Songs of Action
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THE SONG OF THE BOW
What of the bow? The bow was made in England:Of true wood, of yew-wood, The wood of English bows; So men who are free Love the old yew-treeAnd the land where the yew-tree grows.What of the cord? The cord was made in England:A rough cord, a tough cord, A cord that bowmen love; And so we will sing Of the hempen stringAnd the land where the cord was wove.What of the shaft? The shaft was cut in England:A long shaft, a strong shaft, Barbed and trim and true; So we’ll drink all together To the grey goose-featherAnd the land where the grey goose flew.What of the mark? Ah, seek it not in England,A bold mark, our old mark Is waiting over-sea. When the strings harp in chorus, And the lion flag is o’er us,It is there that our mark will be.What of the men? The men were bred in England:The bowmen – the yeomen, The lads of dale and fell. Here’s to you – and to you! To the hearts that are trueAnd the land where the true hearts dwell.CREMONA
[The French Army, including a part of the Irish Brigade, under Marshal Villeroy, held the fortified town of Cremona during the winter of 1702. Prince Eugène, with the Imperial Army, surprised it one morning, and, owing to the treachery of a priest, occupied the whole city before the alarm was given. Villeroy was captured, together with many of the French garrison. The Irish, however, consisting of the regiments of Dillon and of Burke, held a fort commanding the river gate, and defended themselves all day, in spite of Prince Eugène’s efforts to win them over to his cause. Eventually Eugène, being unable to take the post, was compelled to withdraw from the city.]
The Grenadiers of Austria are proper men and tall;The Grenadiers of Austria have scaled the city wall; They have marched from far away Ere the dawning of the day,And the morning saw them masters of Cremona.There’s not a man to whisper, there’s not a horse to neigh;Of the footmen of Lorraine and the riders of Duprés, They have crept up every street, In the market-place they meet,They are holding every vantage in Cremona.The Marshal Villeroy he has started from his bed;The Marshal Villeroy has no wig upon his head; ‘I have lost my men!’ quoth he, ‘And my men they have lost me,And I sorely fear we both have lost Cremona.’Prince Eugène of Austria is in the market-place;Prince Eugène of Austria has smiles upon his face; Says he, ‘Our work is done, For the Citadel is won,And the black and yellow flag flies o’er Cremona.’Major Dan O’Mahony is in the barrack square,And just six hundred Irish lads are waiting for him there; Says he, ‘Come in your shirt, And you won’t take any hurt,For the morning air is pleasant in Cremona.’Major Dan O’Mahony is at the barrack gate,And just six hundred Irish lads will neither stay nor wait; There’s Dillon and there’s Burke, And there’ll be some bloody workEre the Kaiserlics shall boast they hold Cremona.Major Dan O’Mahony has reached the river fort,And just six hundred Irish lads are joining in the sport; ‘Come, take a hand!’ says he, ‘And if you will stand by me,Then it’s glory to the man who takes Cremona!’Prince Eugène of Austria has frowns upon his face,And loud he calls his Galloper of Irish blood and race: ‘MacDonnell, ride, I pray, To your countrymen, and sayThat only they are left in all Cremona!’MacDonnell he has reined his mare beside the river dyke,And he has tied the parley flag upon a sergeant’s pike; Six companies were there From Limerick and Clare,The last of all the guardians of Cremona.