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Title: Saddle room songs and hunting ballads
Author: Frederick C. Palmer
Release date: October 16, 2024 [eBook #74589]
Language: English
Original publication: Newcastle-upon-Tyne: Mawson, Swan & Morgan Limited
Credits: Carol Brown and The Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SADDLE ROOM SONGS AND HUNTING BALLADS ***
SADDLE ROOM SONGS
AND
HUNTING BALLADS
BY
FREDERICK C. PALMER.
[Illustration]
NEWCASTLE-UPON-TYNE:
MESSRS. MAWSON SWAN & MORGAN LIMITED,
GREY STREET.
1907.
TO MY MOTHER.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
HUNTING SONG 5
THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 8
THE BLACK FROST HAS BROKEN AT LAST 17
THE EMPTY LOOSE BOX 19
TO AN OLD SADDLE ABOUT TO BE SOLD 24
GREATFOX LODGE 26
OVER PASTURE, PLOUGH AND FELL 31
THE FIVE FURLONG RACE 33
CAVALIER 36
THE RECOLLECTIONS OF A LONDON CAB HORSE 41
A TOAST 48
HUNTING SONG.
INTO covert they’re dashing
Thro’ bracken they’re crashing,
And it’s--“Yooi in there, wind him and drive him along.”
Into chorus they’re striking--
Now Drifty, now Viking,
Now the whole pack burst loud into glorious song,
And it’s--“Yooi in there to him and drive him along.”
Reynard pricks up his ears
When the music he hears,
Shakes the dew from his brush and slinks out of his lair.
O’er the wall he comes leaping,
Up the pasture he’s creeping,
And Danny the whip has his cap in the air.
“Tally Ho! gone away! he’s an old ’un I swear.”
“Cram your hats and get ready
Hold hard, there, sir, steady.
Tally Ho! there my beauties, hard for’ad away.”
Out o’ covert they’re breaking,
The country he’s taking
Will let none but the best see the end of the day.
Tally Ho! Tally Ho! Now, Hark for’ad away!
Now the field great and small
Make a dash for the wall,
And away o’er the pasture they’re galloping fast.
“What a terrible pace, sir,
It’s just like a race sir,
And there’s none but the thorough-bred horses ’ll last.
There’s no knowing what blood ’uns ’ll do when they’re asked.”
Now they’re running to view,
Of the field but a few
Are left, but those few struggle on in a group:
Now they’re pulling him over,
The little Red Rover
Has run his last race “so yoicks tear him who-oop!
He was game to the last was Red Rover; Who-oop!”
[Illustration]
THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER.
’Twas the opening day of the season
And the fences were thick and blind,
But we joyously rode to covert,
To a wood where we always find:
And what a crowd of horsemen
Were at the covert side,
In leathers white and scarlet;
All gallant men to ride.
And many a handsome lady
Well mounted for the fray.
I never saw a finer field
Than on that opening day.
But among those noble ladies,
The brightest and most fair,
Was the squire’s only daughter
On a well-bred chestnut mare.
Squire Harding’s only daughter,
Diana she was named;
And throughout the country for her
Splendid riding she was famed:
And not another lady
In the country could compete
With the squire’s only daughter
For beauty, hands, or seat.
Now Miss Diana Harding,
Had suitors, one, two, three:
They were, Captain Browne, Jim Ashton
And the Rev. Thomas Leigh.
The Captain was a hunting man,
Jim Ashton so was he,
And the only one that wasn’t
Was the Rev. Thomas Leigh.
Now Diana to the Captain
And Jim Ashton then did say,
“I will wed the man that brings to me
The fox’s brush to-day.
But there are only two of you,
And I have suitors three,
So, I, myself am riding
For the Rev. Thomas Leigh:
And if I am there before you
When they pull the red fox down
Then Tom Leigh can come and take me
For his very, very own.”
Jim Ashton rode “The Watcher,”
A big upstanding bay,
Who could jump the very stiffest gate
And gallop for a day.
The Captain rode “Olympus,”
A clever looking black,
Who could carry fourteen stone
As if he’d nothing on his back:
And the squire’s only daughter,
To beat this sporting pair,
Came out on little “Heath-bell,”
A well-bred chestnut mare.
And the wildest of excitement
Was seen in every face,
For we all had heard the story
And we waited for the race.
The squire hunted hounds himself,
(As every master should),
And with, “Yooi in there and wind him,”
Capped ’em into Birky Wood.
