  The kestrel cruising over meadow Watched the hunt gallop on his shadow, Wee figures, almost at a stand, Crossing the multi-coloured land, Slow as a shadow on a dial. Some horses, swerving at a trial Some horses, swerving at a trial, Baulked at a fence: at gates they bunched. The mud about the gates was dunched. Like German cheese; men pushed for places, And kicked the mud into the faces Of those who made them room to pass. The half-mile's gallop on the grass, Had tailed them out, and warmed their blood. At gates they bunched "His point's the Banner Barton Wood." "That, or Goat's Gorse." "A stinger, this." "You're right in that; by Jove it is." "An up-wind travelling fox, by George." "They say Tom viewed him at the forge." "Well, let me pass and let's be on." They crossed the lane to Tolderton, The hill-marl died to valley clay, Yell Water, swirling as it ran, The Yell Brook of the hunting man. The hunters eyed it and were grim. They saw the water snaking slim Ahead, like silver; they could see (Each man) his pollard willow tree Firming the bank, they felt their horses They heard the men behind draw near. Each horse was trembling as a spear Trembles in hand when tense to hurl, They saw the brimmed brook's eddies curl. The willow-roots like water-snakes; The beaten holes the ratten makes, They heard the water's rush; they heard Hugh Colway's mare come like a bird; A faint cry from the hounds ahead, Then saddle-strain, the bright hooves' tread, Quick words, the splash of mud, the launch, The sick hope that the bank be staunch, Then Souse, with Souse to left and right. Maroon across, Sir Peter's white Down but pulled up, Tom over, Hugh Well splashed by Squire who was in. With draggled pink stuck close to skin, The Squire leaned from bank and hauled His mired horse's rein; he bawled For help from each man racing by. "What, help you pull him out? Not I. What made you pull him in?" they said. Nob Manor cleared and turned his head, And cried "Wade up. The ford's upstream." Ock Gurney in a cloud of steam Stood by his dripping cob and wrung The taste of brook mud from his tongue And scraped his poor cob's pasterns clean. "Lord, what a crowner we've a been, He muttered, grinning, "Lord, poor cob. Now sir, let me." He turned to Squire And cleared his hunter from the mire By skill and sense and strength of arm. |
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