The Poems of Adam Lindsay Gordon | Page 9

knights.
Now tell me for once, old horse of mine,
Grazing round me loose and
free,
Does your ancient equine heart repine
For a burst in such
companie,
Where "the POWERS that be" in the front rank ride,
To
hold your own with the throng,
Or to plunge at "Faugh-a-Ballagh's"
side
In the rapids of Dandenong.
Don't tread on my toes, you're no foolish weight,
So I found to my
cost, as under
Your carcase I lay, when you rose too late,
Yet I
blame you not for the blunder.
What! sulky old man, your under-lip
falls!
You think I, too, ready to rail am
At your kinship remote to
that duffer at walls,
The talkative roadster of Balaam.
Fytte IV
In Utrumque Paratus
[A Logical Discussion]
"Then hey for boot and horse, lad!
And round the world away!

Young blood will have its course, lad!
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 "God 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 clustering
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 pass 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 nigger);
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 Hittite's wrongs forgotten be?
Does HE warble "Non nobis
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