’Twas a real well bottomed covert
Where the heather and bracken grow,
And the hounds went in with a cheery dash
As if they seemed to know
That the game old white tagged varmint
In his couch of bracken lay,
And the only open fox earth
Was full seven miles away.
The squire himself went with them,
Right down the soft green ride,
And Dan the whipper-in was
Watching on the other side:
First there came a whimper
And then a better note,
And then a splendid chorus
Seemed to burst from every throat.
The squire saw him cross the ride
And cheered his beauties on,
Two, four, six, eight, sixteen couple,
They were at him every one.
“Hark for’ad, for’ad to him”
Came the squire’s voice so gay,
And the next we heard
Was Danny yelling, “Tally ho! Away!”
“Hold hard! Give the hounds a moment.”
We heard the squire roar,
And then like the start for the “National”
Over the grass we tore.
Over a dozen pastures,
Over a brook, and now
Right down a furzy hillside
On to a holding plough.
Passing Brownbeck village,
Bearing away to the right
Till the big, green, rolling common
Of Walton, appeared in sight.
While galloping o’er the common,
Hounds running strong and true,
The squire found his hunter
Had cast his off fore shoe.
With never a check to rest us,
The pace began to tell:
A slip at a double oxer
And Danny the whipper fell.
Like a hare before the greyhounds,
The Captain led the way,
With the squire’s daughter close behind
And Ashton on the bay.
The pack were almost out o’ sight,
And racing hard for blood,
And our horses were white with lather,
And our breeches black with mud.
We saw the hounds pull down their fox
And from the road a man
Run in in time to save the brush;
And then the race began.
The squire’s daughter led the way,
The other two gave chase,
Hardly a neck between the three;
And the rest of us watched the race.
Only one fence between them
And the spot where the screaming pack
Were striving to pull Red Rover
From the man who was beating them back.
Over the fence together,
And then the final burst,
Flogging and spurring like mad folk,
And Jim Ashton got there first.
Crying, as from his horse he sprang,
“Quick, give the brush to me!”
“I rather think I’ll keep it,”
Said the Rev. Thomas Leigh.
[Illustration]
THE BLACK FROST HAS BROKEN AT LAST.
The black frost has broken at last,
The days of our sadness have passed,
The warm rain is falling so soft on the ground:
Here’s a health to the horse,
Here’s a health to the hound,
Here’s a health to the hunting horn’s glorious sound,
And we meet at the squire’s i’ the morning.
Ye skaters away with your skates,
The Ice-King hath ended his fêtes,
Put your skates in your cupboards and fasten the locks,
And bring out your hunters
From stall and from box,
For once more we’ll go hunting the little red fox,
And we meet at the squire’s i’ the morning.
[Illustration]
THE EMPTY LOOSE-BOX.
“And why does that box stand empty,
Tho’ the manger is full of hay,
And the floor is deep with bedding;
O where is the owner pray?”
The stud-groom’s face grew sadder
And he viciously chewed a straw.
“That box ’as been standin’ empty,
For fifteen years an’ more.
Fifteen years last November,
Since an ’orse in this box ’as stood,
And that ’orse did as brave a thing
As any ’ero could.
The ’orse’s name was Snowflake,
You can see ’is name over the door;
The best ’orse ever I seen, sir,
An’ I’ve ’andled many a score.
You know our Master ’Arry,
’E’s turned eighteen you know;
An’ ’e’ll never be nearer death than ’e was
Some fifteen years ago.
’Twas the day o’ the point to point races,
They was over at Braeburn that year,
Twenty mile from our ’ouse to the course, sir,
And there wasn’t no railway near.
We ’ad taken old Snowflake over
To go in the Lightweight race;
The Squire ’e rode ’im ’isself, sir,
An’ lor ’e did make the pace.
You’d ’a thought he was goin’ four furlongs,
Instead of a good four miles
Over walls an’ brooks an’ oxers
An’ five barred gates an’ stiles:
’Ad it been any other ’orse, sir,
’E wouldn’t ’a got ’alf way
At the orful pace they was goin’,
But Snowflake was one to stay.
’E sailed past the post at the finish,
A street in front o’ the rest,
Which wasn’t surprisin’ to me, sir,
Knowin’ as ’e was the best.
We ’ad just got ’ome that evening,
When the nurse runs out an’ cries,
“Quick, sir! an’ send for a doctor
Or Master ’Arry dies.”
