Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE SQUIRE'S BOAR HUNT, by ROSE TERRY COOKE


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE SQUIRE'S BOAR HUNT, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Come, gallop my masters! Come gallop my men!
Last Line: We'll end with high revel this hunt of the boar.
Subject(s): Hunting; Pigs; Hunters; Boars; Hogs


Come, gallop my masters! Come gallop my men!
There's roaring and routing in Enderby Fen,
Hark! hear the hounds' music! the boar is at bay.
There'll be fun in the Fen before curfew to-day.

A squeal? there's the brood with the sow at their head.
Hola! through the osiers how fleet they have fled!
But the lord of the lair is not trotting beside. --
Ride faster! spur deeper! the boar will abide.

Whoop! down in you sallets his holt is. I see
The glint of his eye past that pollarded tree.
Now Ripper! Now Bolder! down! down from the bank!
Now Brave, to his ear, sir! Now Stark to his flank!

Spur John o' the Garner. Rush on with your spear!
The dogs will hold firm. Holy saints! he is clear!
He has ripped up old Bolder from muzzle to stern,
And Brave lies behind him; and Stark has his turn.

Loose Vixen and Badger! a sanglier is he
Set the hounds on at force; send the relays to me!
Am I hunting the boar like a damsel at play?
Gogs ounds! shall he daunt me and 'scape me to-day?

Ho! Vixen hath seized him. Pst! to him, my lass!
Here comes the fresh relay. Now guard the morass!
Will he fight? will he flee? Holy Hubert! look here,
He's routing! he's charging! he's snapped my good spear!

Well done! John o' Garner. I pattered a prayer,
Sure thought I he had me; and but you were there
I too had been slashed with the rip of his tusk.
Bless the rood! it is over. We're home-set by dusk.

Ha! here's my young master. Yes, look you, that boar
Had nigh served your Dad that you had me no more.
But John o' the Garner like fire-flaught came on,
Upright in the stirrup, his spear-point borne down;

His good charger volted; his stout arm made thrust;
Pricked right twixt the shoulders my lord tasted dust!
Look ye there, at those tushes! that wicked red eye!
That ear that Brave tore, when he tossed him to die!

A sanglier of hundreds! have off with his head!
Full nobly and bravely our hunting hath sped.
Come! Up from the Fen, and away o'er the moor!
We'll end with high revel this hunt of the boar.





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