  Bill Ridden thundered down; His big mouth grinned beneath his frown, The hounds were going away from horses. He saw the glint of water-courses, Yell Brook and Wittold's Dyke ahead, His horse shoes sliced the green turf red. Young Cothill's chaser rushed and passt him, Nob Manor, running next, said "Blast him, That poet chap who thinks he rides." Hugh Colway's mare made straking strides Across the grass, the Colonel next: Then Squire volleying oaths and vext, Fighting his hunter for refusing: Bell Ridden like a cutter cruising Then Minton Price upon Marauder; Ock Gurney with his eyes intense, Burning as with a different sense, His big mouth muttering glad "by damns"; Then Pete crouched down from head to hams, Rapt like a saint, bright focussed flame. Bennett with devils in his wame Chewing black cud and spitting slanting; Copse scattering jests and Stukely ranting; Sal Ridden taking line from Dansey; Long Robert forcing Necromancy; A dozen more with bad beginnings; Myngs riding hard to snatch an innings, A wild last hound with high shrill yelps, Smacked forrard with some whip-thong skelps. The crowd on foot all gasps and eyes The run up hill had winded them. They saw the Yell Brook like a gem Blue in the grass a short mile on, They heard faint cries, but hounds were gone A good eight fields and out of sight Except a rippled glimmer white Going away with dying cheering And scarlet flappings disappearing, And scattering horses going, going, Going like mad, White Rabbit snowing Far on ahead, a loose horse taking, Fence after fence with stirrups shaking, And scarlet specks and dark specks dwindling. Far on ahead, a loose horse taking fence after fence Nearer, were twigs knocked into kindling, A much bashed fence still dropping stick, Flung clods, still quivering from the kick, Cut hoof-marks pale in cheesy clay, The horse-smell blowing clean away. Birds flitting back into the cover. One last faint cry, then all was over. The hunt had been, and found, and gone. He faced the fence and put her through it Shielding his eyes lest spikes should blind him. At Neakings Farm, three furlongs on, Hounds raced across the Waysmore Road, Where many of the riders slowed To tittup down a grassy lane, Which led as hounds led in the main And gave no danger of a fall. There, as they tittupped one and all, Big Twenty Stone came scattering by, His great mare made the hoof-casts fly. "By leave," he cried. "Come on. Come up, This fox is running like a tup; Let's leave this lane and get to terms. No sense in crawling here like worms. Come, let me past and let me start, This fox is running like a hart, And this is going to be a run. He faced the fence and put her through it Shielding his eyes lest spikes should blind him, The crashing blackthorn closed behind him. Mud-scatters chased him as he scudded. His mare's ears cocked, her neat feet thudded. |
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