters better made 
 You could search the land in vain ; 
 Standing fourteen three and a half, 
 That's the way with 'The Crane/ 
 
 Never turned his head at a fence, 
 
 Or tired under thirteen stone ; 
 Once he fell, in a hundred days, 
 
 And the fault was mine, I own ; 
 We'd been going for half an hour best pace, 
 
 'Twas timber and he was blown. 
 
 Twelve o'clock and a morning fox 
 In a burst that's sharp and short, 
 
 Though we do our best at getting a start, 
 We're pretty safe to be caught ; 
 
 For the poor little ' Crane ' can't go the pace 
 With the long-legg'd, long-tailed sort. 
 
 Four o'clock in the afternoon, 
 
 And scent is better, I'll swear ; 
 The long-legg'd nags are thinking of home 
 
 They are some of them half-way there ; 
 But the stout little ' Crane' is taking his jumps, 
 
 With a couple of feet to spare. 
 31 
 
LAYS OF THE HERTFORDSHIRE HUNT. 
 
 Off to the meet when the morning's young, 
 
 Maybe a twelve-mile hack ; 
 He doesn't strike for an ' eight-hour day,' 
 
 But keeps an eye on the pack. 
 When the order's given that hounds go home, 
 
 Thafs when ' The Crane ' starts back. 
 
 Stepping it out on the homeward road, 
 
 Debonair still and gay ; 
 Never a drop of his gruel left, 
 
 Nor an oat nor a wisp of hay. 
 And he's ready, I swear, if you needed him, 
 
 To do it again next day. 
 
 Look to it, you who would serve the State, 
 
 This is the type to breed. 
 When ye can show ten thousand such, 
 
 Ye shall earn our thanks indeed ; 
 For they will not falter, or fail, or tire 
 
 In the hour of England's need. 
 
 32 
 
LAYS OF THE HERTFORDSHIRE HUNT. 
 
 A Lament for the Lady of Lilley. 
 
 THERE'S a most unmistakeable holloa, 
 And a glimpse of an uplifted hat, 
 And the quick ones slip on to the gateway, 
 
 While the slow ones are asking, ' What's that ? ' 
 And Oliver, eager but anxious, 
 Is blowing the bitches away; 
 But where is the Lady of Lilley, 
 
 Who was wont to be first in the fray? 
 
 Brown habit maybe and a chestnut, 
 
 Or a bay and a habit of blue ; 
 The neatest, the smartest, the keenest, 
 
 The foremost with hounds running, too. 
 Though the pastures of Pytchley are peerless, 
 
 And perfect Lord Annaly's pack, 
 To our cold-scenting, warm-hearted countiy, 
 
 Oh, Lady of Lilley, come back ! 
 
 33 
 
LAYS OF THE HERTFORDSHIRE HUNT. 
 
 The Puppy-walker Prophesies. 
 
 (A Lay of the Last of tJie 'Samplers.') 
 
 SAMSON and Sarah, puppies both, 
 Show yourselves good and grateful, 
 Rally to each meal nothing loth, 
 
 Finish the tasty plateful 
 So shall you earn a meed of praise 
 
 By your symmetry and merit, 
 For the hand that tended your youthful days, 
 And the blood that you inherit. 
 
 And I find it ever a cheering thought, 
 
 In spite of the cynic's laughter, 
 That thus we are sowing the seeds of sport, 
 
 To reap the grain hereafter ; 
 That here may be fostered many a run, 
 
 And many a game fox beaten 
 (As the battle of Waterloo was won 
 
 In the playing fields at Eton). 
 
 Much must you learn of thong and horn, 
 
 Riot and rate and blunder, 
 Ere you come to the fateful hunting morn, 
 
 When you doubt for a while and wonder; 
 
 34 
 
LAYS OF THE HERTFORDSHIRE HUNT. 
 
 Till the blood you boast in every vein 
 
 Takes fire at the cry sonorous, 
 And instinct, born of the foxhound strain, 
 
 Shall bid you swell the chorus. 
 
 I shall not be there when you show in front 
 
 With never a rival near you, 
 But wiser eyes shall watch you hunt, 
 
 And worthier voices cheer you. 
 And when they say you were staunch and fast, 
 
 I shall know that the thought inspired you 
 Of the home where your puppyhood was passed, 
 
 And the grand old hound that sired you. 
 
 85 
 
LAYS OF THE HERTFORDSHIRE HUNT. 
 
 A Rhyme with a Reason. 
 
