The Old Gray Fox · ’Ware Holes · The Home-Coming of the ‘Eurydice’

The Old Gray Fox

We started from the Valley Pride,
  And Farnham way we went.
We waited at the cover-side,
  But never found a scent.
Then we tried the withy beds
  Which grow by Frensham town,
And there we found the old gray fox,
     The same old fox,
     The game old fox;
Yes, there we found the old gray fox,
  Which lives on Hankley Down.
        So here’s to the master,
        And here’s to the man!
     And here’s to twenty couple
     Of the white and black and tan!
  Here’s a find without a wait!
  Here’s a hedge without a gate!
  Here’s the man who follows straight,
     Where the old fox ran.

The Member rode his thoroughbred,
  Doctor had the gray,
The Soldier led on a roan red,
  The Sailor rode the bay.
Squire was there on his Irish mare,
  And Parson on the brown;
And so we chased the old gray fox,
     The same old fox,
     The game old fox,
And so we chased the old gray fox
  Across the Hankley Down.
        So here’s to the master,
        And here’s to the man!
           &c. &c. &c.

The Doctor’s gray was going strong
  Until she slipped and fell;
He had to keep his bed so long
  His patients all got well.
The Member he had lost his seat,
  ’Twas carried by his horse;
And so we chased the old gray fox,
     The same old fox,
     The game old fox;
And so we chased the old gray fox
  That earthed in Hankley Gorse.
        So here’s to the master,
        And here’s to the man!
           &c. &c. &c.

The Parson sadly fell away,
  And in the furze did lie;
The words we heard that Parson say
  Made all the horses shy!
The Sailor he was seen no more
  Upon that stormy bay;
But still we chased the old gray fox,
     The same old fox,
     The game old fox;
Still we chased the old gray fox
  Through all the winter day.
        So here’s to the master,
        And here’s to the man!
           &c. &c. &c.

And when we found him gone to ground,
  They sent for spade and man;
But Squire said ‘Shame!  The beast was game!
  A gamer never ran!
His wind and pace have gained the race,
  His life is fairly won.
But may we meet the old gray fox,
     The same old fox,
     The game old fox;
May we meet the old gray fox
  Before the year is done.
        So here’s to the master,
        And here’s to the man!
     And here’s to twenty couple
     Of the white and black and tan!
     Here’s a find without await!
     Here’s a hedge without a gate!
     Here’s the man who follows straight,
        Where the old fox ran.

’Ware Holes

    [‘’Ware Holes!’ is the expression used in the hunting-field to warn those behind against rabbit-burrows or other such dangers.]

A sportin’ death!  My word it was!
  An’ taken in a sportin’ way.
Mind you, I wasn’t there to see;
  I only tell you what they say.

They found that day at Shillinglee,
  An’ ran ’im down to Chillinghurst;
The fox was goin’ straight an’ free
  For ninety minutes at a burst.

They ’ad a check at Ebernoe
  An’ made a cast across the Down,
Until they got a view ’ullo
  An’ chased ’im up to Kirdford town.

From Kirdford ’e run Bramber way,
  An’ took ’em over ’alf the Weald.
If you ’ave tried the Sussex clay,
  You’ll guess it weeded out the field.

Until at last I don’t suppose
  As ’arf a dozen, at the most,
Came safe to where the grassland goes
  Switchbackin’ southwards to the coast.

Young Captain ’Eadley, ’e was there,
  And Jim the whip an’ Percy Day;
The Purcells an’ Sir Charles Adair,
  An’ this ’ere gent from London way.

For ’e ’ad gone amazin’ fine,
  Two ’undred pounds between ’is knees;
Eight stone he was, an’ rode at nine,
  As light an’ limber as you please.

’E was a stranger to the ’Unt,
  There weren’t a person as ’e knew there;
But ’e could ride, that London gent—
  ’E sat ’is mare as if ’e grew there.

They seed the ’ounds upon the scent,
  But found a fence across their track,
And ’ad to fly it; else it meant
  A turnin’ and a ’arkin’ back.

’E was the foremost at the fence,
  And as ’is mare just cleared the rail
He turned to them that rode be’ind,
  For three was at ’is very tail.

‘’Ware ’oles!’ says ’e, an’ with the word,
  Still sittin’ easy on his mare,
Down, down ’e went, an’ down an’ down,
  Into the quarry yawnin’ there.

Some say it was two ’undred foot;
  The bottom lay as black as ink.
I guess they ’ad some ugly dreams,
  Who reined their ’orses on the brink.

’E’d only time for that one cry;
  ‘’Ware ’oles!’ says ’e, an’ saves all three.
There may be better deaths to die,
  But that one’s good enough for me.

For mind you, ’twas a sportin’ end,
  Upon a right good sportin’ day;
They think a deal of ’im down ’ere,
  That gent what came from London way.

The Home-Coming of the ‘Eurydice’

    [Lost, with her crew of three hundred boys, on the last day of her voyage, March 23, 1876. She foundered off Portsmouth, from which town many of the boys came.]

Up with the royals that top the white spread of her!
  Press her and dress her, and drive through the foam;
The Island’s to port, and the mainland ahead of her,
  Hey for the Warner and Hayling and Home!

Bo’sun, O Bo’sun, just look at the green of it!
  Look at the red cattle down by the hedge!
Look at the farmsteading—all that is seen of it,
  One little gable end over the edge!’

‘Lord! the tongues of them clattering, clattering,
  All growing wild at a peep of the Wight;
Aye, sir, aye, it has set them all chattering,
  Thinking of home and their mothers to-night.’

Spread the topgallants—oh, lay them out lustily!
  What though it darken o’er Netherby Combe?
’Tis but the valley wind, puffing so gustily—
  On for the Warner and Hayling and Home!

‘Bo’sun, O Bo’sun, just see the long slope of it!
  Culver is there, with the cliff and the light.
Tell us, oh tell us, now is there a hope of it?
  Shall we have leave for our homes for to-night?’

‘Tut, the clack of them!  Steadily!  Steadily!
  Aye, as you say, sir, they’re little ones still;
One long reach should open it readily,
  Round by St. Helens and under the hill.

‘The Spit and the Nab are the gates of the promise,
  Their mothers to them—and to us it’s our wives.
I’ve sailed forty years, and—By God it’s upon us!
  Down royals, Down top’sles, down, down, for your lives!’

A grey swirl of snow with the squall at the back of it,
  Heeling her, reeling her, beating her down!
A gleam of her bends in the thick of the wrack of it,
  A flutter of white in the eddies of brown.

It broke in one moment of blizzard and blindness;
  The next, like a foul bat, it flapped on its way.
But our ship and our boys!  Gracious Lord, in your kindness,
  Give help to the mothers who need it to-day!

Give help to the women who wait by the water,
  Who stand on the Hard with their eyes past the Wight.
Ah! whisper it gently, you sister or daughter,
  ‘Our boys are all gathered at home for to-night.’