SADDLE ROOM SONGS
AND
HUNTING BALLADS

BY

FREDERICK C. PALMER.

Newcastle-upon-Tyne:
Messrs. Mawson Swan & Morgan Limited,
Grey Street.

1907.

TO MY MOTHER.

CONTENTS.

——

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!”

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.

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.

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.”

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.