Here’s an excerpt from Tad Shepperd’s book of foxhunting and racing poems, Pack and Paddock, published by the Derrydale Press, New York, in 1938. Illustrated by Paul Brown, it was regarded by Derrydale founder Eugene Connett as one of his most handsome publications. Nine hundred-fifty copies were printed. The pages were gilt-edged on top and deckle-edged, untrimmed fore and bottom. The book was bound in red cloth with gilt lettering and boxed. Original price: $10.00.
Well did your sire know the feel
Of battling for the rail,
Of track dust flung from a driving heel,
Of thunder upon his tail!
Well did he know the cheering throng
That shivered the heaven’s dome.
Well did he know the jockey’s song,
In the desp’rate drive for home.
Well did he know the hail of mud,
The burn of the flaying goad.
For under his girth there pulsed the blood
Of the noble Roi Herode.
Aye, and well did your grandam know
The feel of the collar’s brace,
The weight of the wagon, creaking, slow,
The tug of the leathern trace.
Wise your dam to the hazy sweep
Of the moorlands, lush and rich.
Well did she know the slide-and-leap
Of the Irish bank-and-ditch.
Wise to the horn’s resounding skirl,
The hounds on the russet rogue.
Well did she know, “Hup-up, me gur-r-l!”
In a laughing Irish brogue.
All of this wisdom, gameness, strength
Was cast in the mold of you,
Cast in your pearl-and-marble length,
In your sturdy sixteen-two.
Well do you know the serenade
Of the huntsman’s cheery call,
The smell of frost when each woodland glade
Wears the Joseph’s Coat of Fall.
Well do you know the breathless joy
Of flying a four-bar gate
When the fox is done with his playing coy–
We’re lost if we turn or wait!
Well do you know the coiling loop
Of the hunting thong, the tongue
Of speeding hounds and the shrill Whoo-oop!
When the varmint’s knell is rung.
Well do you know the thrilling rush
Of trailing the questing pack.
Well do you know the peaceful hush
Of the evening’s homeward hack.
Well do I know your thews of steel,
Your mouth like a chamois glove,
Your swift response to the spurless heel,
Your stride. And I dearly love
Your quiet manners, your gallantry.
And well do I know you’ll keep
A place that’s warm in the heart of me
‘Til I sleep the final sleep.