 ' Since one fox on foot more diversion will bring 
 Than twice twenty thousand cock-pheasants on wing.' 
 
 EGEKTOK-WAHBURTOX. 
 
 T 
 
 ^HERE'S a place we all know well 
 
 Where stout brambles grow well, 
 We'd draw it at least once a week if we could; 
 For any old stager 
 Is open to wager 
 A fox is forthcoming from Boundary Wood. 
 
 I'd venture my guinea, 
 
 Though 'tis but a spinney ; 
 
 And a word in your ear why our luck there holds 
 good : 
 
 For a real fox-lover 
 
 Is lord of that cover, 
 And thafs why we find r em in Boundary Wood. 
 
 Now, if all covert-owners 
 
 Would take the same tone as 
 This one, and if keepers all well understood 
 
 They must either show foxes 
 
 Or pack up their boxes, 
 We'd find them elsewhere as in Boundary Wood. 
 
 36 
 
LAVS OF THE HERTFORDSHIRE HUNT. 
 
 The Odd-jobs Men. 
 
 PITY the men who pay the claims, 
 Their lot is sometimes hard 
 When Reynard's at his little games 
 In every poultry-yard. 
 
 Their tempers must be placid or 
 
 They never can succeed ; 
 The tact of an ambassador 
 
 They'll very often need. 
 
 They learn the cost of everything, 
 
 And have it cut and dried : 
 What Aylesbury ducks are worth in spring, 
 
 And geese at Christmastide. 
 
 And what's the market price of eggs, 
 
 And when the pullets lay; 
 And why some foxes have two legs 
 
 (For then they need not pay). 
 
 And they must know when earths are drawn 
 
 And where the vixen prowls, 
 And neighbouring henwives straightway warn 
 
 To guard their precious fowls. 
 
 37 
 
LAYS OF THE HERTFORDSHIRE HUNT. 
 
 And, though they must not seem to pry 
 
 On things behind the scenes, 
 They keep an ever-watchful eye 
 
 On 'Mr. Velveteens. 1 
 
 And, though they know the rascal lied, 
 
 And know the cubs are gone, 
 Must smile upon the vulpicide 
 
 And catch him later on ! 
 
 They give their time, they give their skill, 
 They count the trouble naught; 
 
 They do it with a right good will, 
 Because they love the sport. 
 
 88 
 
LAYS OF THE HERTFORDSHIRE HUNT. 
 
 To our Huntsman on Going 
 Abroad. 
 
 TELL me not, Wells, I am unwise 
 That at the covert-side, 
 Resounding with your cheery cries, 
 No more awhile I ride. 
 
 True, a new quarry now I chase, 
 The somewhat stupid 'jack; 1 
 
 And follow at a milder pace 
 A far inferior pack. 
 
 Yet the decision is not rash 
 
 That both of us deplore : 
 I really had not got the cash 
 
 To hunt there any more. 
 
 Fort St. George, Madras. 1900. 
 
 39 
 
LAYS OF THE HERTFORDSHIRE HUNT. 
 
 I. 
 
 A Remonstrance (to Rosie). 
 
 T ALWAYS admired you, 'twas Love at first sight, 
 * How smoothly you sailed to the front, 
 And took your own line in the very first flight 
 
 Right bang at the top of the Hunt. 
 You went a bit faster than others, of course, 
 
 And you liked to be given your head, 
 But I hate "em too slow, whether woman or horse, 
 
 And I do like 'em both thoroughbred. 
 
 I never ill-used you, for rowel-less spurs 
 
 Your dignity could not disturb, 
 And Fin certain, unless my poor memory errs, 
 
 I never made use of the curb. 
 But yet, without giving me warning at all, 
 
 You stopped being friendly and kind, 
 And flouted and tricked me, and made me look 
 small, 
 
 In the nastiest way you could find. 
 
 There were hundreds of people I knew within sight, 
 
 You paid no attention to that. 
 My breeches and boots were a masterpiece quite, 
 
 And I had on my very best hat. 
 You looked as demure and as douce as a dove, 
 
 Your temper was warranted sweet, 
 'It was all very well to dissemble your love, 1 
 
 But u'hy buck me off' at the meet ? 
 40 
 
LAYS OF THE HERTFORDSHIRE HUNT. 
 
 II. 
 
 A Reply. 
 
 IM sorry you still find the subject so sore, 
 But really I had some excuse ; 
 The saddle was cold, and ' lawn ' meets are a bore, 
 
 And you were sitting rather too loose. 
 You're not a bad sort, I don't think, as boys go, 
 
 And I never intended to vex, 
 
 But I have my caprices at times, don't you know, 
 Like all of the Feminine sex. 
 
