Classic Poem

(Old Time)

  The bark of a fox rings, sonorous and long:—
  Three barks, and then silentness; ‘wong, wong, wong!’
  In quality horn-like, yet melancholy,
  As from teachings of years; for an old one is he.
The hand of all men is against him, he knows; and yet, why?
That he knows not,—will never know, down to his death-halloo cry.

  With clap-nets and lanterns off start the bird-baiters,
  In trim to make raids on the roosts in the copse,
  Where they beat the boughs artfully, while their awaiters
  Grow heavy at home over divers warm drops.
The poachers, with swingels, and matches of brimstone, outcreep
To steal upon pheasants and drowse them a-perch and asleep.

  Out there, on the verge, where a path wavers through,
  Dark figures, filed singly, thrid quickly the view,
  Yet heavily laden: land-carriers are they
  In the hire of the smugglers from some nearest bay.
Each bears his two ‘tubs’, slung across, one in front, one behind,
To a further snug hiding which none but themselves are to find.

  And then, when the night has turned twelve the air brings
  From dim distance, a rhythm of voices and strings:
  'Tis the quire, just afoot on their long yearly rounds,
  To rouse by worn carols each house in their bounds;
Robert Penny, the Dewys, Mail, Voss, and the rest; till anon
Tired and thirsty, but cheerful, they home to their beds in the dawn.