SPORTSMAN

The Riddens came, from Ocle Covers,

Bill Ridden riding Stormalong,

( By Tempest out of Love-me-long )

A proper handful of a horse,

That nothing but the Aintree course

Could bring to terms, save Bill perhaps.

All sport, from bloody war to craps,

Came well to Bill, that big-mouthed smiler;

They nick-named him “the mug-beguiler,”

For Billy lived too much with horses

In coper's yards and sharper's courses,

To lack the sharper-coper streak.

He did not turn the other cheek

When struck ( as English Christians do ),

He boxed like a Whitechapel Jew,

And many a time his knuckles bled

Against a race-course-gipsy's head.

For “hit him first and argue later”

Was truth at Billy's alma mater,

Not love, not any bosh of love.

His hand was like a chamois glove

And riding was his chief delight.

He bred the chaser Chinese-white,

From Lilybud by Mandarin.

And when his mouth tucked corners in,

And scent was high and hounds were going,

He went across a field like snowing

And tackled anything that came.

His wife, Sal Ridden, was the same,

A loud, bold, blonde abundant mare,

With white horse teeth and stooks of hair,

( Like polished brass ) and such a manner

It flaunted from her like a banner.

Her father was Tom See the trainer;

She rode a lovely earth-disdainer

Which she and Billy wished to sell.

Behind them rode her daughter Bell,

A strange shy lovely girl whose face

Was sweet with thought and proud with race,

And bright with joy at riding there.

She was as good as blowing air

But shy and difficult to know.

The kittens in the barley-mow,

The setter's toothless puppies sprawling,

The blackbird in the apple calling,

All knew her spirit more than we,

So delicate these maidens be

In loving lovely helpless things.

The Manor set, from Tencombe Rings,

Came, with two friends, a set of six.

Ed Manor with his cockerel chicks,

Nob, Cob and Bunny as they called them,

( God help the school or rule which galled them;

They carried head ) and friends from town.

Ed Manor trained on Tencombe Down.

He once had been a famous bat,

He had that stroke, “the Manor-pat,”

Which snicked the ball for three, past cover.

He once scored twenty in an over,

But now he cricketed no more.

He purpled in the face and swore

At all three sons, and trained, and told

Long tales of cricketing of old,

When he alone had saved his side.

Drink made it doubtful if he lied,

Drink purpled him, he could not face

The fences now, nor go the pace

He brought his friends to meet; no more.

His big son Nob, at whom he swore,

Swore back at him, for Nob was surly,

Tall, shifty, sullen-smiling, burly,

Quite fearless, built with such a jaw

That no man's rule could be his law

Nor any woman's son his master.

Boxing he relished. He could plaster

All those who boxed out Tencombe way.

A front tooth had been knocked away

Two days before, which put his mouth

A little to the east of south.

And put a venom in his laughter.

Cob was a lighter lad, but dafter;

Just past eighteen, while Nob was twenty.

Nob had no nerves but Cob had plenty

So Cobby went where Nobby led.

He had no brains inside his head,

Was fearless, just like Nob, but put

Some clog of folly round his foot,

Where Nob put will of force or fraud;

He spat aside and muttered Gawd

When vext; he took to whiskey kindly

And loved and followed Nobby blindly,

And rode as in the saddle born.

Bun looked upon the two with scorn.

He was the youngest, and was wise.

He too was fair, with sullen eyes,

He too ( a year before ) had had

A zest for going to the bad,

With Cob and Nob. He knew the joys

Of drinking with the stable-boys,

Or smoking while he filled his skin

With pints of Guinness dashed with gin

And Cobby yelled a bawdy ditty,

Or cutting Nobby for the kitty,

And damning peoples’ eyes and guts,

Or drawing evening-church for sluts,

He knew them all and now was quit.

Sweet Polly Colway managed it.

And Bunny changed. He dropped his drink

( The pleasant pit's seductive brink ),

He started working in the stable,

And well, for he was shrewd and able.

He left the doubtful female friends

Picked up at Evening-Service ends,

He gave up cards and swore no more.

Nob called him “the Reforming Whore,”

“The Soul's Awakening,” or “The Text,”

Nob being always coarse when vext.

Ed Manor's friends were Hawke and Sladd,

Old college friends, the last he had,

Rare horsemen, but their nerves were shaken

By all the whiskey they had taken.

Hawke's hand was trembling on his rein.

His eyes were dead-blue like a vein,

His peaked sad face was touched with breeding,

His querulous mind was quaint from reading,

His piping voice still quirked with fun.

Many a mad thing he had done,

Riding to hounds and going to races.

A glimmer of the gambler's graces,

Wit, courage, devil, touched his talk.

Sladd's big fat face was white as chalk,

His mind went wondering, swift yet solemn,

Twixt winning-post and betting column,

The weights and forms and likely colts.

He said “This road is full of jolts.

I shall be seasick riding here.

O damn last night with that liqueur.”

Len Stokes rode up on Peterkin;

He owned the Downs by Baydon Whin;

And grazed some thousand sheep; the boy

Grinned round at men with jolly joy

At being alive and being there.

His big round face and mop of hair

Shone, his great teeth shone in his grin,

The clean blood in his clear tanned skin

Ran merry, and his great voice mocked

His young friends present till they rocked.

Steer Harpit came from Rowell Hill,

A small, frail man, all heart and will,

A sailor as his voice betrayed.

He let his whip-thong droop and played

At snicking off the grass-blades with it,

John Hankerton, from Compton Lythitt,

Was there with Pity Hankerton,

And Mike, their good-for-little son,

Back, smiling, from his seventh job.

Joan Urch was there upon her cob.

Tom Sparsholt on his lanky grey.

John Restrop from Hope Goneaway.

And Vaughan, the big black handsome devil,

Loose-lipped with song and wine and revel

All rosy from his morning tub