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STEPHEN PHILLIPS (1868-1915) Alas! it was not sad!

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God send you home; and then A long, (Not like this beldam clattering in the long trail;

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We hear them, drink them; till the concert's done.

Silent, I watch the shadowy mass of soldiers stand.

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kitchen,

That never trims a lamp nor sweeps the

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Leaving me in the dark, and short of fire? Silent, they drift away over the glimmer- And where's my pipe? 'Tis lucky I've a

ing sand.

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And I've just pulled the terrier out and left

A sharp-nosed cub-face blinking there and snapping,

Then in a moment seen him mobbed and torn

To strips in the baying hurly of the pack. I picture it so clear: the dusty sunshine On bracken, and the men with spades, that wipe

Red faces: one tilts up a mug of ale. And, having stooped to clean my gory hands,

I whistle the jostling beauties out o' the wood.

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I'm but a daft old fool! I often wish The Squire were back again-ah, he was a man!

They don't breed men like him these days; he'd come

This Hell and Heaven; and when the clergy hoick

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For sure, and sit and talk and suck his And holloa from their pulpits, I'm asleep, briar However hard I listen; and when they pray

Till the old wife brings up a dish of tea. Aye, those were days, when I was serving Squire!

I never knowed such sport as '85,

The winter afore the one that snowed us silly.

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Because he knows I'm mortal fond of On a young huntsman keen to show some

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The farmers were all plowing their old pasture

And bellowing at me when I rode their beans

To cast for beaten fox, or galloped on With hounds to a lucky view. I'd lost my voice

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When foxes ran down wind and scent was catchy!

And that light lemon bitch of the Squire's, old Dorcas,

She were a marvelous hunter, were old Dorcas!

Although I shouted fit to burst my guts, Aye, oft I've thought: 'If there were And couldn't blow my horn.

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hounds in Heaven,

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Though many I've met were jolly chaps, Clean-shaved and gray, with shrewd, kind

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