‘Now, Major Dan O’Mahony, give up the river gate,Or, Major Dan O’Mahony, you’ll find it is too late; For when I gallop back ’Tis the signal for attack,And no quarter for the Irish in Cremona!’And Major Dan he laughed: ‘Faith, if what you say be true,And if they will not come until they hear again from you, Then there will be no attack, For you’re never going back,And we’ll keep you snug and safely in Cremona.’All the weary day the German stormers came,All the weary day they were faced by fire and flame, They have filled the ditch with dead, And the river’s running red;But they cannot win the gateway of Cremona.All the weary day, again, again, again,The horsemen of Duprés and the footmen of Lorraine, Taafe and Herberstein, And the riders of the Rhine;It’s a mighty price they’re paying for Cremona.Time and time they came with the deep-mouthed German roar,Time and time they broke like the wave upon the shore; For better men were there From Limerick and Clare,And who will take the gateway of Cremona?Prince Eugène has watched, and he gnaws his nether lip;Prince Eugène has cursed as he saw his chances slip: ‘Call off! Call off!’ he cried, ‘It is nearing eventide,And I fear our work is finished in Cremona.’Says Wauchop to McAulliffe, ‘Their fire is growing slack.’Says Major Dan O’Mahony, ‘It is their last attack; But who will stop the game While there’s light to play the same,And to walk a short way with them from Cremona?’And so they snarl behind them, and beg them turn and come,They have taken Neuberg’s standard, they have taken Diak’s drum; And along the winding Po, Beard on shoulder, stern and slowThe Kaiserlics are riding from Cremona.Just two hundred Irish lads are shouting on the wall;Four hundred more are lying who can hear no slogan call; But what’s the odds of that, For it’s all the same to PatIf he pays his debt in Dublin or Cremona.Says General de Vaudray, ‘You’ve done a soldier’s work!And every tongue in France shall talk of Dillon and of Burke! Ask what you will this day, And be it what it may,It is granted to the heroes of Cremona.’‘Why, then,’ says Dan O’Mahony, ‘one favour we entreat,We were called a little early, and our toilet’s not complete. We’ve no quarrel with the shirt, But the breeches wouldn’t hurt,For the evening air is chilly in Cremona.’THE STORMING PARTY
Said Paul Leroy to Barrow,‘Though the breach is steep and narrow, If we only gain the summit Then it’s odds we hold the fort.I have ten and you have twenty,And the thirty should be plenty,With Henderson and Henty And McDermott in support.’Said Barrow to Leroy,‘It’s a solid job, my boy, For they’ve flanked it, and they’ve banked it, And they’ve bored it with a mine.But it’s only fifty pacesEre we look them in the faces;And the men are in their places, With their toes upon the line.’Said Paul Leroy to Barrow,‘See that first ray, like an arrow, How it tinges all the fringes Of the sullen drifting skies.They told me to begin itAt five-thirty to the minute,And at thirty-one I’m in it, Or my sub will get his rise.‘So we’ll wait the signal rocket,Till.. Barrow, show that locket,That turquoise-studded locket,Which you slipped from out your pocket And are pressing with a kiss! Turquoise-studded, spiral-twisted,It is hers! And I had missed itFrom her chain; and you have kissed it: Barrow, villain, what is this?’‘Leroy, I had a warning,That my time has come this morning,So I speak with frankness, scorning To deny the thing that’s true.Yes, it’s Amy’s, is the trinket,Little turquoise-studded trinket,Not her gift – oh, never think it! For her thoughts were all for you.‘As we danced I gently drew itFrom her chain – she never knew it But I love her – yes, I love her: I am candid, I confess.But I never told her, never,For I knew ’twas vain endeavour,And she loved you – loved you ever, Would to God she loved you less!’‘Barrow, Barrow, you shall pay me!Me, your comrade, to betray me! Well I know that little Amy Is as true as wife can be.She to give this love-badged locket!She had rather.. Ha, the rocket!Hi, McDougall! Sound the bugle! Yorkshires, Yorkshires, follow me!’* * * * *Said Paul Leroy to Amy,‘Well, wifie, you may blame me,For my passion overcame me, When he told me of his shame;But when I saw him lying,Dead amid a ring of dying,Why, poor devil, I was trying To forget, and not to blame.‘And this locket, I unclasped itFrom the fingers that still grasped it:He told me how he got it, How he stole it in a valse.’And she listened leaden-hearted:Oh, the weary day they parted!For she loved him – yes, she loved him —For his youth and for his truth, And for those dying words, so false.THE FRONTIER LINE
