BUSH BALLADS AND RHYMES 



I, while we fled through St. Hubert's-chase, 

 Bent till my cheek was amongst her mane. 



To the north full a league of the deer-park lay, 

 Smooth, springy turf, and she fairly flew, 



And the sound of their hoof strokes died away, 

 And their far shots faint in the distance grew. 



Loudly I laugh'd, having won the start, 



At the folly of following Britomarte. 



They had posteda guardat the northern gate — 



Some dozen of pikemen and musketeers. 

 To the tall park palings I turned her straight, 



She veer'd in her flight as the swallow 

 veers — 

 And someblew matches and some drew swords. 



And one of them wildly hurl'd his pike. 

 But she clear'd by inches the oaken boards, 



And she carried me yards beyond the dyke, 

 Then gaily over the long green down 

 We gallop'd, heading for Westbrooke town. 



The green down slopes to the great grey moor, 

 Thegrey moorsinks to thegleamingSkelt — 

 Sudden and sullen, and swift and sure, 



The whirling water was round my belt — 



270 



