A Hunting Song

Heres a health to every sportsman, be he stableman or lord,
If his heart be true, I care not what his pocket may afford;
And may he ever pleasantly each gallant sport pursue,
If he takes his liquor fairly, and his fences fairly, too.

He cares not for the bubbles of Fortunes fickle tide,
Who like Bendigo can battle, and like Olliver can ride.
He laughs at those who caution, at those who chide hell frown,
As he clears a five-foot paling, or he knocks a peeler down.

The dull, cold world may blame us, boys! but what care we the while,
If coral lips will cheer us, and bright eyes on us smile?
For beautys fond caresses can most tenderly repay
The weariness and trouble of many an anxious day.

Then fill your glass, and drain it, too, with all your heart and soul,
To the best of sports, The Fox-hunt, The Fair Ones, and The Bowl,
To a stout heart in adversity through every ill to steer,
And when Fortune smiles a score of friends like those around us here.

Adam Lindsay Gordon

Adam Lindsay Gordon was an Australian poet, jockey, and politician. Born in the Azores to Scottish parents, he moved to Australia in 1853. Known for his bush ballads and lyrical poetry, Gordon's works often reflect his passions for horse racing and the Australian landscape. His notable works include "The Sick Stockrider" and "Bush Ballads and Galloping Rhymes." Unfortunately, he struggled with depression and financial troubles, leading to his untimely death at the age of 36.

Adam Lindsay Gordon

Whisperings In Wattle-Boughs

Adam Lindsay Gordon, Simple Poetry

A Dedication To The Author Of Holmby House

Adam Lindsay Gordon, Simple Poetry

Borrowd Plumes

Adam Lindsay Gordon, Simple Poetry

By Wood And Wold - A Preamble

Adam Lindsay Gordon, Simple Poetry

English

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Zu der edlen Yagd - [A Treatise On TreesVine-tree v. Saddle-Tree]

Now, welcome, welcome, masters mine,
Thrice welcome to the noble chase,
Nor earthly sport, nor sport divine,
Can take such honourable place.
- Ballad of the Wild Huntsman. (Free Translation.)


I remember some words my father said,
When I was an urchin vain;
God rest his soul, in his narrow bed
These ten long years he hath lain.
When I think one drop of the blood he bore
This faint heart surely must hold,
It may be my fancy and nothing more,
But the faint heart seemeth bold.

He said that as from the blood of grape,
Or from juice distilled from the grain,
False vigour, soon to evaporate,
Is lent to nerve and brain,
So the coward will dare on the gallant horse
What he never would dare alone,
Because he exults in a borrowed force,...

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The Fields Of Coleraine

On the fields of Colraine therell be labour in vain
Before the Great Western is ended,
The nags will have toild, and the silks will be soild,
And the rails will require to be mended.

For the gullies are deep, and the uplands are steep,
And mud will of purls be the token,
And the tough stringy-bark, that invites us to lark,
With impunity may not be broken.

Though Ballarats fast, and they say he can last,
And that may be granted hereafter,
Yet the judges decision to the Border division
Will bring neither shouting nor laughter.

And Blueskin, Ive heard that he goes like a bird,
And Im told that to back him would pay me;
Hes a good bit of stuff, but not quite good enough,
Non licuit credere famae.

Alfred ought to be there, we all ...

Adam Lindsay Gordon

Discontent

LAURENCE RABY.

Laurence:
I said to young Allan MIlveray,
Beside the swift swirls of the North,
When, in lilac shot through with a silver ray,
We hauld the strong salmon fish forth,
Said only, He gave us some trouble
To land him, and what does he weigh?
Our friend has caught one that weighs double,
The game for the candle wont pay
Us to-day,
We may tie up our rods and away.

I said to old Norman MGregor,
Three leagues to the west of Glen Dhu,
I had drawn, with a touch of the trigger,
The best bead that ever I drew,
Said merely, For birds in the stubble
I once had an eye, I could swear
Hes down, but hes not worth the trouble
Of seeking. You once shot a bear
In his lair,
Tis only a buck that lies there.
<...

Adam Lindsay Gordon

My Hunting Song

    Forward!    Hark forward's the cry!
One more fence and we're out on the open,
So to us at once, if you want to live near us!
Hark to them, ride to them, beauties! as on they go,
Leaping and sweeping away in the vale below!
Cowards and bunglers, whose heart or whose eye is slow,
    Find themselves staring alone.

    So the great cause flashes by;
Nearer and clearer its purposes open,
While louder and prouder the world-echoes cheer us:
Gentlemen sportsmen, you ought to live up to us,
Lead us, and lift us, and hallo our game to us -
We cannot call the hounds off, and no shame to us -
    Don't be left staring alone!

Eversley, 1849.

Charles Kingsley

In Utrumque Paratus - A Logical Discussion

Then hey for boot and horse, lad!
And round the world away!
Young blood will have its course, lad!
And every dog his day!
- C. Kingsley.


Theres a formula which the west country clowns
Once used, ere their blows fell thick,
At the fairs on the Devon and Cornwall downs,
In their bouts with the single-stick.
You may read a moral, not far amiss,
If you care to moralise,
In the crossing-guard, where the ash-plants kiss,
To the words God spare our eyes.
No game was ever yet worth a rap
For a rational man to play,
Into which no accident, no mishap,
Could possibly find its way.

If you hold the willow, a shooter from Wills
May transform you into a hopper,
And the football meadow is rife with spills,
If you feel disposed...

Adam Lindsay Gordon

Visions In The Smoke

Rest, and be thankful! On the verge
Of the tall cliff rugged and grey,
But whose granite base the breakers surge,
And shiver their frothy spray,
Outstretched, I gaze on the eddying wreath
That gathers and flits away,
With the surf beneath, and between my teeth
The stem of the ancient clay.

With the anodyne cloud on my listless eyes,
With its spell on my dreamy brain,
As I watch the circling vapours rise
From the brown bowl up to the sullen skies,

My vision becomes more plain,
Till a dim kaleidoscope succeeds
Through the smoke-rack drifting and veering,
Like ghostly riders on phantom steeds
To a shadowy goal careering.

In their own generation the wise may sneer,
They hold our sports in derision;
Perchance to sophist, or sage, ...

Adam Lindsay Gordon