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Siegfried Sassoon - The Old Huntsman
Work rating: Low

I’ve never ceased to curse the day I signed   
A seven years’ bargain for the Golden Fleece.   
’Twas a bad deal all round; and dear enough   
It cost me, what with my daft management,   
And the mean folk as owed and never paid me, 
And backing losers; and the local bucks   
Egging me on with whiskys while I bragged   
The man I was when huntsman to the Squire.   
   
I’d have been prosperous if I’d took a farm   
Of fifty acres, drove my gig and haggled  
At Monday markets; now I’ve squandered all   
My savings; nigh three hundred pound I got   
As testimonial when I’d grown too stiff   
And slow to press a beaten fox. 

                                The Fleece!   
’Twas the damned Fleece that wore my Emily out, 
The wife of thirty years who served me well;   
(Not like this beldam clattering in the kitchen,   
That never trims a lamp nor sweeps the floor,   
And brings me greasy soup in a foul crock.)   
   
Blast the old harridan! What’s fetched her now, 
Leaving me in the dark, and short of fire?   
And where’s my pipe? ’Tis lucky I’ve a turn   
For thinking, and remembering all that’s past.   
And now’s my hour, before I hobble to bed,   
To set the works a-wheezing, wind the clock 
That keeps the time of life with feeble tick   
Behind my bleared old face that stares and wonders. 

    .    .    .    .   
It’s queer how, in the dark, comes back to mind   
Some morning of September. We’ve been digging   
In a steep sandy warren, riddled with holes, 
And I’ve just pulled the terrier out and left   
A sharp-nosed cub-face blinking there and snapping,   
Then in a moment seen him mobbed and torn   
To strips in the baying hurly of the pack.   
I picture it so clear: the dusty sunshine 
On bracken, and the men with spades, that wipe   
Red faces: one tilts up a mug of ale.   
And, having stopped to clean my gory hands,   
I whistle the jostling beauties out of the wood.   
   
I’m but a daft old fool! I often wish  
The Squire were back again—ah! he was a man!   
They don’t breed men like him these days; he’d come   
For sure, and sit and talk and suck his briar   
Till the old wife brings up a dish of tea.   
   
Ay, those were days, when I was serving Squire! 
I never knowed such sport as ’85,   
The winter afore the one that snowed us silly. 

    .    .    .    .   
Once in a way the parson will drop in   
And read a bit o’ the Bible, if I’m bad,   
And pray the Lord to make my spirit whole 
In faith: he leaves some ’baccy on the shelf,   
And wonders I don’t keep a dog to cheer me   
Because he knows I’m mortal fond of dogs!   
   
I ask you, what’s a gent like that to me 
As wouldn’t know Elijah if I saw him, 
Nor have the wit to keep him on the talk?   
’Tis kind of parson to be troubling still   
With such as me; but he’s a town-bred chap,   
Full of his college notions and Christmas hymns.   
   
Religion beats me. I’m amazed at folk
Drinking the gospels in and never scratching   
Their heads for questions. When I was a lad   
I learned a bit from mother, and never thought   
To educate myself for prayers and psalms.   
   
But now I’m old and bald and serious-minded,
With days to sit and ponder. I’d no chance   
When young and gay to get the hang of all   
This Hell and Heaven: and when the clergy hoick   
And holloa from their pulpits, I’m asleep,   
However hard I listen; and when they pray
It seems we’re all like children sucking sweets   
In school, and wondering whether master sees.   
   
I used to dream of Hell when I was first   
Promoted to a huntsman’s job, and scent   
Was rotten, and all the foxes disappeared,
And hounds were short of blood; and officers   
From barracks over-rode ’em all day long   
On weedy, whistling nags that knocked a hole   
In every fence; good sportsmen to a man   
And brigadiers by now, but dreadful hard
On a young huntsman keen to show some sport.   
   
Ay, Hell was thick with captains, and I rode   
The lumbering brute that’s beat in half a mile,   
And blunders into every blind old ditch.   
Hell was the coldest scenting land I’ve known,
And both my whips were always lost, and hounds   
Would never get their heads down; and a man   
On a great yawing chestnut trying to cast ’em   
While I was in a corner pounded by   
The ugliest hog-backed stile you’ve clapped your eyes on.
There was an iron-spiked fence round all the coverts,   
And civil-spoken keepers I couldn’t trust,   
And the main earth unstopp’d. The fox I found   
Was always a three-legged ’un from a bag,   
Who reeked of aniseed and wouldn’t run.
The farmers were all ploughing their old pasture   
And bellowing at me when I rode their beans   
To cast for beaten fox, or galloped on   
With hounds to a lucky view. I’d lost my voice   
Although I shouted fit to burst my guts,
And couldn’t blow my horn. 