The Missis jumps out o’ the dog-cart
An’ runs into the ’ouse with a shriek,
The squire ’e turned as pale as death
An’ seemed as ’e couldn’t speak.
“Snowflake’s the fastest we’ve got, sir,”
I made so bold to say,
“An’ ’e’ll do it if any ’orse can sir,
Tho’ ’e ’as done a lot to-day.”
“All right,” says the squire, “Jump on ’im,
And gallop like ’ell to the town,
Gallop to Doctor Jackson’s
An’ tell ’im to come right down.”
He kissed old Snowflake’s muzzle
An’ ’e says “God speed old friend
If any ’orse can do it
You’ll be there before the end.
You’ll try and save my baby’s life.”
Then on to ’is back I leapt
An’ clattered out o’ the stable yard,
An’ the squire sat down an’ wept.
The ’orse seemed to know what was wanted,
An’ he galloped away with a will,
Seven long miles of ’ard ’igh road
And five o’ them right up ’ill.
He was gettin’ weak near the finish,
Swayin’ all over the road,
An’ I cries, “We must save the kiddy’s life,”
An’ ’e ’urried as if ’e knowed.
Twenty yards from the doctor’s
’E staggered an’ then he fell;
I picked myself up and ran on foot
An’ tugged at the doctor’s bell.
I gave the doctor the message,
Told ’im to ’urry of course,
’Elped ’im to fettle ’is dog-cart
An’ then I went back to the ’orse.
’E was lyin’ just where I left ’im,
’E ’adn’t turned ’is ’ead--
And I sat down ’an cried like a babby,
For the grand old ’orse was dead.
An’ ’is box ’as been standin’ empty
Since ’e ran that last long race,
’Cause there isn’t a ’orse in the world, sir,
As is worthy to take ’is place.”
[Illustration]
TO AN OLD SADDLE ABOUT TO BE SOLD.
Thou’rt getting up in years old friend,
As thy worn out leathers tell;
And thou has borne me bravely
O’er many a rugged fell,
On many a hunting morning,
In many a gallant run,
O’er many a wall and blackthorn,
And now thy work is done.
We are parting now for ever,
In the days of ‘Auld Lang Syne,’
We oft have parted company,
But thro’ no fault of thine.
’Twas never fault of thine, old friend,
When at blackthorn, wall, or dyke,
I left thy soft, brown pigskin
For a ditch that I didn’t like.
But now thou’rt going to be sold, old friend,
And I never may see thee more,
But I’ll never forget the good old days,
Those good old days of yore.
I’ll never forget the hunts, old friend,
What times those were! what fun!
But now thou’rt sadly split and old
And at last thy work is done.
[Illustration]
GREATFOX LODGE.
I was home on leave for the winter,
And the summit of all my desires
Was reached when I took my modest stud
To a hunting box in the shires.
It had always been more than my pocket
Could stand, a hunting box to keep,
But here in the heart of the grass-land
Was just what I wanted, and cheap;
I had read of it in a paper,
In a well-known paper too,
So I wrote at once and took it,
It was almost too good to be true.
Greatfox Lodge they called it,
A six mile drive from D----,
Twelve rooms and stabling for seven,
Which was more than enough for me;
The house had been empty for years
And that in itself seemed wrong,
But one doesn’t ask too many questions
When one’s getting a thing for a song.
The season had only just started
When I got settled into the place,
Two maids, three grooms, and six horses;
And I felt like a king on his daïs
As I sat up and smoked one evening,
Re-running a long, fast run
We had that day with the Blankshire,
And hoping for future fun.
There is something delightfully pleasing
I think to the most of men,
In sitting at home in the evening
And hunting a hunt again:
So I sat up and smoked a briar,
Till the hour struck twelve o’clock,--
When I noticed my terrier shaking with fright
And there came on the door a knock:
The dog shook like one with the ague,
And set up a long, low wail,
As the door opened softly and slowly
And I felt myself growing pale;
For I couldn’t think who could have entered,
This midnight call to make,
And how had they got in the house at all?
And why should the terrier shake?
For the dog was as game as they make ’em,
He had never shown funk before,
I sat still and waited--scarce breathing--
God! What was that at the door!
