Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1918.djvu/1034

 WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT

1 like the blackbird's shriek, and his rush

From the turnips as I pass by, And the partridge hiding her head in a bush

For her young ones cannot fly.

I like these things, and I like to ride

When all the world is in bed, To the top of the hill where the sky grows wide,

And where the sun grows red.

The beagles at my horse heels trot

In silence after me; There 's Ruby, Roger, Diamond, Dot,

Old Slut and Margery,

A score of names well used, and dear,

The names my childhood knew, The horn, with which I rouse their cheer,

Ib the horn my father blew.

I like the hunting of the hare

Better than that of the fox, The new world still is all less fair

Than the old world it mocks.

I covet not a wider range

Than these dear manors give; I take my pleasures without change,

And as I lived I live.

I leave my neighbours to their thought;

My choice it is, and pride, On my own lands to find my sport,

In my own fields to ride.

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