What marks the frontier line? Thou man of India, say!Is it the Himalayas sheer,The rocks and valleys of Cashmere,Or Indus as she seeks the southFrom Attoch to the fivefold mouth? ‘Not that! Not that!’ Then answer me, I pray!What marks the frontier line?What marks the frontier line? Thou man of Burmah, speak!Is it traced from Mandalay,And down the marches of Cathay,From Bhamo south to Kiang-mai,And where the buried rubies lie? ‘Not that! Not that!’ Then tell me what I seek:What marks the frontier line?What marks the frontier line? Thou Africander, say!Is it shown by Zulu kraal,By Drakensberg or winding Vaal,Or where the Shiré waters seekTheir outlet east at Mozambique? ‘Not that! Not that! There is a surer wayTo mark the frontier line.’What marks the frontier line? Thou man of Egypt, tell!Is it traced on Luxor’s sand,Where Karnak’s painted pillars stand,Or where the river runs betweenThe Ethiop and Bishareen? ‘Not that! Not that! By neither stream nor wellWe mark the frontier line.‘But be it east or west, One common sign we bear,The tongue may change, the soil, the sky,But where your British brothers lie,The lonely cairn, the nameless grave,Still fringe the flowing Saxon wave. ’Tis that! ’Tis where They lie – the men who placed it there,That marks the frontier line.’CORPORAL DICK’S PROMOTION
A BALLAD OF ’82The Eastern day was well-nigh o’erWhen, parched with thirst and travel sore,Two of McPherson’s flanking corps Across the Desert were tramping.They had wandered off from the beaten trackAnd now were wearily harking back,Ever staring round for the signal jack That marked their comrades camping.The one was Corporal Robert Dick,Bearded and burly, short and thick,Rough of speech and in temper quick, A hard-faced old rapscallion.The other, fresh from the barrack square,Was a raw recruit, smooth-cheeked and fairHalf grown, half drilled, with the weedy air Of a draft from the home battalion.Weary and parched and hunger-torn,They had wandered on from early morn,And the young boy-soldier limped forlorn, Now stumbling and now falling.Around the orange sand-curves lay,Flecked with boulders, black or grey,Death-silent, save that far away A kite was shrilly calling.A kite? Was that a kite? The yellThat shrilly rose and faintly fell?No kite’s, and yet the kite knows well The long-drawn wild halloo.And right athwart the evening skyThe yellow sand-spray spurtled high,And shrill and shriller swelled the cry Of ‘Allah! Allahu!’The Corporal peered at the crimson West,Hid his pipe in his khaki vest.Growled out an oath and onward pressed, Still glancing over his shoulder.‘Bedouins, mate!’ he curtly said;‘We’ll find some work for steel and lead,And maybe sleep in a sandy bed, Before we’re one hour older.‘But just one flutter before we’re done.Stiffen your lip and stand, my son;We’ll take this bloomin’ circus on: Ball-cartridge load! Now, steady!’With a curse and a prayer the two faced round,Dogged and grim they stood their ground,And their breech-blocks snapped with a crisp clean sound As the rifles sprang to the ‘ready.’Alas for the Emir Ali Khan!A hundred paces before his clan,That ebony steed of the prophet’s breed Is the foal of death and of danger.A spurt of fire, a gasp of pain,A blueish blurr on the yellow plain,The chief was down, and his bridle rein Was in the grip of the stranger.With the light of hope on his rugged face,The Corporal sprang to the dead man’s place,One prick with the steel, one thrust with the heel, And where was the man to outride him?A grip of his knees, a toss of his rein,He was settling her down to her gallop again,When he stopped, for he heard just one faltering word From the young recruit beside him.One faltering word from pal to pal,But it found the heart