WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT
1 like the blackbird's shriek, and his rush
From the turnips as I pass by, And the partridge hiding her head in a bush
For her young ones cannot fly.
I like these things, and I like to ride
When all the world is in bed, To the top of the hill where the sky grows wide,
And where the sun grows red.
The beagles at my horse heels trot
In silence after me; There 's Ruby, Roger, Diamond, Dot,
Old Slut and Margery,
A score of names well used, and dear,
The names my childhood knew, The horn, with which I rouse their cheer,
Ib the horn my father blew.
I like the hunting of the hare
Better than that of the fox, The new world still is all less fair
Than the old world it mocks.
I covet not a wider range
Than these dear manors give; I take my pleasures without change,
And as I lived I live.
I leave my neighbours to their thought;
My choice it is, and pride, On my own lands to find my sport,
In my own fields to ride.
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