Illustration by Lionel Edwards
As, still as a statue, he sits on his horse,
Watching and waiting,
Or rounding up stragglers behind in the gorse,
Cursing and rating,
He’s always the same, hard-bitten and game.
The voice of a hound, or the click of a hoof
Tell him what’s doing,
He knows, on the instant, alert and aloof,
All that’s brewing;
Lean-visaged and tanned, he’s always at hand.
When hounds are at fault and are lifted in vain,
Nothing resulting,
His musical holloa is heard through the rain,
Faintly exulting;
He’s sure to be right, whatever the plight.
And, during a run, when the pack, in full cry,
Goes hell-for-leather,
He sees, all the time, with his critical eye,
Hounds are together;
No matter the pace, he’s there in his place.
But, after it’s over, we leave in our cars,
Cosily weary,
While he collects hounds by the light of the stars,
Placidly cheery;
Although it’s hard work, there’s nothing he’d shirk.
And if, every day, he’s up with the dawn,
Grooming and feeding,
There’ll come a time, soon, when he’ll carry the horn,
True to his breeding;
The salt of the earth, he’ll show what he’s worth.
From Somewhere in England by Edric C. Roberts, illustrated by Lionel Edwards, Constable and Company Limited, London, 1929
Posted January 18, 2016