Vlll MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. 



Hence when Robin eased a bishop, in spite of sad appeals, 

 To Roche he hied for penance and to taste their Hatfield eels ; 

 And the joking friars cursed him, by candle, bell, and book, 

 If he brought no side of venison, no wild duck for the hook. 



Now is each portly brother but a handful of white dust, 

 Each painted window tracery is thick with mossy crust ; 

 Their bells lie in the ocean, broken is lance and flagon ; 

 "Blnff Hal, forsooth, had keener tooth than e'en fell Wantley's dragon. 



Then came the golden era, when prudish Bess was Queen, 

 And thronged the jocund villagers each May- day to the Green ; 

 When the red cock crowed its matins, none lingered in their beds, 

 To the pole they yoked their oxen with the wreaths upon their heads. 



Ho, bring the lads with bucklers, to begin the mimic fray ; 

 Iiet milkmaids trip for garlands their merriest to-day ; 

 Ho, horsemen ! hit the board-end of the quintain on the lawn, 

 Or the mummers and the dragons shall laugh thy ride to scorn. 



Stout men were mindful ever the well-worn bowls to bring, 

 And heedless of the dancers, on the short grass formed a ring ; 

 As the village pastor watched them, he would steal to muse apart, 

 O'er thoughts of martyred Cranmer and leprosy of heart. 



But vanished was all merriment, and feats of horse and limb, 



In the days when each coarse Puritan humm'd forth his surly hymn ; 



Yet once again resounded the Heighlo la la leup, 



When o'er the crane the falconer watched his pet bird in its stoop. 



Then at early dawn the hunter ne'er lingered with his bride, 

 But cheered his spotted darlings along each covert ^ide ; 

 As meadow, gorse, and woodland rung with his lusty throat, 

 He watched for the first whimperings of each bass and treble note. 



With their tankards on the table and their lurchers at their feet, 

 Each night around the ingle in the Hall they took their seat ; 

 If erst on earths or hareforms, or hounds that led the van 

 They differed for an umpire, the chaplain was the man. 



But the sons are like their sires, and will never cry, Alack ! 

 jFor " the good old times of England," which never can come back ? 

 We've better sports to cheer us than the Saxon feudal lord, 

 With the pillory his privilege, liis title-deeds the sword. 



1849. Sporting Magazine. 



