Poems by Adam Lindsay Gordon Part 3

And every dog his day!"--C. Kingsley.

There's a formula which the west country clowns Once used, ere their blows fell thick, At the fairs on the Devon and Cornwall downs, In their bouts with the single-stick.

You may read a moral, not far amiss, If you care to moralise, In the crossing-guard, where the ash-plants kiss, To the words "G.o.d spare our eyes".

No game was ever yet worth a rap For a rational man to play, Into which no accident, no mishap, Could possibly find its way.

If you hold the willow, a shooter from Wills May transform you into a hopper, And the football meadow is rife with spills, If you feel disposed for a cropper; In a rattling gallop with hound and horse You may chance to reverse the medal On the sward, with the saddle your loins across, And your hunter's loins on the saddle; In the stubbles you'll find it hard to frame A remonstrance firm, yet civil, When oft as "our mutual friend" takes aim, Long odds may be laid on the rising game, And against your gaiters level; There's danger even where fish are caught, To those who a wetting fear; For what's worth having must aye be bought, And sport's like life and life's like sport, "It ain't all skittles and beer."

The honey bag lies close to the sting, The rose is fenced by the thorn, Shall we leave to others their gathering, And turn from cl.u.s.tering fruits that cling To the garden wall in scorn?

Albeit those purple grapes hang high, Like the fox in the ancient tale, Let us pause and try, ere we pa.s.s them by, Though we, like the fox, may fail.

All hurry is worse than useless; think On the adage, "'Tis pace that kills"; Shun bad tobacco, avoid strong drink, Abstain from Holloway's pills, Wear woollen socks, they're the best you'll find, Beware how you leave off flannel; And whatever you do, don't change your mind When once you have picked your panel; With a bank of cloud in the south south-east, Stand ready to shorten sail; Fight shy of a corporation feast; Don't trust to a martingale; Keep your powder dry, and shut one eye, Not both, when you touch your trigger; Don't stop with your head too frequently (This advice ain't meant for a n.i.g.g.e.r); Look before you leap, if you like, but if You mean leaping, don't look long, Or the weakest place will soon grow stiff, And the strongest doubly strong; As far as you can, to every man, Let your aid be freely given, And hit out straight, 'tis your shortest plan, When against the ropes you're driven.

Mere pluck, though not in the least sublime, Is wiser than blank dismay, Since "No sparrow can fall before its time", And we're valued higher than they; So hope for the best and leave the rest In charge of a stronger hand, Like the honest boors in the far-off west, With the formula terse and grand.

They were men for the most part rough and rude, Dull and illiterate, But they nursed no quarrel, they cherished no feud, They were strangers to spite and hate; In a kindly spirit they took their stand, That brothers and sons might learn How a man should uphold the sports of his land, And strike his best with a strong right hand, And take his strokes in return.

"'Twas a barbarous practice," the Quaker cries, "'Tis a thing of the past, thank heaven"-- Keep your thanks till the combative instinct dies With the taint of the olden leaven; Yes, the times are changed, for better or worse, The prayer that no harm befall Has given its place to a drunken curse, And the manly game to a brawl.

Our burdens are heavy, our natures weak, Some pastime devoid of harm May we look for? "Puritan elder, speak!"

"Yea, friend, peradventure thou mayest seek Recreation singing a psalm."

If I did, your visage so grim and stern Would relax in a ghastly smile, For of music I never one note could learn, And my feeble minstrelsy would turn Your chant to discord vile.

Tho' the Philistine's mail could not avail, Nor the spear like a weaver's beam, There are episodes yet in the Psalmist's tale, To obliterate which his poems fail, Which his exploits fail to redeem.

Can the Hitt.i.te's wrongs forgotten be?

Does HE warble "Non n.o.bis Domine", With his monarch in blissful concert, free From all malice to flesh inherent; Zeruiah's offspring, who served so well, Yet between the horns of the altar fell-- Does HIS voice the "Quid gloriaris" swell, Or the "Quare fremuerunt"?

It may well be thus where DAVID sings, And Uriah joins in the chorus, But while earth to earthy matter clings, Neither you nor the bravest of Judah's kings As a pattern can stand before us.

Fytte V Lex Talionis [A Moral Discourse]

"And if there's blood upon his hand, 'Tis but the blood of deer."--W. Scott.

To beasts of the field, and fowls of the air, And fish of the sea alike, Man's hand is ever slow to spare, And ever ready to strike; With a license to kill, and to work our will, In season by land or by water, To our heart's content we may take our fill Of the joys we derive from slaughter.

And few, I reckon, our rights gainsay In this world of rapine and wrong, Where the weak and the timid seem lawful prey For the resolute and the strong; Fins, furs, and feathers, they are and were For our use and pleasure created, We can shoot, and hunt, and angle, and snare, Unquestioned, if not unsated.

