  At twenty past, old Baldock strode His ploughman's straddle down the road. An old man with a gaunt, burnt face; His eyes rapt back on some far place, Like some starved, half-mad saint in bliss In God's world through the rags of this. He leaned upon a stake of ash Cut from a sapling: many a gash Was in his old, full-skirted coat. The twisted muscles in his throat Moved, as he swallowed, like taut cord. His oaken face was seamed and gored. He halted by the inn and stared Beyond his eyes, beyond his mind. An old man with a gaunt, burnt face; His eyes rapt back on some far place. Then Thomas Copp, of Cowfoot's Wynd Drove up; and stopped to take a glass. "I hope they'll gallop on my grass," He said, "My little girl does sing To see the red coats galloping. It's good for grass, too, to be trodden Except they poach it, where it's sodden." Then Billy Waldrist, from the Lynn, With Jockey Hill, from Pitts, came in And had a sip of gin and stout To help the jockey's sweatings out. "Rare day for scent," the jockey said. A pony, like a feather bed On four short sticks, took place aside. The little girl who rode astride Watched everything with eyes that glowed With glory in the horse she rode. At half-past ten, some lads on foot Came to be beaters to a shoot Of rabbits at the Warren Hill. Rough sticks they had, and Hob and Jill, Their ferrets, in a bag, and netting. They talked of dinner-beer and betting; And jeered at those who stood around. They rolled their dogs upon the ground And teased them: "Rats," they cried; "go fetch." "Go seek, good Roxer; 'z bite, good betch. Sex quarts the lot last year we had. They'd ought to give us seven this. Seek, Susan; what a betch it is." |
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