                            And when I woke,   
Emily snored, and barn-cocks started crowing,   
And morn was at the window; and I was glad   
To be alive because I heard the cry   
Of hounds like church-bells chiming on a Sunday.
Ay, that’s the song I’d wish to hear in Heaven!   
The cry of hounds was Heaven for me: I know   
Parson would call me crazed and wrong to say it,   
But where’s the use of life and being glad   
If God’s not in your gladness? 

                                I’ve no brains
For book-learned studies; but I’ve heard men say   
There’s much in print that clergy have to wink at:   
Though many I’ve met were jolly chaps, and rode   
To hounds, and walked me puppies; and could pick   
Good legs and loins and necks and shoulders, ay,
And feet—’twas necks and feet I looked at first.   
   
Some hounds I’ve known were wise as half your saints,   
And better hunters. That old dog of the Duke’s,   
Harlequin; what a dog he was to draw!   
And what a note he had, and what a nose
When foxes ran down wind and scent was catchy!   
And that light lemon bitch of the Squire’s, old Dorcas—   
She were a marvellous hunter, were old Dorcas!   
Ay, oft I’ve thought, ‘If there were hounds in Heaven,   
With God as master, taking no subscription; 
And all His blessèd country farmed by tenants,   
And a straight-necked old fox in every gorse!’   
But when I came to work it out, I found   
There’d be too many huntsmen wanting places,   
Though some I’ve known might get a job with Nick! 

    .    .    .    . 
I’ve come to think of God as something like   
The figure of a man the old Duke was   
When I was turning hounds to Nimrod King,   
Before his Grace was took so bad with gout   
And had to quit the saddle. Tall and spare,
Clean-shaved and grey, with shrewd, kind eyes, that twinkled,   
And easy walk; who, when he gave good words,   
Gave them whole-hearted; and would never blame   
Without just cause. Lord God might be like that,   
Sitting alone in a great room of books
Some evening after hunting. 

                            Now I’m tired   
With hearkening to the tick-tack on the shelf;   
And pondering makes me doubtful. 

                                  Riding home   
On a moonless night of cloud that feels like frost   
Though stars are hidden (hold your feet up, horse!) 
And thinking what a task I had to draw   
A pack with all those lame ’uns, and the lot   
Wanting a rest from all this open weather;   
That’s what I’m doing now. 

                            And likely, too,   
The frost’ll be a long ’un, and the night 
One sleep. The parsons say we’ll wake to find   
A country blinding-white with dazzle of snow.   
   
The naked stars make men feel lonely, wheeling   
And glinting on the puddles in the road.   
   
And then you listen to the wind, and wonder 
If folk are quite such bucks as they appear   
When dressed by London tailors, looking down   
Their boots at covert side, and thinking big. 

    .    .    .    .   
This world’s a funny place to live in. Soon   
I’ll need to change my country; but I know 
’Tis little enough I’ve understood my life,   
And a power of sights I’ve missed, and foreign marvels.   
   
I used to feel it, riding on spring days   
In meadows pied with sun and chasing clouds,   
And half forget how I was there to catch
The foxes; lose the angry, eager feeling   
A huntsman ought to have, that’s out for blood,   
And means his hounds to get it! 

                                Now I know   
It’s God that speaks to us when we’re bewitched,   
Smelling the hay in June and smiling quiet;
Or when there’s been a spell of summer drought,   
Lying awake and listening to the rain. 

    .    .    .    .   
I’d like to be the simpleton I was   
In the old days when I was whipping-in   
To a little harrier-pack in Worcestershire,
And loved a dairymaid, but never knew it   
Until she’d wed another. So I’ve loved   
My life; and when the good years are gone down,   
Discover what I’ve lost. 

                          I never broke   
Out of my blundering self into the world,
But let it all go past me, like a man   
Half asleep in a land that’s full of wars.   
   
What a grand thing ’twould be if I could go   
Back to the kennels now and take my hounds   
For summer exercise; be riding out
With forty couple when the quiet skies   
Are streaked with sunrise, and the silly birds   
Grown hoarse with singing; cobwebs on the furze   
Up on the hill, and all the country strange,   
With no one stirring; and the horses fresh,
Sniffing the air I’ll never breathe again. 

    .    .    .    .   
You’ve brought the lamp, then, Martha? I’ve no mind   
For newspaper to-night, nor bread and cheese.   
Give me the candle, and I’ll get to bed.
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