THE RUN

The kestrel cruising over meadow

Watched the hunt gallop on his shadow,

Wee figures, almost at a stand,

Crossing the multi-coloured land,

Slow as a shadow on a dial.

Some horses, swerving at a trial,

Baulked at a fence: at gates they bunched.

The mud about the gates was dunched.

Like German cheese; men pushed for places,

And kicked the mud into the faces

Of those who made them room to pass.

The half-mile's gallop on the grass,

Had tailed them out, and warmed their blood.

“His point's the Banner Barton Wood.”

“That, or Goat's Gorse.” “A stinger, this.”

“You're right in that; by Jove it is.”

“An up-wind travelling fox, by George.”

“They say Tom viewed him at the forge.”

“Well, let me pass and let's be on.”

They crossed the lane to Tolderton,

The hill-marl died to valley clay,

And there before them ran the grey

Yell Water, swirling as it ran,

The Yell Brook of the hunting man.

The hunters eyed it and were grim.

They saw the water snaking slim

Ahead, like silver; they could see

( Each man ) his pollard willow tree

Firming the bank, they felt their horses

Catch the gleam's hint and gather forces;

They heard the men behind draw near.

Each horse was trembling as a spear

Trembles in hand when tense to hurl,

They saw the brimmed brook's eddies curl.

The willow-roots like water-snakes;

The beaten holes the ratten makes,

They heard the water's rush; they heard

Hugh Colway's mare come like a bird;

A faint cry from the hounds ahead,

Then saddle-strain, the bright hooves’ tread,

Quick words, the splash of mud, the launch,

The sick hope that the bank be staunch,

Then Souse, with Souse to left and right.

Maroon across, Sir Peter's white

Down but pulled up, Tom over, Hugh

Mud to the hat but over, too,

Well splashed by Squire who was in.

With draggled pink stuck close to skin,

The Squire leaned from bank and hauled

His mired horse's rein; he bawled

For help from each man racing by.

“What, help you pull him out? Not I.

What made you pull him in?” they said.

Nob Manor cleared and turned his head,

And cried “Wade up. The ford's upstream.”

Ock Gurney in a cloud of steam

Stood by his dripping cob and wrung

The taste of brook mud from his tongue

And scraped his poor cob's pasterns clean.

“Lord, what a crowner we've a been,

This jumping brook's a mucky job.”

He muttered, grinning, “Lord, poor cob.

Now sir, let me.” He turned to Squire

And cleared his hunter from the mire

By skill and sense and strength of arm.