Part 13 (1/2)
Yon sound's neither sheep-bell nor bark, They're running--they're running, Go hark!
The sport may be lost by a moment's delay; So whip up the puppies and scurry away.
Dash down through the cover by dingle and dell, There's a gate at the bottom--I know it full well; And they're running--they're running, Go hark!
They're running--they're running, Go hark!
One fence and we're out of the park; Sit down in your saddles and race at the brook, Then smash at the bullfinch; no time for a look; Leave cravens and skirters to dangle behind; He's away for the moors in the teeth of the wind, And they're running--they're running, Go hark!
They're running--they're running, Go hark!
Let them run on and run till it's dark!
Well with them we are, and well with them we'll be, While there's wind in our horses and daylight to see: Then shog along homeward, chat over the fight, And hear in our dreams the sweet music all night Of--They're running--they're running, Go hark!
Eversley, 1856.
FIs.h.i.+NG SONG: TO J. A. FROUDE AND TOM HUGHES
Oh, Mr. Froude, how wise and good, To point us out this way to glory-- They're no great shakes, those Snowdon Lakes, And all their pounders myth and story.
Blow Snowdon! What's Lake Gwynant to Killarney, Or spluttering Welsh to tender blarney, blarney, blarney?
So Thomas Hughes, sir, if you choose, I'll tell you where we think of going, To swate and far o'er cliff and scar, Hear horns of Elfland faintly blowing; Blow Snowdon! There's a hundred lakes to try in, And fresh caught salmon daily, frying, frying, frying.
Geology and botany A hundred wonders shall diskiver, We'll flog and troll in strid and hole, And skim the cream of lake and river, Blow Snowdon! give me Ireland for my pennies, Hurrah! for salmon, grilse, and--Dennis, Dennis, Dennis!
Eversley, 1856
THE LAST BUCCANEER
Oh England is a pleasant place for them that's rich and high, But England is a cruel place for such poor folks as I; And such a port for mariners I ne'er shall see again As the pleasant Isle of Aves, beside the Spanish main.
There were forty craft in Aves that were both swift and stout, All furnished well with small arms and cannons round about; And a thousand men in Aves made laws so fair and free To choose their valiant captains and obey them loyally.
Thence we sailed against the Spaniard with his h.o.a.rds of plate and gold, Which he wrung with cruel tortures from Indian folk of old; Likewise the merchant captains, with hearts as hard as stone, Who flog men and keel-haul them, and starve them to the bone.
Oh the palms grew high in Aves, and fruits that shone like gold, And the colibris and parrots they were gorgeous to behold; And the negro maids to Aves from bondage fast did flee, To welcome gallant sailors, a-sweeping in from sea.
Oh sweet it was in Aves to hear the landward breeze, A-swing with good tobacco in a net between the trees, With a negro la.s.s to fan you, while you listened to the roar Of the breakers on the reef outside, that never touched the sh.o.r.e.
But Scripture saith, an ending to all fine things must be; So the King's s.h.i.+ps sailed on Aves, and quite put down were we.
All day we fought like bulldogs, but they burst the booms at night; And I fled in a piragua, sore wounded, from the fight.
Nine days I floated starving, and a negro la.s.s beside, Till for all I tried to cheer her, the poor young thing she died; But as I lay a gasping, a Bristol sail came by, And brought me home to England here, to beg until I die.
And now I'm old and going--I'm sure I can't tell where; One comfort is, this world's so hard, I can't be worse off there: If I might but be a sea-dove, I'd fly across the main, To the pleasant Isle of Aves, to look at it once again.
Eversley, 1857,