Andromeda and Other Poems Part 13

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.

FISHING 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 ships 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,

THE KNIGHT'S RETURN

Hark! hark! hark!

The lark sings high in the dark.

The were wolves mutter, the night hawks moan, The raven croaks from the Raven-stone; What care I for his boding groan, Riding the moorland to come to mine own?

Hark! hark! hark!

The lark sings high in the dark.

Hark! hark! hark!

The lark sings high in the dark.

Long have I wander'd by land and by sea, Long have I ridden by moorland and lea; Yonder she sits with my babe on her knee, Sits at the window and watches for me!

Hark! hark! hark!

The lark sings high in the dark.

Written for music, 1857.

PEN-Y-GWRYDD: TO TOM HUGHES, ESQ.

There is no inn in Snowdon which is not awful dear, Excepting Pen-y-gwrydd (you can't p.r.o.nounce it, dear), Which standeth in the meeting of n.o.ble valleys three-- One is the vale of Gwynant, so well beloved by me, One goes to Capel-Curig, and I can't mind its name, And one it is Llanberris Pa.s.s, which all men knows the same; Between which radiations vast mountains does arise, As full of tarns as sieves of holes, in which big fish will rise, That is, just one day in the year, if you be there, my boy, Just about ten o'clock at night; and then I wish you joy.

Now to this Pen-y-gwrydd inn I purposeth to write, (Axing the post town out of Froude, for I can't mind it quite), And to engage a room or two, for let us say a week, For fear of gents, and Manichees, and reading parties meek, And there to live like fighting-c.o.c.ks at almost a bob a day, And arterwards toward the sea make tracks and cut away, All for to catch the salmon bold in Aberglaslyn pool, And work the flats in Traeth-Mawr, and will, or I'm a fool.

And that's my game, which if you like, respond to me by post; But I fear it will not last, my son, a thirteen days at most.

Flies is no object; I can tell some three or four will do, And John Jones, Clerk, he knows the rest, and ties and sells 'em too.

Besides of which I have no more to say, leastwise just now, And so, goes to my children's school and 'umbly makes my bow.

Eversley, 1857.

ODE ON THE INSTALLATION OF THE DUKE OF DEVONSHIRE, CHANCELLOR OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CAMBRIDGE, 1862 {303}

Hence a while, severer Muses; Spare your slaves till drear October.

Hence; for Alma Mater chooses Not to be for ever sober: But, like stately matron gray, Calling child and grandchild round her, Will for them at least be gay; Share for once their holiday; And, knowing she will sleep the sounder, Cheerier-hearted on the morrow Rise to grapple care and sorrow, Grandly leads the dance adown, and joins the children's play.

So go, for in your places Already, as you see, (Her tears for some deep sorrow scarcely dried), Venus holds court among her sinless graces, With many a nymph from many a park and lea.

She, pensive, waits the merrier faces Of those your wittier sisters three, O'er jest and dance and song who still preside, To cheer her in this merry-mournful tide; And bids us, as she smiles or sighs, Tune our fancies by her eyes.

Then let the young be glad, Fair girl and gallant lad, And sun themselves to-day By lawn and garden gay; 'Tis play befits the noon Of rosy-girdled June: Who dare frown if heaven shall smile?