Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

Siegfried Sassoon (1886–1967). The Old Huntsman and Other Poems. 1918.

1. The Old Huntsman

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.