of the Corporal.He had sprung to the sand, he had lent him a hand, ‘Up, mate! They’ll be ’ere in a minute;Off with you! No palaver! Go!I’ll bide be’ind and run this show.Promotion has been cursed slow, And this is my chance to win it.’Into the saddle he thrust him quick,Spurred the black mare with a bayonet prick.Watched her gallop with plunge and with kick Away o’er the desert careering.Then he turned with a softened face,And loosened the strap of his cartridge-case,While his thoughts flew back to the dear old place In the sunny Hampshire clearing.The young boy-private, glancing back,Saw the Bedouins’ wild attack,And heard the sharp Martini crack. But as he gazed, alreadyThe fierce fanatic Arab bandWas closing in on every hand,Until one tawny swirl of sand, Concealed them in its eddy.* * * * *A squadron of British horse that night,Galloping hard in the shadowy light,Came on the scene of that last stern fight, And found the Corporal lyingSilent and grim on the trampled sand,His rifle grasped in his stiffened hand,With the warrior pride of one who died ’Mid a ring of the dead and the dying.And still when twilight shadows fall,After the evening bugle call,In bivouac or in barrack-hall,His comrades speak of the Corporal, His death and his devotion.And there are some who like to sayThat perhaps a hidden meaning layIn the words he spoke, and that the dayWhen his rough bold spirit passed away Was the day that he won promotion.A FORGOTTEN TALE
[The scene of this ancient fight, recorded by Froissart, is still called ‘Altura de los Inglesos.’ Five hundred years later Wellington’s soldiers were fighting on the same ground.]
‘Say, what saw you on the hill, Campesino Garcia?’‘I saw my brindled heifer there,A trail of bowmen, spent and bare,And a little man on a sorrel mare Riding slow before them.’‘Say, what saw you in the vale, Campesino Garcia?’‘There I saw my lambing eweAnd an army riding through,Thick and brave the pennons flew From the lances o’er them.’‘Then what saw you on the hill, Campesino Garcia?’‘I saw beside the milking byre,White with want and black with mire,The little man with eyes afire Marshalling his bowmen.’‘Then what saw you in the vale, Campesino Garcia?’‘There I saw my bullocks twain,And amid my uncut grainAll the hardy men of Spain Spurring for their foemen.’‘Nay, but there is more to tell, Campesino Garcia!’‘I could not bide the end to view;I had graver things to doTending on the lambing ewe Down among the clover.’‘Ah, but tell me what you heard, Campesino Garcia!’‘Shouting from the mountain-side,Shouting until eventide;But it dwindled and it died Ere milking time was over.’‘Nay, but saw you nothing more, Campesino Garcia?’‘Yes, I saw them lying there,The little man and sorrel mare;And in their ranks the bowmen fair, With their staves before them.’‘And the hardy men of Spain, Campesino Garcia?’‘Hush! but we are Spanish too;More I may not say to you:May God’s benison, like dew, Gently settle o’er them.’PENNARBY MINE
Pennarby shaft is dark and steep,Eight foot wide, eight hundred deep.Stout the bucket and tough the cord,Strong as the arm of Winchman Ford. ‘Never look down! Stick to the line!’That was the saying at Pennarby mine.A stranger came to Pennarby shaft.Lord, to see how the miners laughed!White in the collar and stiff in the hat,With his patent boots and his silk cravat, Picking his way, Dainty and fine,Stepping on tiptoe to Pennarby mine.Touring from London, so he said.Was it copper they dug for? or gold? or lead?Where did they find it? How did it come?If he tried with a shovel might he get some? Stooping so much Was bad for the spine;And wasn’t it warmish in Pennarby mine?’Twas like two worlds that met that day —The world of work and the world of play;And the grimy lads from the reeking shaftNudged each other and grinned and chaffed. ‘Got ’em all out!’ ‘A cousin of mine!’So ran the banter at Pennarby mine.And Carnbrae Bob, the Pennarby wit,Told him the facts about the pit:How they bored the shaft till the brimstone smellWarned them off from tapping – well, He wouldn’t say what, But they took it as signTo dig no deeper in Pennarby mine.Then leaning over and peering in,He was pointing out what he said was tinIn the ten-foot lode – a crash! a jar!A grasping hand and a splintered bar. Gone in his strength, With the lips that laughed —Oh, the pale faces round Pennarby shaft!Far down on a narrow ledge,They saw him cling to the crumbling edge.‘Wait for the bucket! Hi, man! Stay!That rope ain’t safe! It’s worn away! He’s taking his chance, Slack out the line!Sweet Lord be with him!’ cried Pennarby mine.‘He’s got him! He has him! Pull with a will!Thank God! He’s over and breathing still.And he – Lord’s sakes now! What’s that? Well!Blowed if it ain’t our London swell. Your heart is right If your coat is fine:Give us your hand!’ cried Pennarby mine.A ROVER CHANTY
A trader sailed from Stepney town —Wake her up! Shake her up! Try her with the mainsail!A trader sailed from Stepney townWith a keg full of gold and a velvet gown: Ho, the bully rover Jack, Waiting with his yard abackOut upon the Lowland sea!The trader he had a daughter fair —Wake her up! Shake her up! Try her with the foresailThe trader he had a daughter fair,She had gold in her ears, and gold in her hair: All for bully rover Jack, Waiting with his yard aback,Out upon the Lowland sea!‘Alas the day, oh daughter mine!’ —Shake her up! Wake her up! Try her with the topsail!‘Alas the day, oh daughter mine!Yon red, red flag is a fearsome sign!’ Ho, the bully rover Jack, Reaching on the weather tack,Out upon the Lowland sea!‘A fearsome flag!’ the maiden cried —Wake her up! Shake her up! Try her with the jibsail!‘A fearsome flag!’ the maiden cried,But comelier men I never have spied!’ Ho, the bully rover Jack, Reaching on the weather tack,Out upon the Lowland sea!There’s a wooden path that the rovers know —Wake her up! Shake her up! Try her with the headsails!There’s a wooden path that the rovers know,Where none come back, though many must go: Ho, the bully rover Jack, Lying with his yard aback,Out upon the Lowland sea!Where is the trader of Stepney town? —Wake her up! Shake her up! Every stick a-bending!Where is the trader of Stepney town?There’s gold on the capstan, and blood on the gown: Ho for bully rover Jack, Waiting with his yard aback,Out upon the Lowland sea!Where is the maiden who knelt at his side? —Wake her up! Shake her up! Every stitch a-drawing!Where is the maiden who knelt at his side?We gowned her in scarlet, and chose her our bride: Ho, the bully rover Jack, Reaching on the weather tack,Right across the Lowland sea!So it’s up and its over to Stornoway Bay,Pack it on! Crack it on! Try her with the stunsails!It’s off on a bowline to Stornoway Bay,Where the liquor is good and the lasses are gay: Waiting for their bully Jack, Watching for him sailing back,Right across the Lowland sea.A BALLAD OF THE RANKS
Who carries the gun? A lad from over the Tweed.Then let him go, for well we know He comes of a soldier breed.So drink together to rock and heather, Out where the red deer run,And stand aside for Scotland’s pride — The man that carries the gun! For the Colonel rides before, The Major’s on the flank, The Captains and the Adjutant Are in the foremost rank. But when it’s ‘Action front!’ And fighting’s to be done, Come one, come all, you stand or fall By the man who holds the gun.Who carries the gun? A lad from a Yorkshire dale.Then let him go, for well we know The heart that never will fail.Here’s to the fire of Lancashire, And here’s to her soldier son!For the hard-bit north has sent him forth — The lad that carries the gun.Who carries the gun? A lad from a Midland shire.Then let him go, for well we know He comes of an English sire.Here’s a glass to a Midland lass, And each can choose the one,But east and west we claim the best For the man that carries the gun.Who carries the gun? A lad from the hills of Wales.Then let him go, for