Songs of Action - Arthur Conan Doyle (graded readers TXT) 📗

class="calibre1">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.

THE OLD GRAY FOX

We started from the Valley Pride,

And Farnham way we went. We waited at the coverside,

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 suck 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.]