 The plough was quite soft, so you couldn't be hurt, 
 
 I knew it would be a surprise, 
 And you did look so comic, all covered with dirt, 
 
 And your hat battered over your eyes. 
 Just learn to sit back when it comes to the pinch 
 
 (You'll find my advice pretty sound), 
 And don't trust a horse or a woman one inch, 
 
 Unless you are sure of your ground. 
 
 Before the day's business has rightly begun, 
 
 I must have my fling if I choose ; 
 But tell me now, fairly, when hounds really run, 
 
 Did you ever once know me refuse ? 
 I've carried you well, you must own, once or twice, 
 
 So I think I have made you amends ; 
 Just find me a carrot, or something else nice, 
 
 Rub my nose, make it up, and be friends. 
 
 41 
 
LAYS OF THE HERTFORDSHIRE HUNT. 
 
 How I lost the Gallopabad Cup. 
 
 WHAT a field we had for the Station Cup 
 The year that it first was run ! 
 I meant to win it on ' Bumblepup ' 
 
 (He started at ten to one). 
 Not a button or strap was out of place, 
 
 And my scarf was neatly tied ; 
 It needs some taste to dress for a race, 
 While any young fool can ride. 
 
 I was calm and cool at the post that day, 
 
 'Mid pallor and beating hearts ; 
 But ' Bumblepup ' kept breaking away, 
 
 And spoilt a dozen starts. 
 And the starter's face grew mulberry-red 
 
 And his language very strong. 
 For he called me a ' damned young dunderhead, 1 
 
 But I knew that he must be wrong. 
 
 The race was run like a frantic dream, 
 
 And the stand was reached at last, 
 The bookies shout and the backers scream 
 
 As the field comes flashing past. 
 There was never a horse near ' Bumblepup ' 
 
 As we cantered past the post ; 
 I had finished alone ' for the Station Cup ! 
 
 ; Twas a splendid feat to boast. 
 
 42 
 
LAYS OF THE HERTFORDSHIRE HUNT. 
 
 * Yet the Cup was lost, 1 I hear you say ; 
 
 'What, couldn't you draw the weight ?"* 
 Ah, well, I never returned to weigh, 
 
 So the real facts Til state : 
 My horse was 'slow as a man" 1 I own, 
 
 And never was in the hunt, 
 So the rest of the field, when I 'finished alone, 1 
 
 Were seventy yards in front ! 
 
 43 
 
LAYS OF THE HERTFORDSHIRE HUNT. 
 
 Black Bess. 
 
 Being the Story of John Smith, of the 1st Class Army 
 
 Reserve, late Corporal in the East Yorkshire 
 
 Company of Mounted Infantry. 
 
 STORY, lads, what ! another still ? 
 There's little that's left to tell. 
 You've heard of the fight at Bothaville, 
 And how Le Gallais fell; 
 
 I've told you how Diamond Hill was won, 
 
 And Prinsloo run to ground, 
 And how we saved the pom-pom gun 
 
 With Brandt's commando round. 
 
 But I'll spin you a yarn of a different kind 
 To the ones you've had before : 
 
 A tale of the days when peace was signed 
 And we got our beer once more. 
 
 Down by the Modder the Regiment lay, 
 
 Resting the winter through, 
 And in honour of Coronation Day 
 
 They got up a race or two. 
 
 They wanted our cash, those Dutchmen there, 
 And they didn't much mind how ; 
 
 Rifle to rifle we'd licked 'em square, 
 But they meant getting even now. 
 
 44 
 
LAYS OF THE HERTFORDSHIRE HUNT. 
 
 So they sent for a horse to Kimberley town, 
 One bred for it, trained, and tried, 
 
 And they carted a Hebrew bookie down 
 And a Kaffir boy to ride. 
 
 And they fixed the scale for the open race 
 Catch weights nine stone or more, 
 
 When there wasn't a white man in the place 
 Who could ride below 10.4. 
 
 They reckoned the horse could hardly lose, 
 
 He'd nothing to beat you see 
 But a couple of moderate local screws 
 
 And a nag from the A.S.C. 
 
 While the last name down on the list to run 
 
 It troubled 'em even less, 
 They were rather inclined to be making fun 
 
 Of our old mare 'Black Bess." 1 
 
 Her shoulders heavy, her back ribs light 
 
 Undipped, untrained, unknown, 
 She was hardly the sort you would back on sight 
 
 For the sake of her looks alone. 
 