well we know, That Taffy is hard as nails.There are several ll’s in the place where he dwells, And of w’s more than one,With a ‘Llan’ and a ‘pen,’ but it breeds good men, And it’s they who carry the gun.Who carries the gun? A lad from the windy west.Then let him go, for well we know That he is one of the best.There’s Bristol rough, and Gloucester tough, And Devon yields to none.Or you may get in Somerset Your lad to carry the gun.Who carries the gun? A lad from London town.Then let him go, for well we know The stuff that never backs down.He has learned to joke at the powder smoke, For he is the fog-smoke’s son,And his heart is light and his pluck is right — The man who carries the gun.Who carries the gun? A lad from the Emerald Isle.Then let him go, for well we know, We’ve tried him many a while.We’ve tried him east, we’ve tried him west, We’ve tried him sea and land,But the man to beat old Erin’s best Has never yet been planned.Who carries the gun? It’s you, and you, and you;So let us go, and we won’t say no If they give us a job to do.Here we stand with a cross-linked hand, Comrades every one;So one last cup, and drink it up To the man who carries the gun! For the Colonel rides before, The Major’s on the flank, The Captains and the Adjutant Are in the foremost rank. And when it’s ‘Action front!’ And there’s fighting to be done, Come one, come all, you stand or fall By the man who holds the gun.A LAY OF THE LINKS
It’s up and away from our work to-day, For the breeze sweeps over the down;And it’s hey for a game where the gorse blossoms flame, And the bracken is bronzing to brown.With the turf ’neath our tread and the blue overhead, And the song of the lark in the whin;There’s the flag and the green, with the bunkers between — Now will you be over or in?The doctor may come, and we’ll teach him to know A tee where no tannin can lurk;The soldier may come, and we’ll promise to show Some hazards a soldier may shirk;The statesman may joke, as he tops every stroke, That at last he is high in his aims;And the clubman will stand with a club in his hand That is worth every club in St. James’.The palm and the leather come rarely together, Gripping the driver’s haft,And it’s good to feel the jar of the steel And the spring of the hickory shaft.Why trouble or seek for the praise of a clique? A cleek here is common to all;And the lie that might sting is a very small thing When compared with the lie of the ball.Come youth and come age, from the study or stage, From Bar or from Bench – high and low!A green you must use as a cure for the blues — You drive them away as you go.We’re outward bound on a long, long round, And it’s time to be up and away:If worry and sorrow come back with the morrow, At least we’ll be happy to-day.THE DYING WHIP
It came from gettin’ ’eated, that was ’ow the thing begun,And ’ackin’ back to kennels from a ninety-minute run;‘I guess I’ve copped brownchitis,’ says I to brother Jack,An’ then afore I knowed it I was down upon my back.At night there came a sweatin’ as left me deadly weak,And my throat was sort of tickly an’ it ’urt me for to speak;An’ then there came an ’ackin’ cough as wouldn’t leave alone,An’ then afore I knowed it I was only skin and boneI never was a ’eavy weight. I scaled at seven four,An’ rode at eight, or maybe at just a trifle more;And now I’ll stake my davy I wouldn’t scale at five,And I’d ’old my own at catch-weights with the skinniest jock alive.And the doctor says the reason why I sit an’ cough an wheezeIs all along o’ varmint, like the cheese-mites in the cheese;The smallest kind o’ varmint, but varmint all the same,Microscopes or somethin’ – I forget the varmints’ name.But I knows as I’m a goner. They never said as much,But I reads the people’s faces, and I knows as I am such;Well, there’s ’Urst to mind the ’orses and the ’ounds can look to Jack,Though ’e never was a patch on me in ’andlin’ of a pack.You’ll maybe think I’m boastin’, but you’ll find they all agreeThat