Fox's Dingle

Take now a country mood,
    Resolve, distil it:
Nine Acre swaying alive,
    June flowers that fill it,

Spicy sweet-briar bush,
    The uneasy wren
Fluttering from ash to birch
    And back again.

Milkwort on its low stem,
    Spread hawthorn tree,
Sunlight patching the wood,
    A hive-bound bee....

Girls riding nim-nim-nim,
    Ladies, trot-trot,
Gentlemen hard at gallop,
    Shouting, steam-hot.

Now over the rough turf
    Bridles go jingle,
And there's a well-loved pool,
    By Fox's Dingle,

Where Sweetheart, my brown mare,
    Old Glory's daughter,
May loll her leathern tongue
    In snow-cool water.

Robert von Ranke Graves

Robert von Ranke Graves was a British poet, historical novelist, critic, and classicist. His father was Alfred Perceval Graves, a distinguished Irish poet and figure in the Gaelic revival. Known for his war poetry, love poems, and scholarly works, he created a lasting literary legacy, including his interpretations of the Greek myths. Graves was also a soldier in World War I, an experience that profoundly influenced his writing.

Robert von Ranke Graves

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Robert von Ranke Graves, Simple Poetry

English

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The Fox Hunters.

I.

With fleet-limbed steeds and baying pack
They follow close on Reynard's track,
And wake the slumbering echoes round
With music of the horn and hound;
Through wood and field, o'er hill and dale,
They course him in the moonlight pale,
And sport they find which brings delight--
These reckless riders of the night!


II.

The game is up! away, away!
Nor hedge nor fence their course can stay;
They clear them at a single leap,
And like the wind they onward sweep!
O'er fallen trunk and hidden ditch
The fearless horsemen plunge and pitch,
And heedless all they follow on
With ringing shout and winding horn!


III.

Thy wondrous ride, oh Tam O'Shanter,
To speed like theirs was but a canter;
Had you bestrode ...

George W. Doneghy

With The Chiddingfolds

The horse is bedded down
Where the straw lies deep.
The hound is in the kennel;
Let the poor hound sleep!
And the fox is in the spinney
By the run which he is haunting,
And I'll lay an even guinea
That a goose or two is wanting
When the farmer comes to count them in the morning.

The horse is up and saddled;
Girth the old horse tight!
The hounds are out and drawing
In the morning light.
Now it's 'Yoick!' among the heather,
And it's 'Yoick!' across the clover,
And it's 'To him, all together!'
'Hyke a Bertha! Hyke a Rover!'
And the woodlands smell so sweetly in the morning.

'There's Termagant a-whimpering;
She whimpers so.'
'There's a young hound yapping!'
Let the young hound go!
But the old hound is cunning,
And it'...

Arthur Conan Doyle

Hawk And Buckle.

Where is the landlord of old Hawk and Buckle,
And what of Master Straddler this hot summer weather?
He's along in the tap-room with broad cheeks a-chuckle,
And ten bold companions all drinking together.

Where is the daughter of old Hawk and Buckle,
And what of Mistress Jenny this hot summer weather?
She sits in the parlour with smell of honeysuckle,
Trimming her bonnet with red ostrich feather.

Where is the ostler of old Hawk and Buckle,
And what of Willy Jakeman this hot summer weather?
He is rubbing his eyes with a slow and lazy knuckle
As he wakes from his nap on a bank of fresh heather.

Where is the page boy of old Hawk and Buckle,
And what of our young Charlie this hot summer weather?
He is bobbing for tiddlers in a little trickle-truckle,
Wi...

Robert von Ranke Graves

On Cessnock Banks.

Tune - "If he be a butcher neat and trim."


I.

    On Cessnock banks a lassie dwells;
        Could I describe her shape and mien;
    Our lasses a' she far excels,
        An she has twa sparkling roguish een.

II.

    She's sweeter than the morning dawn
        When rising Phoebus first is seen,
    And dew-drops twinkle o'er the lawn;
        An' she has twa sparkling roguish een

III.

    She's stately like yon youthful ash,
        That grows the cowslip braes between,
    And drinks the stream with vigour fresh;
        An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.

IV.

    She's spotless like the flow'ring thorn,
        With flow'rs so white and leaves so green,
    When purest in the dew...

Robert Burns

Dolly

"Ingenuous trust, and confidence of Love."


The Bat began with giddy wing
His circuit round the Shed, the Tree;
And clouds of dancing Gnats to sing
A summer-night's serenity.

Darkness crept slowly o'er the East!
Upon the Barn-roof watch'd the Cat;
Sweet breath'd the ruminating Beast
At rest where DOLLY musing sat.

A simple Maid, who could employ
The silent lapse of Evening mild,
And lov'd its solitary joy;
For Dolly was Reflection's child.

He who had pledg'd his word to be
Her life's dear guardian, far away,
The flow'r of Yeoman Cavalry,
Bestrode a Steed with trappings gay.

And thus from memory's treasur'd sweets,
And thus from Love's pure fount she drew
That peace, which busy care defeats,
And bids ...

Robert Bloomfield

The Old Grey Mare
There's a line of rails on an upland green
With a good take-off and a landing sound,
Six fences grim as were ever seen,
And it's there I would be with fox and hound.
Oh, that was a country free and fair
For the raking stride of my old grey mare!

With her raking stride, and her head borne high,
And her ears a-prick, and her heart a-flame,
And the steady look of her deep brown eye,
I warrant the grey mare knew the game:
It was "Up to it, lass," and before I knew
We were up and over, and on we flew.

The rooks from the grass got up, and so,
With a caw and flap, away they went;
When the grey mare made up her mind to go
At the tail of the bounds on a breast-high scent,
The best of the st...
R. C. Lehmann