’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.]

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.’

THE INNER ROOM

It is mine—the little chamber,
   Mine alone.
I had it from my forbears
   Years agone.
Yet within its walls I see
A most motley company,
And they one and all claim me
   As their own.

There’s one who is a soldier
   Bluff and keen;
Single-minded, heavy-fisted,
   Rude of mien.
He would gain a purse or stake it,
He would win a heart or break it,
He would give a life or take it,
   Conscience-clean.

And near him is a priest
   Still schism-whole;
He loves the censer-reek
   And organ-roll.
He has leanings to the mystic,
Sacramental, eucharistic;
And dim yearnings altruistic
   Thrill his soul.

There’s another who with doubts
   Is overcast;
I think him younger brother
   To the last.
Walking wary stride by stride,
Peering forwards anxious-eyed,
Since he learned to doubt his guide
   In the past.

And ’mid them all, alert,
   But somewhat cowed,
There sits a stark-faced fellow,
   Beetle-browed,
Whose black soul shrinks away
From a lawyer-ridden day,
And has thoughts he dare not say
   Half avowed.

There are others who are sitting,
   Grim as doom,
In the dim ill-boding shadow
   Of my room.
Darkling figures, stern or quaint,
Now a savage, now a saint,
Showing fitfully and faint
   Through the gloom.

And those shadows are so dense,
   There may be
Many—very many—more
   Than I see.
They are sitting day and night
Soldier, rogue, and anchorite;
And they wrangle and they fight
   Over me.

If the stark-faced fellow win,
   All is o’er!
If the priest should gain his will
   I doubt no more!
But if each shall have his day,
I shall swing and I shall sway
In the same old weary way
   As before.