The anniversary of the start of the First World War will be upon us July 28th. Four years ago, in England, on the hundredth anniversary of that terrible conflict, James Barcaly, ex-MFH, tossed and turned through the early morning hours. Thoughts of the war, the carnage that took its toll on James’s family members, eighteen million people, eight million horses, and what those years meant to a way of life that was so much a part of the Barclay family ran through his head. He got out of bed, sat down, and wrote this poem. At 6:30 am he finished writing. Twenty minutes later the South Wold Foxhounds came up his drive on summer exercise, making his world right once again.
The stable yard is silent, no equine friends, no ears twitching over the doors.
Where have they gone? They have gone to Europe to fight a war.
Will they be back to graze the summer pastures green?
Will they be back to see the autumn mist and hear hounds running?
Will they be back to enjoy the fifty minutes across the grass?
They and their Masters have gone to defend our freedoms.
In mud and wire they toil, no end in sight,
But the thought of hounds running and their cry deep in their veins,
Make our horse and human friends dream, dream of
A cold winter’s night, hacking homewards with the moon up high.
This dreadful battle must soon be over, no more dust or artillery fire.
The guns shall fall silent, and it’s back across the sea to the land we love,
And the day will soon come again, to be harnessed to the plough
Or saddled, fit and ready for a day with the hounds.
A hundred years hence, let us just spare a thought,
Hounds still running they are, and running hard, across the vale below,
Imagine the pleasures of your equine steed,
Leaping that bullfinch clear and straight.
We can see you now, we can see you clearly from above!
For we are at peace, peace in the knowledge as the fight to us came,
We took it on and gave our best,
To fight for a future, sadly we were not to see.
Time is now though for those with younger spirit, to go and play their part.
As the morning sun rises above the silver mist,
I hear a pack of foxhounds flying and the holloa that chills the spine.
Charlie has slipped from the covert and quickly gone away,
Then like shadows from the past,
Before our very eyes, is a field of swift and gallant horses, galloping on the turf!
The guns of war are silent, our battles fought, our battles won,
The stables are full once more, with spirits old and new,
Ears twitching over stable doors, as always is their way,
And those dear hounds are singing, their heads held proudly high,
With a note in their voice that says, We are here, and here we are to stay.
James Barclay is a contributor to Foxhunting Life. A Master of five different hunts in England over a period of thirty years, he was born to the job. Members of his family have been Masters of the Puckeridge continuously since 1897. This poem was originally published in 1914.