162 MELTON AND HOMESPUN 



They cried, " Tis BEN as sure as sin his shoulders and 



his cheery grin ; 



And yon's the wood the hounds are in, 

 My soul my life I'll lay ! " 

 Then spurred they o'er the space between, 

 And naught could stay or hold : 

 Beyond the turf-land sound and green yawned a morass 



obscure, unclean, 

 Loathly, and dank, and cold ; 

 But into it plunged HARBOTTLE, SILLITOE, 

 GRIGGS and BRIGGS and BULLER-BROWN, and CRUMBY 

 on the grey. 



And tho' the rank slough sucked and clogged, they 

 wallowed, floundered, dragged and flogged, 

 Until triumphant, waterlogged, 

 Unsavoury men were they ; 

 Smothered in slime from spurs to stocks, 

 Unflinching, keen as mules. 

 No sign of huntsman, hound or fox : naught but a rural 



letter-box, 



Erect, regardant, gules. 



Came dreadful words from HARBOTTLE, SILLITOE, 

 GRIGGS and BRIGGS and BULLER-BROWN, and GRUMBY 



on the grey. 

 ******* 



A crimson smoulder in the West ; the last late crow had 



won to rest ; 



A breath of ice that gripped the chest 

 And freezing died the day. 

 A hoof-struck flint-spark lit the gloam, 

 A shivering horn-shake rang ; 



