THE HUNTSMAN

The huntsman, Robin Dawe, looked round,

He sometimes called a favourite hound,

Gently, to see the creature turn

Look happy up and wag his stern.

He smiled and nodded and saluted,

To those who hailed him, as it suited.

And patted Pip's, his hunter's neck.

His new pink was without a speck;

He was a red-faced smiling fellow,

His voice clear tenor, full and mellow,

His eyes, all fire, were black and small.

He had been smashed in many a fall.

His eyebrow had a white curved mark

Left by the bright shoe of The Lark,

Down in a ditch by Seven Springs.

His coat had all been trod to strings,

His ribs laid bare and shoulder broken

Being jumped on down at Water's Oaken,

The time his horse came down and rolled.

His face was of the country mould

Such as the mason sometimes cutted

On English moulding-ends which jutted

Out of the church walls, centuries since.

And as you never know the quince,

How good he is, until you try,

So, in Dawe's face, what met the eye

Was only part, what lay behind

Was English character and mind.

Great kindness, delicate sweet feeling,

( Most shy, most clever in concealing

Its depth ) for beauty of all sorts,

Great manliness and love of sports,

A grave wise thoughtfulness and truth,

A merry fun, outlasting youth,

A courage terrible to see

And mercy for his enemy.

He had a clean-shaved face, but kept

A hedge of whisker neatly clipt,

A narrow strip or picture frame

( Old Dawe, the woodman, did the same ),

Under his chin from ear to ear.