The Groom’s Story · With the Chiddingfolds · A Hunting Morning

The Groom’s Story

Ten mile in twenty minutes!  ’E done it, sir.  That’s true.
The big bay ’orse in the further stall—the one wot’s next to you.
I’ve seen some better ’orses; I’ve seldom seen a wuss,
But ’e ’olds the bloomin’ record, an’ that’s good enough for us.

We knew as it wa’s in ’im.  ’E’s thoroughbred, three part,
We bought ’im for to race ’im, but we found ’e ’ad no ’eart;
For ’e was sad and thoughtful, and amazin’ dignified,
It seemed a kind o’ liberty to drive ’im or to ride;

For ’e never seemed a-thinkin’ of what ’e ’ad to do,
But ’is thoughts was set on ’igher things, admirin’ of the view.
’E looked a puffeck pictur, and a pictur ’e would stay,
’E wouldn’t even switch ’is tail to drive the flies away.

And yet we knew ’twas in ’im, we knew as ’e could fly;
But what we couldn’t git at was ’ow to make ’im try.
We’d almost turned the job up, until at last one day
We got the last yard out of ’im in a most amazin’ way.

It was all along o’ master; which master ’as the name
Of a reg’lar true blue sportman, an’ always acts the same;
But we all ’as weaker moments, which master ’e ’ad one,
An’ ’e went and bought a motor-car when motor-cars begun.

I seed it in the stable yard—it fairly turned me sick—
A greasy, wheezy engine as can neither buck nor kick.
You’ve a screw to drive it forrard, and a screw to make it stop,
For it was foaled in a smithy stove an’ bred in a blacksmith shop.

It didn’t want no stable, it didn’t ask no groom,
It didn’t need no nothin’ but a bit o’ standin’ room.
Just fill it up with paraffin an’ it would go all day,
Which the same should be agin the law if I could ’ave my way.

Well, master took ’is motor-car, an’ moted ’ere an’ there,
A frightenin’ the ’orses an’ a poisonin’ the air.
’E wore a bloomin’ yachtin’ cap, but Lor’! wot did ’e know,
Excep’ that if you turn a screw the thing would stop or go?

An’ then one day it wouldn’t go.  ’E screwed and screwed again,
But somethin’ jammed, an’ there ’e stuck in the mud of a country lane.
It ’urt ’is pride most cruel, but what was ’e to do?
So at last ’e bade me fetch a ’orse to pull the motor through.

This was the ’orse we fetched ’im; an’ when we reached the car,
We braced ’im tight and proper to the middle of the bar,
And buckled up ’is traces and lashed them to each side,
While ’e ’eld ’is ’ead so ’aughtily, an’ looked most dignified.

Not bad tempered, mind you, but kind of pained and vexed,
And ’e seemed to say, ‘Well, bli’ me! wot will they ask me next?
I’ve put up with some liberties, but this caps all by far,
To be assistant engine to a crocky motor-car!’

Well, master ’e was in the car, a-fiddlin’ with the gear,
And the ’orse was meditatin’, an’ I was standin’ near,
When master ’e touched somethin’—what it was we’ll never know—
But it sort o’ spurred the boiler up and made the engine go.

‘’Old ’ard, old gal!’ says master, and ‘Gently then!’ says I,
But an engine won’t ’eed coaxin’ an’ it ain’t no use to try;
So first ’e pulled a lever, an’ then ’e turned a screw,
But the thing kept crawlin’ forrard spite of all that ’e could do.

And first it went quite slowly and the ’orse went also slow,
But ’e ’ad to buck up faster when the wheels began to go;
For the car kept crowdin’ on ’im and buttin’ ’im along,
And in less than ’alf a minute, sir, that ’orse was goin’ strong.

At first ’e walked quite dignified, an’ then ’e ’ad to trot,
And then ’e tried a canter when the pace became too ’ot.
’E looked ’is very ’aughtiest, as if ’e didn’t ’e mind,
And all the time the motor-car was pushin’ ’im be’ind.

