poem
The Second Whip
Illustration by Gilbert HollidayOver he goes, with a crash and a rattle,
Hound couples clinking, ’gainst saddle and thigh;
Over he goes, and the light of the battle
Gleams like a spark in his eager young eye.
Twigs of the hawthorn fly backward together,
Meeting again with an ominous swish;
Over he goes, landing light as a feather,
One with his horse and quick as you’d wish.
Kinds and condition of fences don’t matter,
Straight as a ramrod he rides at them all;
Over he goes with a bang and a clatter,
Knocking loose stones off the top of the wall.
The Stable Yard Is Silent
The hundredth anniversary this summer of the First World War has reminded all of us of that terrible conflict. In England, James Barclay, ex-MFH, tossed and turned through the early morning hours one night this month. Thoughts of the war, the carnage that took its toll on his family members and many 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.
The Stable Yard Is Silent
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.
Drop Your Hands
Tom Firr, huntsman to the Quorn, nineteenth centuryTom Firr indulged in a very big bit
(Always in pictures he’s seen using it),
“Plenty of iron; you don’t need to use it.”
“Yes, Firr—quite right, but so many abuse it!”
A light-mouthed puller’s a difficult horse,
A short-cheeked bridle will suit him, of course;
A snaffle’s the bit for a horse that takes hold
(At least, it’s all right if the rider is bold).
The acme of bliss when you’re hunting the fox
Is riding a horse who will jump off his hocks;
While quite the worst feeling, and one to be banned,
Is a horse who will only jump off his fore-hand.
The Galloping Whip
Gilbert Holliday illustrationIf life is a business, existence is fun
When duty and pleasure and sport are in one;
And so he wears ever a smile on his lip--
'Tis a labour of love to the Galloping Whip.
The moon of September's his light in the morn,
When the cub's to be killed and they've carried the corn;
The moon of December's his lamp for the trip,
As home with the pack goes the Galloping Whip.
For hours never vex him, and work cannot tire,
That dapper pink fits on a framework of wire;
He'll go without sup, and he'll go without sip
From daylight to dark will the Galloping Whip.
The phiz of bold Reynard is shaped on his mug,
Mouth wide as an oxer, as deep as a jug;
That feature was fashion'd to scream, not to nip,
And the bumper's no charm for the Galloping Whip.
The last to leave covert, he'll cheer on the pack;
Twenty couples are out, then away with a crack;
In a mile he has given the quickest the slip--
The wind from their sails takes the Galloping Whip.
