  The meet was at "The Cock and Pye By Charles and Martha Enderby," The grey, three-hundred-year-old inn Long since the haunt of Benjamin The highwayman, who rode the bay. The tavern fronts the coaching way, The mail changed horses there of old. It has a strip of grassy mould In front of it, a broad green strip. A trough, where horses' muzzles dip, Stands opposite the tavern front, To fill that quiet width of road As full of men as Framilode Is full of sea when tide is in. The stables were alive with din From dawn until the time of meeting. A pad-groom gave a cloth a beating, Knocking the dust out with a stake. Two men cleaned stalls with fork and rake, And one went whistling to the pump, The handle whined, ker-lump, ker-lump, The water splashed into the pail, And, as he went, it left a trail, Lipped over on the yard's bricked paving. Two grooms (sent on before) were shaving On jutting bricks; they scraped and stropped, And felt their chins and leaned and peered, A woodland day was what they feared (As second horsemen), shaving there. Then, in the stalls where hunters were, Straw rustled as the horses shifted, The hayseeds ticked and haystraws drifted From racks as horses tugged their feed. Slow gulping sounds of steady greed Came from each stall, and sometimes stampings, Whinnies (at well-known steps) and rampings To see the horse in the next stall. The stables were alive with din From dawn until the time of meeting. Outside, the spangled cock did call To scattering grain that Martha flung. By Susan ere the floor was clean. The harness room, that busy scene, Clinked and chinked from ostlers brightening Rings and bits with dips of whitening, Rubbing fox-flecks out of stirrups, Dumbing buckles of their chirrups By the touch of oily feathers. Some, with stag's bones rubbed at leathers, Brushed at saddle-flaps or hove Saddle linings to the stove. Blue smoke from strong tobacco drifted Out of the yard, the passers snifft it, Mixed with the strong ammonia flavour Of horses' stables and the savour Of saddle-paste and polish spirit The grooms in shirts with rolled-up sleeves, Belted by girths of coloured weaves, Groomed the clipped hunters in their stalls. One said, "My dad cured saddle galls, He called it Doctor Barton's cure; Hog's lard and borax, laid on pure." And others said, "Ge' back, my son," "Now, boy, no snapping; gently. Crikes, He gives a rare pinch when he likes." "Drawn blood? I thought he looked a biter." "I give 'em all sweet spit of nitre For that, myself: that sometimes cures." "Now, Beauty, mind them feet of yours." They groomed, and sissed with hissing notes To keep the dust out of their throats. |
|
