Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE PERIPATETIC, by ALFRED DENNIS GODLEY


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE PERIPATETIC, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Come all ye bold pedestrians, who amble o'er the lea
Last Line: Across the lonely country-side, on shanks his mare!
Alternate Author Name(s): Godley, A. D.
Subject(s): Horseback Riding


COME all ye bold pedestrians, who amble o'er the lea,
Ye Sunday-walking wanderers, if any still there be,
Who seek that haunt delectable and shy secluded spot
Where motor-cars are never seen, and bicycles are not --
Attend while I expound to you what joys beyond compare
Belong to him who voyages on Shanks His Mare.

Though fast and far the Cyclist go, serenely speeding on
(I've met him in his sinful pride as far as Headington),
Yet all his skill and all his speed, it nothing shall avail
If e'er he chance to ride upon a rusty piece of nail.
Of panics and anxieties his mind he ne'er can rid:
Whene'er he meets a muddy road, he 's nearly sure to skid:
For Nature and Philosophy no thought he has to spare --
As has the man who travels still on Shanks His Mare.

Behold the proud Equestrian who sits upon a horse:
The scorcher's is a luckless plight, but his is far the worse:
The pleasures of volition free are not for him to know, --
He goes where'er his quadruped intends him for to go:
And sometimes it 's too leisurely, which makes the public scoff,
While sometimes it 's in playful mood, and then he tumbles off --
And still he is (as Horace sings) accompanied by Care,
Which ain't the case with him who rides on Shanks His Mare.

The man who drives a Motor-car imperils life and limb:
I cannot see the smallest good in emulating him:
In fact if I'd an enemy whom ne'er I could abide,
It is within a motor-car I'd send him out to ride.
It leaves an oily smell behind: 'tis prone (I'm told) to burst:
Don't offer me a seat in that -- I'll see you farther first:
For O that gallant motor-man, whose speed outstrips the hare,
'Tis slow he comes and sadly back on Shanks His Mare!

O yet there 's many a grassy path and many a lonely way
By woodland green and silent stream and hamlets old and gray, --
In Cotswold hills and Chiltern woods is many a still retreat
Which no one knows but only those who walk upon their feet.
With addled wits the student sits, confusing of his brain,
And some they ride and some they row (and some they go by train),
But give to me mine ancient boots, and far from here we'll fare,
Across the lonely country-side, on Shanks His Mare!





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