152 



NATURAL H1ST0UV OF SUXXINOIIILL. 



Under the brow of Kind's Beech Hill 



An herd of bucks did lair; 

 The sun was high, the wind was still, 



The weather warm and fair. 



From Broomhall's convent came a priest, 



And down the hill did ride; 

 His age was threescore years at least, 



A mule he did bestride. 



With tonsured head, his beads, and hood, 

 To church his course he bent; 



To pray and preach with precepts good, 

 Was this sage man's intent. 



The huntsman and his men in green, 



The priest astonished spies, 

 A sight he ne'er before had seen, 



And scarce believed his eyes. 



"Vain men," he cried, "can ye profane 



This day for rest assigned, 

 For holy church shew such disdain, 



And disrespectful mind?" 



"Think what will be your future fate, 



When ye resign your breath: 

 Kepentance then will come too late 



To ease the pangs of death." 



"Now to and fro the devil prowls, 



And hears each passing bell, 

 And hunting for such graceless souls, 



To burn in flames of hell." 



"Oh, father," cried the huntsman Heme, 



"Your duty now pursue, 

 And then permit us in our turn, 



To yield obedience too." 



"To you I shall no further say, 



I fear no monkish spell; 

 My master's warrants I'll obey 



In spite of priest or knell." 



They parley thus, the deer stand still, 



And listening seem'd to be, 

 To learn the haughty hunter's will, 



And wait their destiny. 



Scarce had these words escaped his mouth, 

 When one came bounding by; 



His haunches fat, of largest growth, 

 His antlers broad and high. 



As thus the deer affrighted ran, 

 Heme aimed his gun— in vain ! 



For merely flashing in the pan, 

 'T was aimed and fired again. 



The gun, so foul and clogged with rust, 



Neglected long had lain ; 

 With loud report the barrel burst, 



And pierced the yeoman's brain. 



Thus Heme the mighty hunter died, 



Contemning laws divine; 

 And as he died, blasphemed and cried— 



"Curs'd be this gun of mine!" 



Still as the year comes duly round, 

 Heme, from the infernal crew, 



Is suffered with his horn and hound, 

 His pleasure to pursue. 



A midnight ghost, he 's seen to ride 



On Bagshot's gloomy plain; 

 His voice is shrill, the pack, his guide, 



Then disappears again." 



To prove the facts which I relate, 



And all the forest know, 

 You'll find the truth of what I state, 



If you to Swinley go. 



There, "Martin's Heme," a house hard by, 



Tom Martin kept for years; 

 And on a sign-post, mounted high, 



Heme's picture still appears. 



There are many allusions to places in the course of this ballad, of which 

 I shall speak more particularly at a subsequent period of this history; 

 suffice it to say in this place that the Inn here spoken of had its sign 

 changed about the time of the pulling down of the old lodge at Swinley, 

 and has ever since borne that of the "Royal Forester," a general appella- 

 tion, which, although it rendered it less particular, did not alter the 

 actual sense. A neat residence close by was also known by the same 

 name, and this, creating some confusion, was, I believe, the true reason 

 for the alteration. If any more faith can be placed in this than the 

 other legends which have obtained concerning this man, it would seem 

 that the heathy plain in this neighbourhood was the scene of his irreverent 



