Print
Word
PDFin riding-schools;
Careless of the rights of others, scampering over growing crops,
Smashing gates and making gaps and scattering wide the turnip tops;—
But I hold that out of all the hunting fields throughout the land
I could choose for active service a large-hearted, gallant band;
I could choose six hundred red-coats, trained by riding in the van,
Fit to go to Balaclava under brave Lord Cardigan.
’Tis the finest school, the chase, to teach contempt of cannon balls,
If a man ride bravely onward, spite of endless rattling falls.
And to be a first-rate sportsman, not a man who merely “rides,”
Is to be a perfect gentleman, and something more besides;
Fearing neither man nor devil, kind, unselfish he must be,
Born to lead when danger threatens—type of ancient chivalry.
When you hear a “houndman” jeering at the “customers” in front,
Saying they come out to ride a steeplechase and not to hunt,
You may bet the “grapes are sour,” the fellow’s smoked his nerve away;
Once he went as well as they do: “every dog will have his day.”
Though to ride about the roads in state may do your liver good,
You see precious little “houndwork” either there or in the wood.
He who loves to mark the work of hounds must ride beside the pack,
Choosing his own line, or following others, if he’s lost the knack.
Lookers-on, I grant you, often see the best part of the game,—
Still, to ride the roads and live with hounds are things not quite
the same.
Now a word to all those gallant chaps who love a hunting day:
In bad times you know that farming is a trade that doesn’t pay,
Barbed wire’s the cheapest kind of fence; the farmer can’t afford
Tempting post-and-rails and timber—for he’s getting rather bored.
Therefore, if we want to ride with our old devilry and dash,
We must put our hands in pockets deep and shovel out the cash.
When you want to hire a shooting you will gladly pay a “pony,”
Yet when asked to give it to the hounds you’re apt to say you’re “stony.”
Pay the piper, and the sport you love so well will flourish yet,
Flourish in the dim hereafter; and its sun will never set.
Help the noble cause of freedom; rich and poor together blend
Hands and hearts for ever working for a great and glorious end.
Careless of the rights of others, scampering over growing crops,
Smashing gates and making gaps and scattering wide the turnip tops;—
But I hold that out of all the hunting fields throughout the land
I could choose for active service a large-hearted, gallant band;
I could choose six hundred red-coats, trained by riding in the van,
Fit to go to Balaclava under brave Lord Cardigan.
’Tis the finest school, the chase, to teach contempt of cannon balls,
If a man ride bravely onward, spite of endless rattling falls.
And to be a first-rate sportsman, not a man who merely “rides,”
Is to be a perfect gentleman, and something more besides;
Fearing neither man nor devil, kind, unselfish he must be,
Born to lead when danger threatens—type of ancient chivalry.
When you hear a “houndman” jeering at the “customers” in front,
Saying they come out to ride a steeplechase and not to hunt,
You may bet the “grapes are sour,” the fellow’s smoked his nerve away;
Once he went as well as they do: “every dog will have his day.”
Though to ride about the roads in state may do your liver good,
You see precious little “houndwork” either there or in the wood.
He who loves to mark the work of hounds must ride beside the pack,
Choosing his own line, or following others, if he’s lost the knack.
Lookers-on, I grant you, often see the best part of the game,—
Still, to ride the roads and live with hounds are things not quite
the same.
Now a word to all those gallant chaps who love a hunting day:
In bad times you know that farming is a trade that doesn’t pay,
Barbed wire’s the cheapest kind of fence; the farmer can’t afford
Tempting post-and-rails and timber—for he’s getting rather bored.
Therefore, if we want to ride with our old devilry and dash,
We must put our hands in pockets deep and shovel out the cash.
When you want to hire a shooting you will gladly pay a “pony,”
Yet when asked to give it to the hounds you’re apt to say you’re “stony.”
Pay the piper, and the sport you love so well will flourish yet,
Flourish in the dim hereafter; and its sun will never set.
Help the noble cause of freedom; rich and poor together blend
Hands and hearts for ever working for a great and glorious end.
[Illustration: An old barn 329.png]
CHAPTER XIV.
SPRING IN THE COTSWOLDS.
Whilst walking by the river one day in May I noticed a brood of wild ducks about a week old. The old ones are wonderfully tame at this time of year. The mother evidently disliked my intrusion, for she started off up stream, followed by her offspring, making towards a withybed a hundred yards or so higher up, where a secluded spring gives capital shelter for duck and other shy birds. What was my surprise a couple of hours later to see the same lot emerge from some rushes three-quarters of a mile up stream! They had circumvented a small waterfall, and the current is very strong in places. Part of the journey must have been done on dry land.