On the threshold a great, gaunt creature,
Standing some eight feet high,
I never had seen such a thing, nor since,
Nor wish to again till I die,
A thing with a human body
And covered with matted hair,
The hair was thin and thro’ it
Great bones were shining bare;
Its arms were long and twisted
And covered with marks of pox,
And instead of a head on its shoulders
Was the mask of a great grey fox.
I gazed on the beast for an instant,
Sweating and trembling with fright,
Then I sprang thro’ the open window,
And hurled myself into the night;
Running I knew not whither,
With the madness of terror, blind,
And I heard the soft tread on the gravel
Of the awful brute behind:
Onward through garden and paddock,
Over walls and fields I raced,
Then I knew in all their horror
The sensations of being chased.
Near it came and nearer,
With silent leaps and bounds,
Yes! I felt like the little Red Rover
Running before the hounds!
Till at last I could bear it no longer,
And I sank to the ground in a heap,
* * * * *
Then I saw my dog stretching himself on the mat,
And I found I had been asleep.
[Illustration]
OVER PASTURE, PLOUGH AND FELL.
When the rain clouds o’erhead hover,
And the hounds are in the covert,
And the fox has broken eastwards,
Can’t you hear the first whip yell?
That’s the time for joy and mirth, sir,
Cramming hat and tightening girth, sir,
And it’s I’m for dashing eastward
Over pasture, plough and fell.
Finest run I ever knew, sir,
See they’re running now to view, sir,
Now they have him, Oh, by Jove! sir,
But the mare has gone right well!
They have killed the old Red Rover,
Now his last long race is over,
Tho’ a dozen times he beat us
Over pasture, plough and fell.
[Illustration]
THE FIVE FURLONG RACE.
The saddle’s on the favourite,
And they’ve put the numbers up;
You can hear the ring a roaring
All the prices for the Cup;
And the ladies on the Grand Stand,
And the Tipsters on the course,
Are excited as can be, and oh!
It’s all about a horse.
“An’ I got it from the stable,” cry the Tipsters on the course.
The trainer of the favourite
Has a smile upon his face;
And a little, black outsider
Has a chance to win the race:
The crowd is round the favourite,
He’s a big, upstanding bay,
And the tipsters on the course all swear
He’s going to win the day.
And it’s “Put your money on, sir, for he’ll simply walk away.”
There are sixteen horses going
To the starting gate, they say,
And the starter’ll have no easy job
To get them well away;
They’re kicking and they’re plunging,
And the jocks are swearing loud,
And the noise is never ceasing
From the bookies in the crowd.
And it’s “Any price outsiders,” shout the bookies in the crowd.
They’re off! The favourite’s leading!
See each bookie’s anxious face!
The favourite makes the running,
Oh, what a fearful pace--
A flash of colour past the post,
Green, blue, pink, mauve and red,
And the great, big, slashing favourite
Just got beaten by a head.
For the little, black outsider, beat the favourite by a head.
[Illustration]
CAVALIER.
Now the hunting season is over,
And the fox is at peace in the gorse,
I will tell you a simple story,
And the hero is only a horse:
They called him the Cavalier, Sir,
His coat was a chesnut hue;
He wasn’t a big one either;
Standing but fifteen two.
He was bred just as well as they make ’em;
He could jump with the best in the hunt:
And no matter how long, or how fast, was the run,
The Cavalier, Sir, was always in front.
In his youth he had carried a lady,
Bred almost as well as himself,
But one day he pecked, and she fell, at a fence,
So they said he must go on the shelf:
He was put up and sold by auction,
And as he looked well, and was sound,
He was bought by a man in the army,
For a matter of fifty pound.
His new master found him perfect,
Fast, and at fences bold;
But the regiment was ordered to India,
So once more he was up to be sold.
This time he was sold to a dealer,
A good enough man, I daresay,
Who hired him out, to the first man who asked,
Owner’s risk, for two guineas a day.
And so he went on for five seasons,
Sometimes out three days in the week,
Which is hard on a horse, but he could’nt complain,
For the poor Cavalier could’nt speak.
One day he was hired to a cockney,
Who galloped him hard to the meet,
Who thought that a horse was a kind of machine,
And whose hands were as bad as his seat.
That day the hounds had a good run, sir,
They turned a fox out of the gorse;
That cockney, he galloped for miles on the road,
Which is terrible hard on a horse.
The Cavalier loved to go hunting,
He loved to dash over the grass;
In the days of his youth he’d have been at the front,
And not let another horse pass:
But years always tell on a horse, sir,
The same as they tell on a man,
And to clatter down roads with a fool on his back
’Twas impossible quite, no horse can.