 But she never had failed in the hour of need, 
 And she'd trekked with us many a day; 
 
 So we guessed that the mare had a turn of speed, 
 And we knew she was sure to stay. 
 45 
 
LAYS OF THE HERTFORDSHIRE HUNT. 
 
 * Master Ben ' was the big brown's name, 
 And they thought he was bound to win, 
 
 So they squared the Bookie to play their game, 
 And of course they all stood in. 
 
 'Eights bar one 1 was the offer made, 
 
 And he wouldn't lay the brown ; 
 But, bless you, we weren't in the least afraid, 
 
 And we planked our dollars down. 
 
 For we knew that the mare and the man would try 
 And they couldn't be beat for pluck ; 
 
 So the Captain mounted and cantered by, 
 And we gave him a cheer for luck. 
 
 Off! and the racehorse showed his speed, 
 
 He led from the start almost, 
 He was out by himself with a four lengths lead 
 
 As they came to the half-mile post. 
 
 The Dutchmen shouted for ' Master Ben,' 
 For they reckoned the race was won ; 
 
 But the Captain called on the black mare then, 
 And brought her with one long run. 
 
 Straight as a die she ran of course, 
 Though the whip was out at last ; 
 
 She went right up to the big brown horse 
 As the distance post was past, 
 
 46 
 
LAYS OF THE HERTFORDSHIRE HUNT. 
 
 She went right up to the leader's girth, 
 And she held him, stride for stride, 
 
 Came through on the rails with the inside berth, 
 And the boy sat down to ride. 
 
 But the mare could stay with the very best, 
 She was bred to be game and stout, 
 
 And the Captain rode like a man possessed. 
 And she won by a neck all out. 
 
 There's my story : the moral's coined, 
 
 And easy for all to see, 
 How a Kaffir, a Jew, and a Dutchman joined, 
 
 And a soldier beat the three. 
 
 My call, lads, and it's ale all round, 
 
 Full tankards and nothing less, 
 For I'll give you ' The day when the King was 
 crowned 
 
 And the Captain rode " Black Bess" ' 
 
LAYS OF THE HERTFORDSHIRE HUNT. 
 
 Ponyland. 
 
 THERE'S a tract of forest and furzy down 
 Where Hampshire slopes to the south, 
 From the quays of grey Southampton town 
 
 Well nigh to the Avon's mouth. 
 A fastness of nature still unspoiled, 
 
 A remnant of English land 
 That the dust of the motor has not soiled 
 
 Nor the builder's vandal hand. 
 Her beauties in spring are manifold, 
 
 But fairest of all to see 
 When her kirtle of green is turned to gold 
 By the autumn's alchemy. 
 
 Oh, the vert and the venison still abound, 
 
 And the roe deer and the red, 
 Though many a king has cheered a hound 
 
 Since Tyrrell's shaft was sped. 
 And as long as the love of a horse remain 
 Shall England honour the fair demesne 
 Where the pony folk are bred. 
 
 There's a Monday in August every year 
 
 That's a true red-letter day, 
 When the ponies come from far and near, 
 
 Sopley and Hale and Sway. 
 Ponies shaggy and ponies trimmed, 
 
 Ponies tiny and tall, 
 Angel-tempered and iron-limbed, 
 
 Mares, foals, fillies, and all. 
 48 
 
LAYS OF THE HERTFORDSHIRE HUNT. 
 
 Stalwart ones in a forest truck, 
 
 Galloping ones that go 
 
 To try their pace and to prove their pluck 
 At the famous Burley Show. 
 
 And the squires of the Forest ride a race 
 
 With the men of the Forest there ; 
 For the spirit of sport that rules the place 
 
 Makes equals everywhere. 
 And never a suffragette demurs 
 When one of His Majesty's Ministers 
 Gets home with a length to spare ! 
 
 Oh, the crowded street and the busy pen 
 
 Are a life that some hold good, 
 Where a man must jostle his fellow-men 
 
 For a hard-earned livelihood. 
 But I left my heart where the ponies are, 
 
 Hock-deep in the bracken fern, 
 Where Burley Beacon looks afar 
 
 To the pine-clad ridge of Hum. 
 And I dream of the day when 111 get me back 
 
 To the life that I understand, 
 To a cottage far from the beaten track 
 In the heart of Ponyland. 
 
