Can’t avenge poor Brereton
Out in Sakarran;
Tho’ we earn our bread, Tom,
By the dirty pen,
What we can we will be,
Honest Englishmen. 
Do the work that’s nearest,
Though it’s dull at whiles,
Helping, when we meet them,
Lame dogs over stiles;
See in every hedgerow
Marks of angels’ feet,
Epics in each pebble
Underneath our feet;
Once a year, like schoolboys,
Robin-Hooding go,
Leaving fops and fogies
A thousand feet below.

Eversley, August 1856.

THE FIND

   Yon sound’s neither sheep-bell nor bark,
   They’re running—­they’re running, Go hark! 
   The sport may be lost by a moment’s delay;
   So whip up the puppies and scurry away. 
Dash down through the cover by dingle and dell,
There’s a gate at the bottom—­I know it full well;
And they’re running—­they’re running,
      Go hark!

   They’re running—­they’re running, Go hark! 
   One fence and we’re out of the park;
   Sit down in your saddles and race at the brook,
   Then smash at the bullfinch; no time for a look;
Leave cravens and skirters to dangle behind;
He’s away for the moors in the teeth of the wind,
And they’re running—­they’re running,
      Go hark!

   They’re running—­they’re running, Go hark! 
   Let them run on and run till it’s dark! 
   Well with them we are, and well with them we’ll be,
   While there’s wind in our horses and daylight to see: 
Then shog along homeward, chat over the fight,
And hear in our dreams the sweet music all night
Of—­They’re running—­they’re running,
      Go hark!

Eversley, 1856.

FISHING SONG:  TO J. A. FROUDE AND TOM HUGHES

Oh, Mr. Froude, how wise and good,
To point us out this way to glory—­
They’re no great shakes, those Snowdon Lakes,
And all their pounders myth and story. 
Blow Snowdon!  What’s Lake Gwynant to Killarney,
Or spluttering Welsh to tender blarney, blarney, blarney?

So Thomas Hughes, sir, if you choose,
I’ll tell you where we think of going,
To swate and far o’er cliff and scar,
Hear horns of Elfland faintly blowing;
Blow Snowdon!  There’s a hundred lakes to try in,
And fresh caught salmon daily, frying, frying, frying.

Geology and botany
A hundred wonders shall diskiver,
We’ll flog and troll in strid and hole,
And skim the cream of lake and river,
Blow Snowdon! give me Ireland for my pennies,
Hurrah! for salmon, grilse, and—­Dennis, Dennis, Dennis!

Eversley, 1856

THE LAST BUCCANEER

Oh England is a pleasant place for them that’s rich and high,
But England is a cruel place for such poor folks as I;
And such a port for mariners I ne’er shall see again
As the pleasant Isle of Aves, beside the Spanish main.