I have neither the will nor the right to blame, Yet to many (though not to all) The sweets of destruction are somewhat tame When no personal risks befall; Our victims suffer but little, we trust (Mere guess-work and blank enigma), If they suffer at all, our field sports must Of cruelty bear the stigma.

Shall we, hard-hearted to their fates, thus Soft-hearted shrink from our own, When the measure we mete is meted to us, When we reap as we've always sown?

Shall we who for pastime have squander'd life, Who are styled "the Lords of Creation", Recoil from our chance of more equal strife, And our risk of retaliation?

Though short is the dying pheasant's pain, Scant pity you well may spare, And the partridge slain is a triumph vain, And a risk that a child may dare; You feel, when you lower the smoking gun, Some ruth for yon slaughtered hare, And hit or miss, in your selfish fun The widgeon has little share.

But you've no remorseful qualms or pangs When you kneel by the grizzly's lair, On that conical bullet your sole chance hangs, 'Tis the weak one's advantage fair, And the s.h.a.ggy giant's terrific fangs Are ready to crush and tear; Should you miss, one vision of home and friends, Five words of unfinished prayer, Three savage knife stabs, so your sport ends In the worrying grapple that chokes and rends;-- Rare sport, at least, for the bear.

Short shrift! sharp fate! dark doom to dree!

Hard struggle, though quickly ending!

At home or abroad, by land or sea, In peace or war, sore trials must be, And worse may happen to you or to me, For none are secure, and none can flee From a destiny impending.

Ah! friend, did you think when the LONDON sank, Timber by timber, plank by plank, In a cauldron of boiling surf, How alone at least, with never a flinch, In a rally contested inch by inch, You could fall on the trampled turf?

When a livid wall of the sea leaps high, In the lurid light of a leaden sky, And bursts on the quarter railing; While the howling storm-gust seems to vie With the crash of splintered beams that fly, Yet fails too oft to smother the cry Of women and children wailing?

Then those who listen in sinking s.h.i.+ps To despairing sobs from their lov'd one's lips, Where the green wave thus slowly shatters, May long for the crescent-claw that rips The bison into ribbons and strips, And tears the strong elk to tatters.

Oh! sunderings short of body and breath!

Oh! "battle and murder and sudden death!"

Against which the Liturgy preaches; By the will of a just, yet a merciful Power, Less bitter, perchance, in the mystic hour, When the wings of the shadowy angel lower, Than man in his blindness teaches!

Fytte VI Potters' Clay [An Allegorical Interlude]

"Nec propter vitam vivendi perdere causas."

Though the pitcher that goes to the sparkling rill Too oft gets broken at last, There are scores of others its place to fill When its earth to the earth is cast; Keep that pitcher at home, let it never roam, But lie like a useless clod, Yet sooner or later the hour will come When its chips are thrown to the sod.

Is it wise, then, say, in the waning day, When the vessel is crack'd and old, To cherish the battered potters' clay, As though it were virgin gold?

Take care of yourself, dull, boorish elf, Though prudent and safe you seem, Your pitcher will break on the musty shelf, And mine by the dazzling stream.

Fytte VII Cito Pede Preterit Aetas [A Philosophical Dissertation]

"Gillian's dead, G.o.d rest her bier-- How I loved her many years syne; Marion's married, but I sit here, Alive and merry at three-score year, Dipping my nose in Gascoigne wine."--Wamba's Song--Thackeray.

A mellower light doth Sol afford, His meridian glare has pa.s.s'd, And the trees on the broad and sloping sward Their length'ning shadows cast.

"Time flies." The current will be no joke, If swollen by recent rain, To cross in the dark, so I'll have a smoke, And then I'll be off again.

What's up, old horse? Your ears you p.r.i.c.k, And your eager eyeb.a.l.l.s glisten; 'Tis the wild dog's note in the tea-tree thick, By the river, to which you listen.

With head erect and tail flung out, For a gallop you seem to beg, But I feel the qualm of a chilling doubt, As I glance at your fav'rite leg.

Let the dingo rest, 'tis all for the best; In this world there's room enough For him and you and me and the rest, And the country is awful rough.

We've had our gallop in days of yore, Now down the hill we must run; Yet at times we long for one gallop more, Although it were only one.

Did our spirits quail at a new four-rail, Could a "double" double-bank us, Ere nerve and sinew began to fail In the consuls.h.i.+p of Plancus?

When our blood ran rapidly, and when Our bones were pliant and limber, Could we stand a merry cross-counter then, A slogging fall over timber?

Arcades ambo! Duffers both, In our best of days, alas!

(I tell the truth, though to tell it loth) 'Tis time we were gone to gra.s.s; The young leaves shoot, the sere leaves fall, And the old gives way to the new, While the preacher cries, "'Tis vanity all, And vexation of spirit, too."

Now over my head the vapours curl From the bowl of the soothing clay, In the misty forms that eddy and whirl My thoughts are flitting away; Yes, the preacher's right, 'tis vanity all, But the sweeping rebuke he showers On vanities all may heaviest fall On vanities worse than ours.