Arthur Quiller-Couch, comp. The Oxford Book of Victorian Verse. 1922.
A Runnable StagJohn Davidson (18571909)
W
And apples began to be golden-skinn’d,
We harbour’d a stag in the Priory coomb,
And we feather’d his trail up-wind, up-wind,
We feather’d his trail up-wind—
A stag of warrant, a stag, a stag,
A runnable stag, a kingly crop,
Brow, bay and tray and three on top,
A stag, a runnable stag.
And ‘Forwards’ we heard the harbourer shout;
But ’twas only a brocket that broke a gap
In the beechen underwood, driven out,
From the underwood antler’d out
By warrant and might of the stag, the stag,
The runnable stag, whose lordly mind
Was bent on sleep, though beam’d and tined
He stood, a runnable stag.
With Tinkerman’s Pup and Bell-of-the-North;
And hunters were sulky and hounds out of tune
Before we tufted the right stag forth,
Before we tufted him forth,
The stag of warrant, the wily stag,
The runnable stag with his kingly crop,
Brow, bay and tray and three on top,
The royal and runnable stag.
That stuck to the scent till the copse was drawn.
‘Tally ho! tally ho!’ and the hunt was up,
The tufters whipp’d and the pack laid on,
The resolute pack laid on,
And the stag of warrant away at last,
The runnable stag, the same, the same,
His hoofs on fire, his horns like flame,
A stag, a runnable stag.
He stumbles at once and you’re out of the hunt;
For three hundred gentlemen, able to ride,
On hunters accustom’d to bear the brunt,
Accustom’d to bear the brunt,
Are after the runnable stag, the stag,
The runnable stag with his kingly crop,
Brow, bay and tray and three on top,
The right, the runnable stag.’
The heather, the rocks, and the river-bed,
The pace grew hot, for the scent lay well,
And a runnable stag goes right ahead,
The quarry went right ahead—
Ahead, ahead, and fast and far;
His antler’d crest, his cloven hoof,
Brow, bay and tray and three aloof,
The stag, the runnable stag.
By the densest hedge and the highest wall,
Through herds of bullocks he baffled the lore
Of harbourer, huntsman, hounds and all,
Of harbourer, hounds and all—
The stag of warrant, the wily stag,
For twenty miles, and five and five,
He ran, and he never was caught alive,
This stag, this runnable stag.
In the emerald gloom where the brook ran deep
He heard in the distance the rollers boom,
And he saw in a vision of peaceful sleep
In a wonderful vision of sleep,
A stag of warrant, a stag, a stag,
A runnable stag in a jewell’d bed,
Under the sheltering ocean dead,
A stag, a runnable stag.
And he open’d his nostrils wide again,
And he toss’d his branching antlers high
As he headed the hunt down the Charlock glen,
As he raced down the echoing glen—
For five miles more, the stag, the stag,
For twenty miles, and five and five,
Not to be caught now, dead or alive,
The stag, the runnable stag.
Three hundred horses as gallant and free,
Beheld him escape on the evening tide,
Far out till he sank in the Severn Sea,
Till he sank in the depths of the sea—
The stag, the buoyant stag, the stag
That slept at last in a jewell’d bed
Under the sheltering ocean spread,
The stag, the runnable stag.