Now, master lost ’is ’ead when ’e found ’e couldn’t stop,
And ’e pulled a valve or somethin’ an’ somethin’ else went pop,
An’ somethin’ else went fizzywiz, and in a flash, or less,
That blessed car was goin’ like a limited express.

Master ’eld the steerin’ gear, an’ kept the road all right,
And away they whizzed and clattered—my aunt! it was a sight.
’E seemed the finest draught ’orse as ever lived by far,
For all the country Juggins thought ’twas ’im wot pulled the car.

’E was stretchin’ like a grey’ound, ’e was goin’ all ’e knew;
But it bumped an’ shoved be’ind ’im, for all that ’e could do;
It butted ’im an’ boosted ’im an’ spanked ’im on a’ead,
Till ’e broke the ten-mile record, same as I already said.

Ten mile in twenty minutes!  ’E done it, sir.  That’s true.
The only time we ever found what that ’ere ’orse could do.
Some say it wasn’t ’ardly fair, and the papers made a fuss,
But ’e broke the ten-mile record, and that’s good enough for us.

You see that ’orse’s tail, sir?  You don’t!  No more do we,
Which really ain’t surprisin’, for ’e ’as no tail to see;
That engine wore it off ’im before master made it stop,
And all the road was littered like a bloomin’ barber’s shop.

And master?  Well, it cured ’im.  ’E altered from that day,
And come back to ’is ’orses in the good old-fashioned way.
And if you wants to git the sack, the quickest way by far
Is to ’int as ’ow you think ’e ought to keep a motor-car.

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’s him we mean to follow,
  ‘They are running!  They are running!
     And it’s ‘Forrard to the hollo!’
For the scent is lying strongly in the morning.

   ‘Who’s the fool that heads him?’
     Hold hard, and let him pass!
  He’s out among the oziers
     He’s clear upon the grass.
  You grip his flanks and settle,
     For the horse is stretched and straining,
  Here’s a game to test your mettle,
     And a sport to try your training,
When the Chiddingfolds are running in the morning.

   We’re up by the Coppice
     And we’re down by the Mill,
  We’re out upon the Common,
     And the hounds are running still.
  You must tighten on the leather,
     For we blunder through the bracken;
  Though you’re over hocks in heather
     Still the pace must never slacken
As we race through Thursley Common in the morning.

   We are breaking from the tangle
     We are out upon the green,
  There’s a bank and a hurdle
     With a quickset between.
  You must steady him and try it,
     You are over with a scramble.
  Here’s a wattle!  You must fly it,
     And you land among the bramble,
For it’s roughish, toughish going in the morning.

   ’Ware the bog by the Grove
     As you pound through the slush.
  See the whip!  See the huntsman!
     We are close upon his brush.
  ’Ware the root that lies before you!
     It will trip you if you blunder.
  ’Ware the branch that’s drooping o’er you!
     You must dip and swerve from under
As you gallop through the woodland in the morning.

   There were fifty at the find,
     There were forty at the mill,
  There were twenty on the heath,
     And ten are going still.
  Some are pounded, some are shirking,
     And they dwindle and diminish
  Till a weary pair are working,
     Spent and blowing, to the finish,
And we hear the shrill whoo-ooping in the morning.

   The horse is bedded down
     Where the straw lies deep,
  The hound is in the kennel,
     He is yapping in his sleep.
  But the fox is in the spinney
     Lying snug in earth and burrow.
  And I’ll lay an even guinea
     We could find again to-morrow,
If we chose to go a-hunting in the morning.

A Hunting Morning

Put the saddle on the mare,
  For the wet winds blow;
There’s winter in the air,
  And autumn all below.
For the red leaves are flying
And the red bracken dying,
And the red fox lying
  Where the oziers grow.

Put the bridle on the mare,
  For my blood runs chill;
And my heart, it is there,
  On the heather-tufted hill,
With the gray skies o’er us,
And the long-drawn chorus
Of a running pack before us
  From the find to the kill.

Then lead round the mare,
  For it’s time that we began,
And away with thought and care,
  Save to live and be a man,
While the keen air is blowing,
And the huntsman holloing,
And the black mare going
  As the black mare can.