there’s not a whip in Surrey as can ’andle ’ounds like me;For I knew ’em all from puppies, and I’d tell ’em without fail —If I seed a tail a-waggin’, I could tell who wagged the tail.And voices – why, Lor’ love you, it’s more than I can ’elp,It just comes kind of natural to know each whine an’ yelp;You might take them twenty couple where you will and let ’em run,An’ I’d listen by the coverside and name ’em one by one.I say it’s kind of natural, for since I was a bratI never cared for readin’ books, or fancy things like that;But give me ’ounds and ’orses an’ I was quite content,An’ I loved to ear ’em talkin’ and to wonder what they meant.And when the ’ydrophoby came five year ago next May,When Nailer was be’avin’ in a most owdacious way,I fixed ’im so’s ’e couldn’t bite, my ’ands on neck an’ back,An’ I ’eaved ’im from the kennels, and they say I saved the pack.An’ when the Master ’eard of it, ’e up an’ says, says ’e,‘If that chap were a soldier man, they’d give ’im the V.C.’Which is some kind a’ medal what they give to soldier men;An’ Master said if I were such I would ’a’ got it then.Parson brought ’is Bible and come to read to me;‘’Ave what you like, there’s everythink within this Book,’ says ’e.Says I, ‘They’ve left the ’orses out!’ Says ’e, ‘You are mistook;’An’ ’e up an’ read a ’eap of things about them from the Book.And some of it amazin’ fine; although I’m fit to swearNo ’orse would ever say ‘Ah, ah!’ same as they said it there.Per’aps it was an ’Ebrew ’orse the chap ’ad in his mind,But I never ’eard an English ’orse say nothin’ of the kind.Parson is a good ’un. I’ve known ’im from a lad;’Twas me as taught ’im ridin’, an’ ’e rides uncommon bad;And he says – But ’ark an’ listen! There’s an ’orn! I ’eard it blow;Pull the blind from off the winder! Prop me up, and ’old me so.They’re drawin’ the black ’anger, just aside the Squire’s grounds.’Ark and listen! ’Ark and listen! There’s the yappin’ of the ’ounds:There’s Fanny and Beltinker, and I ’ear old Boxer call;You see I wasn’t boastin’ when I said I knew ’em all.Let me sit an’ ’old the bedrail! Now I see ’em as they pass:There’s Squire upon the Midland mare, a good ’un on the grass;But this is closish country, and you wants a clever ’orseWhen ’alf the time you’re in the woods an’ ’alf among the gorse.’Ark to Jack a’ollering – a-bleatin’ like a lamb.You wouldn’t think it now, perhaps, to see the thing I am;But there was a time the ladies used to linger at the meetJust to ’ear me callin’ in the woods: my callin’ was so sweet.I see the crossroads corner, with the field awaitin’ there,There’s Purcell on ’is piebald ’orse, an’ Doctor on the mare,And the Master on ’is iron grey; she isn’t much to look,But I seed ’er do clean twenty foot across the ’eathly brook.There’s Captain Kane an’ McIntyre an’ ’alf a dozen more,And two or three are ’untin’ whom I never seed afore;Likely-lookin’ chaps they be, well groomed and ’orsed and dressed —I wish they could ’a seen the pack when it was at its best.It’s a check, and they are drawin’ down the coppice for a scent,You can see as they’ve been runnin’, for the ’orses they are spent;I’ll lay the fox will break this way, downwind as sure as fate,An’ if he does you’ll see the field come poundin’ through our gate.But, Maggie, what’s that slinkin’ beside the cover? – See!Now it’s in the clover field, and goin’ fast an’ free,It’s ’im, and they don’t see ’im. It’s ’im! ’Alloo! ’Alloo!My broken wind won’t run to it – I’ll leave the job to you.There now I ’ear the music, and I know they’re on his track;Oh, watch ’em, Maggie, watch ’em! Ain’t they just a lovely pack!I’ve nursed ’em through distemper, an’ I’ve trained an’ broke ’em in,An’ my ’eart it just goes out to them as if they was my kin.Well, all things ’as an endin’, as I’ve ’eard the parson say,The ’orse is cast, an’ the ’ound is past, an’ the ’unter ’as ’is day;But my day was yesterday, so lay me down again.You can draw the curtain, Maggie, right across the winder pane.