I've never ceased to curse the day I signed

    A seven years' bargain for the Golden Fleece.

    '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.

    I'd have been prosperous if I'd took a farm

    Of fifty acres drove my gig and haggled

    At Monday markets； now I've squandered all

    My savings； nigh three hundred pound I got

    As testimonial when I'd grown too stiff

    And slow to press a beaten fox.

    The Fleece！

    '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！ What's fetched her now

    Leaving me in the dark and short of fire？

    And where's my pipe？ 'Tis lucky I've a turn

    For thinking and remembering all that's past.

    And now'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.

    。 . . .

    It's queer how in the dark comes back to mind

    Some morning of September. We've been digging

    In a steep sandy warren riddled with holes

    And I'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.

    I'm but a daft old fool！ I often wish

    The Squire were back again—ah！ he was a man！

    They don't breed men like him these days； he'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 '85

    The winter afore the one that snowed us silly.

    。 . . .

    Once in a way the parson will drop in

    And read a bit o' the Bible if I'm bad

    And pray the Lord to make my spirit whole

    In faith： he leaves some 'baccy on the shelf

    And wonders I don't keep a dog to cheer me

    Because he knows I'm mortal fond of dogs！

    I ask you what's a gent like that to me

    As wouldn't know Elijah if I saw him

    Nor have the wit to keep him on the talk？

    'Tis kind of parson to be troubling still

    With such as me； but he's a town-bred chap

    Full of his college notions and Christmas hymns.

    Religion beats me. I'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 I'm old and bald and serious-minded

    With days to sit and ponder. I'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 I'm asleep

    However hard I listen； and when they pray

    It seems we'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 huntsman's job and scent

    Was rotten and all the foxes disappeared

    And hounds were short of blood； and officers

    From barracks over-rode '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 that's beat in half a mile

    And blunders into every blind old ditch.

    Hell was the coldest scenting land I'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 'em

    While I was in a corner pounded by

    The ugliest hog-backed stile you've clapped your eyes on.

    There was an iron-spiked fence round all the coverts

    And civil-spoken keepers I couldn't trust

    And the main earth unstopp'd. The fox I found

    Was always a three-legged 'un from a bag

    Who reeked of aniseed and wouldn'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. I'd lost my voice

    Although I shouted fit to burst my guts

    And couldn'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 that's the song I'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 where's the use of life and being glad

    If God's not in your gladness？

    I've no brains

    For book-learned studies； but I've heard men say

    There's much in print that clergy have to wink at：

    Though many I'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 feet—'twas necks and feet I looked at first.

    Some hounds I've known were wise as half your saints

    And better hunters. That old dog of the Duke'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 Squire's old Dorcas—

    She were a marvellous hunter were old Dorcas！

    Ay oft I've thought ‘If there were hounds in Heaven

    With God as master taking no subscription；

    And all His blessèd country farmed by tenants

    And a straight-necked old fox in every gorse！'

    But when I came to work it out I found

    There'd be too many huntsmen wanting places

    Though some I've known might get a job with Nick！

    I'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 I'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 'uns and the lot

    Wanting a rest from all this open weather；

    That's what I'm doing now.

    And likely too

    The frost'll be a long 'un and the night

    One sleep. The parsons say we'll wake to find

    A country blinding-#CCCCFF 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 world's a funny place to live in. Soon

    I'll need to change my country； but I know

    'Tis little enough I've understood my life

    And a power of sights I'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 that's out for blood

    And means his hounds to get it！

    Now I know

    It's God that speaks to us when we're bewitched

    Smelling the hay in June and smiling quiet；

    Or when there's been a spell of summer drought

    Lying awake and listening to the rain.

    。 . . .

    I'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 she'd wed another. So I've loved

    My life； and when the good years are gone down

    Discover what I'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 that's full of wars.

    What a grand thing '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 I'll never breathe again.

    。 . . .

    You've brought the lamp then Martha？ I've no mind

    For newspaper to-night nor bread and cheese.

    Give me the candle and I'll get to bed.