 Fearless and free the ponies graze 
 
 Wandering to and fro, 
 And they care no whit for the bitter days 
 
 When the winds of winter blow. 
 The dear little, lovable Forest folk, 
 Sturdy and strong as the English oak, 
 That grows where the ponies grow. 
 49 K 
 
LAYS OF THE HERTFORDSHIRE HUNT. 
 
 An Oxford Aftermath. 
 
 SWEET city adored and held holy 
 By sons that are grateful and true, 
 Where ages have crystallised slowly 
 
 The mystical cult of * the Blue. 1 
 Grey tower, where the dawn's rosy fingers 
 Rest first as she mounts from the sea, 
 How fondly my memory lingers, 
 Dear Magdalen on thee. 
 
 Oh ! summers, with luxury laden 
 
 A turmoil of picnics and fetes ! 
 Oh ! annually-altering maiden 
 
 We always adored in the Eights ! 
 When life was a limitless chorus, 
 
 And forethought a failing for fools, 
 Though ever there floated before us 
 
 The spectre of ' Schools. 1 
 
 Now, far from those precincts of pleasure, 
 
 In a world where a debt is a sin, 
 One solace is left to my leisure 
 
 The bills that each morning brings in ; 
 For some are too recent for saving, 
 
 And some are too pressing to burn, 
 But all are possessed of a craving 
 
 For 'cheques by return/ 
 
 50 
 
LAYS OF THE HERTFORDSHIRE HUNT. 
 
 How clearly they open a vista 
 
 Of pleasures as each one is conned : 
 A bill for a horse with the Bicester, 
 
 A bill for the breeches I donned ; 
 And bills for my bats and my racquets, 
 
 For wine when we meant to be gay, 
 For sedative powders in packets 
 
 We took the next day. 
 
 Oh, letters of tradesmen and lawyers ! 
 
 Oh, threats of collector and dun ! 
 Old bills I have owed three or four years, 
 
 New debts that are hardly begun. 
 Oh, web of extravagant tissue! 
 
 Oh, dregs of my ""Varsity cup ! 
 How sorely the debtor will miss you 
 
 When all is paid up ! 
 
 When many bills dwindle to few bills, 
 
 As I settle them bit after bit, 
 With conscience unclouded by new bills, 
 
 And desk unadorned by a writ, 
 Bewailing the end of life's summer 
 
 I curse the conventional plan 
 Whereby every boy must become a 
 
 Respectable man. 
 
 1900. 
 
 51 
 
LAYS OF THE HERTFORDSHIRE HUNT. 
 
 A Farewell to Fox-hunting. 
 
 THE last long note of the horn dies down 
 At the close of the April day, 
 And the hounds turn back to the distant town 
 
 That lies on their homeward way. 
 Only a pause till the seasons wane, 
 
 Then hey ! for the autumn morn, 
 When the slumbering woodlands wake again 
 
 To the clamour of hound and horn ! 
 Again ye shall muster one and all 
 
 Ere the reapers cease to glean ; 
 But I shall be deaf to that joyous call 
 
 With the width of the world between. 
 
 But my heart will be here on the day of days 
 
 When October's left behind, 
 And you jog once more down the bridle-ways 
 
 To the copse where we always find. 
 When the whimper swells to a crashing cry, 
 
 And the gorse-stems bend and sway ; 
 Till there at the corner ""s a cap held high, 
 
 And a big dog-fox away. 
 Then striding over the ditch and rail 
 
 On the new blood hunter's back, 
 With all the best of the start you sail 
 
 On the lea of the flying pack. 
 
 52 
 
LAYS OF THE HERTFORDSHIRE HUNT. 
 
 There by the wash of an alien tide 
 
 Wistfully I shall dream 
 Of a wind-swept English country-side, 
 
 Where the white and scarlet gleam. 
 Of far-off days in that far-off land 
 
 When the savour of life was sweet ; 
 When sport and love went hand-in-hand 
 
 (Was Cupid Green the meet?) 
 Never was boy with heart so gay, 
 
 Never was maid so fair 
 One on the dear old three-legged grey, 
 
 One on the chestnut mare. 
 
 Gallant horses and glorious sport ! 
 
 How can I well complain ? 
 Here's to the day when more are bought, 
 
 Ready to start again. 
 Binder and brook may do their worst, 
 
 Hounds may be running fast, 
 ril be away with the few at first, 
 
 Still to the front at last. 
 Long though the years may seem to be, 
 
 Memory's longer yet ; 
 Thousands of miles across the sea, 
 
 Trust me not to forget ! 
 
 53 
 
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