The Boar of the Year

the shade of the trees by the lunch-tent
 * the old Haileyburian sat,&mdash;

A full fourteen-stone in the saddle,
 * and the best of hard riders at that,&mdash;

And he shouted aloud as we passed him:
 * "I'll wait till the claret-cup cools.

There's a sounder broke loose in the open!
 * Ride, boys, for the love of your Schools!"

Bull-huge in the mists of the morn
 * at the head of his sounder he stood&mdash;

Our quarry&mdash;and watched us awhile,
 * and we thirsted aloud for his blood;

Then over the brawn of his shoulder
 * looked back as we galloped more near&mdash;

Then fled for the far-away cover;
 * and we followed the Boar of the Year!

There was Cheltenham perched on an Arab&mdash;
 * so rich are these thrice-born R.E.'s;

Then Rugby&mdash;his mount was a Waler,
 * and a couple of O.U.S.C.s,

And the rest of the field followed after.
 * They were older and wiser, perhaps&mdash;

For we flew over tats at the nullahs,
 * but they scrambled through by the gaps.

Away like a bird went the Arab&mdash;
 * head and tail in the air, which is wrong:

For a pig-sticker worthy his salt
 * looks down as he gallops along;

And the Arab was new to the business.
 * What wonder that Cheltenham fell

In the grip of a buffalo-wallow,
 * and sat down to rest him a spell?

Then Rugby shot forward the first
 * of us three, for to reason it stands

That a coachy Artillery charger
 * has the legs of a mere fourteen-hands.

But he jinked, and the Waler went wide;
 * but the country-breds wheeled and we flew

O'er the treacherous black-cotton furrows&mdash;
 * spears up, riding all that we knew.

Now a beast with a mouth like a brickbat
 * can't turn to a turn of the wrist&mdash;

And the Waler took furlongs to turn in;
 * and the rest of the run Rugby missed.

So we shed him and spread him and left him,
 * after manifold jinkings and chouses,

And the issue was narrowed to this:
 * "Ride, boys, for the love of your Houses!"

Dull-white on the slate of his hide
 * ran a spear-scar from shoulder to chine:

And a pig that is marked by the spear
 * is seldom the sweetest of swine.

When he stopped in the shade of the reh-grass
 * that fringes the river-bed's marge,

The lift of his rust-red back-bristles
 * had warned us: Look out for the charge!

And we got it! Right-wheel, best foot foremost&mdash;
 * with a quick sickle sweep of the head

That missed the off-hock of my pony
 * and tore through a tussock instead,

He made for the next horse's belly&mdash;
 * the jungle-pig's deadliest trick&mdash;

And he caught the spear full in the shoulder,
 * and the bamboo broke short at the nick:

Then the prettiest mare in the Province
 * let out with her ever-quick heels,

And the sound of the Ancient his death-grunt
 * was drowned in her feminine squeals!

And which of the Houses got first-spear?
 * With sorrow unfeigned be it said,

I jabbed at his quarters and missed, and&mdash;
 * I rode for the Black and the Red;

And he for the Black and the Yellow,
 * and his was the first and last spear

That ended the hunt by the river,
 * and won you the Boar of the Year.

So we drank in the shade of the lunch-tent
 * to the Barrack that stands by the Sea&mdash;

We drank to the health of its fellows&mdash;
 * to all who have been and may be.

And Cheltenham joined in the chorus
 * and Rugby re-echoed the cheer

On the day that we rode for the College,
 * and won you the Boar of the Year!