The cockney was frightened of fences,
On the King’s hard, high road he would go,
So he flogged and he spurred for an hour and a half,
And cried that the horse was too slow.
The Cavalier was there at the death, sir,
When they threw the red fox to the hound,
But his brave heart was broke, he was finished,
He staggered, and fell to the ground:
Then up came a sporting farmer,
Who gazed on his corpse with a tear,
Saying, “There lies the last of the best horse I bred,
The last of the Cavalier.”
[Illustration]
THE RECOLLECTIONS OF A LONDON CAB-HORSE.
I remember a soft, green pasture,
Where cowslips and clover grew,
And my mother grazing near me:
It seems almost too good to be true:
I wish I could be there once again,
In that same, sweet scented field,
Sheltering from the rainstorm
’Neath the oak trees’ leafy shield,
Standing beside my mother,
A colt without fear or care,
Instead of pacing the slippery streets
In the lamplight’s lurid glare.
It’s all right for you that have never
Been aught but what I am now,
In a night cab, in foggy London;
I would rather be yoked to a plough,
Then at least I should be in the open,
And see the fields once more,
And listen to lark and throstle,
Instead of the city’s roar.
I remember they came to break me,
I was only a yearling then,
And they taught me to wear a saddle,
And I studied the ways of men;
I was put in a roomy loose box,
And galloped each break of day,
And my master he patted my shoulder,
And said I would pay my way:
They said I was like my father,
He had won the Ascot cup
From a field of seventeen horses,
With eight stone eleven up.
And the first time I went to a racecourse.
Oh, how I kicked with pride!
When they backed me to beat the favourite,
And engaged a crack jockey to ride:
My coat it was shining like satin,
And I knew not the meaning of shame,
I was down on the card as “Sir Lancelot”:
And now I have got no name.
There were nineteen others running,
Two-year-olds all same as I,
Kicking and plunging and bucking,
But when the flag fell we did fly,
Right down the straight five furlongs
Thundered our hoofs like surf,
And the jockey baptized me with whalebone
“A member of ‘England’s Turf’”:
How I struggled to pass the others,
Neck to neck, head to head, we flew,
A medley of flying colours,
And I carried gold and blue:
The jockey bent low on my withers,
“Now is the time,” he said,
And I made one mighty effort,
And beat all the rest, by a head.
How I loved the cheers and the shouting,
I knew well as they, I had won,
And I walked proudly back to the paddock,
For I knew my career had begun.
The next year began like sunshine,
So happy was I, and proud,
For I was to run in the Derby
To startle the Epsom crowd.
They tried me with old Stargazer,
A good ’un, as hard as flint,
And I made him a hack at the distance,
So they backed me to win a mint.
They took me down to Epsom
On the 31st of May,
And no king on his throne was more happy
Than I, on that Derby Day.
For the air is full of memories
On Epsom’s sunny down,
The down where great Persimmon,
Bendor and Common, Bluegown,
Harvester and St. Gatien,
Ormonde who conquered the Bard,
Musjid and West Australian,
All fought for the Blue Ribbon, hard--
Would my name, I wondered, be written
With theirs on th’ Immortal Scroll?
And would’nt my mother be happy
When she heard of her famous foal.
I remember as clear as a picture
The start for that famous race,
I shot to the front like an arrow,
Making a desperate pace,
In the straight another horse joined me,
Galloping, stride for stride,
Whing went the whip thro’ the air to my flank--
Then I felt something go, inside,
Try as I might, the others
Shot past me, one by one,
I finished tenth in eleven,
And my racing career was done.
I was sold to a man, who sold me
To another, who sold me again,
From master to master, man to man,
And now I am here, in the rain,
In a night-cab in foggy London,
’Mid the lamplight’s lurid glare--
--What’s that, “Covent Garden?”
Good-bye--here’s another fare.
[Illustration]
A TOAST.
Here’s to the galloping hunter,
Standing in stall or in box:
Here’s to the pack in the kennel,
And here’s to the little red fox:
Tally ho! Tally ho!
A health to each puppy and foal,
Hark gone away!
Drink while ye may,
To the ladies, the fox-hunt, the bowl.
Transcriber’s Note:
Obsolete spellings and abbreviations were not changed. One misspelled
word was corrected.
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