A Runnable Stag
When the pods went pop on the broom, green broom,
And apples began to be golden-skinn'd,
We harbour'd a stag in the Priory coomb,
And we feather'd his trail up-wind, up-wind,
We feather'd his trail up-wind-
A stag of warrant, a stag, a stag,
A runnable stag, a kingly crop,
Brow, bay and tray and three on top,
A stag, a runnable stag.
Then the huntsman's horn rang yap, yap yap,
And 'Forwards' we heard the harbourer shout;
But 'twas only a brocket that broke a gap
In the beechen underwood, driven out,
From the underwood antler'd out
By warrant and might of the stag, the stag,
The runnable stag, whose lordly mind
Was bent on sleep though beam'd and tined
He stood, a runnable stag
So we tufted the covert till afternoon
With Tinkerman's Pup and Bell- of-the-North;
And hunters were sulky and hounds out of tune
Before we tufted the right stag forth,
Before we tufted him forth,
The stag of warrant, the wily stag,
The runnable stag with his kingly crop,
Brow, bay and tray and three on top,
The royal and runnable stag.
It was Bell-of-the-North and Tinkerman's Pup
That stuck to the scent till the copse was drawn.
'Tally ho! tally ho!' and the hunt was up,
The tufters whipp'd and the pack laid on,
The resolute pack laid on,
And the stag of warrant away at last,
The runnable stag, the same, the same,
His hoofs on fire, his horns like flame,
A stag, a runnable stag.
'Let your gelding be: if you check or chide
He stumbles at once and you're out of the hunt
For three hundred gentlemen, able to ride,
On hunters accustom'd to bear the brunt,
Accustom'd to bear the brunt,
Are after the runnable stag, the stag,
The runnable stag with his kingly crop,
Brow, bay and tray and three on top,
The right, the runnable stag.
By perilous paths in coomb and dell,
The heather, the rocks, and the river-bed,
The pace grew hot, for the scent lay well,
And a runnable stag goes right ahead,
The quarry went right ahead--
Ahead, ahead, and fast and far;
His antler'd crest, his cloven hoof,
Brow, bay and tray and three aloof,
The stag, the runnable stag.
For a matter of twenty miles and more,
By the densest hedge and the highest wall,
Through herds of bullocks lie baffled the lore
Of harbourer, huntsman, hounds and all,
Of harbourer, hounds and all
The stag of warrant, the wily stag,
For twenty miles, and five and five,
He ran, and he never was caught alive,
This stag, this runnable stag.
When he turn'd at bay in the leafy gloom,
In the emerald gloom where the brook ran deep
He heard in the distance the rollers boom,
And he saw In a vision of peaceful sleep
In a wonderful vision of sleep,
A stag of warrant, a stag, a stag,
A runnable stag in a jewell'd bed,
Under the sheltering ocean dead,
A stag, a runnable stag.
So a fateful hope lit up his eye,
And he open'd his nostrils wide again,
And he toss'd his branching antlers high
As he headed the hunt down the Charlock glen,
As he raced down the echoing glen
For five miles more, the stag, the stag,
For twenty miles, and five and five,
Not to be caught now, dead or alive,
The stag, the runnable stag.
Three hundred gentleman, able to ride,
Three hundred horses as gallant and free,
Beheld him escape on the evening tide,
Far out till he sank in the Severn Sea,
Till he sank in the depths of the sea
The stag, the buoyant stag, the stag
That slept at last in a jewell'd bed
Under the sheltering ocean spread,
The stag, the runnable stag.
poem by John Davidson
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Related quotes
The Stag (ballad)
The Stag it ran through fields and woods
Flitting here darting there
Running fast from men with hoods
Fast as a hare
A bird over head cries a warning song
A warning song cries the bird
For the stag the bravest stag
Who is torn away from the herd
The gun trumpets on the still air
This frightens the stag that runs like a hare
He runs through the trees and to a pool
He stops to take a breath but then he hears, leaves fall
The gun cries again and the stag he falls
By the trees and the pool
he makes one last cry and his body goes cool
The spirit of the stag
Leaped up and flew
And frightened the men
As he galloped across the dew
poem by Cheetah Girl
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Uhland's White Stag
Into the woods three huntsmen came,
Seeking the white stag for their game.
They laid them under a green fir-tree
And slept, and dreamed strange things to see.
(FIRST HUNTSMAN)
I dreamt I was beating the leafy brush,
When out popped the noble stag--hush, hush!
(SECOND HUNTSMAN)
As ahead of the clamorous pack he sprang,
I pelted him hard in the hide--piff, bang!
(THIRD HUNTSMAN)
And as that stag lay dead I blew
On my horn a lusty tir-ril-la-loo!
So speak the three as there they lay
When lo! the white stag sped that way,
Frisked his heels at those huntsmen three,
Then leagues o'er hill and dale was he--
Hush, hush! Piff, bang! Tir-ril-la-loo!
poem by Eugene Field
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The Gardener LXIX: I Hunt for the Golden Stag
I hunt for the golden stag.
You may smile, my friends, but I
pursue the vision that eludes me.
I run across hills and dales, I wander
through nameless lands, because I am
hunting for the golden stag.
You come and buy in the market
and go back to your homes laden with
goods, but the spell of the homeless
winds has touched me I know not when
and where.
I have no care in my heart; all my
belongings I have left far behind me.
I run across hills and dales, I wander
through nameless lands--because I am
hunting for the golden stag.
poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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WElcome Guest, story poem
Harried by hounds the stag is spent.
He is worn out and terrified.
Enters my gates by accident,
In search of somewhere he can hide.
He finds safety in a stall
which has long been unoccupied.
He’s found his haven after all.
Because I instantly decide.
To bar my gates against the hounds
and to the idiots who ride.
They will not trespass on my grounds.
The law is firmly on my side.
The stag is safe and free to stay.
I will ensure he is not harmed
until the hunters go away.
He has no cause to be alarmed.
I’ll set him free to go his way
when he regains his energy.
They must forego their kill today.
The Stag is no mans enemy.
I hate the men who hunt for sport
the harmless creatures of the wild
Who they can kill without a thought.
Our views can not be reconciled
They will return from whence they came
slowly and dejectedly.
Because I spoilt the little game
They’ll ban me from their company.
A ban that will not worry me
although they are convinced it will.
I much prefer the company
of the wild deer they hope to kill.
The Stag appear to understand
although it watches warily.
That it is safe by my command
and he is resting easily.
When it grows dark I’ll turn him loose
back to the freedom that he knows.
I am quite sure he won’t refuse.
Though I’ll be sad to see him go.
He was not born to be confined.
He has a nobler destiny.
Protecting his small flock of hinds
and raising up a family.
I think he knows I wish him well
and looks at me before he goes.
He has no tongue in which to tell.
But I am certain that he knows.
Tuesday,16 March 2010
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers.
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Hunter's Song
The toils are pitched, and the stakes are set,
Ever sing merrily, merrily;
The bows they bend, and the knives they whet,
Hunters live so cheerily.
It was a stag, a stag of ten,
Bearing its branches sturdily;
He came silently down the glen,
Ever sing hardily, hardily.
It was there he met with a wounded doe,
She was bleeding deathfully;
She warned him of the toils below,
O so faithfully, faithfully!
He had an eye, and he could heed,
Ever sing so warily, warily;
He had a foot, and he could speed--
Hunters watch so narrowly.
poem by Sir Walter Scott
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Love From Here, Love From There
Written by lindsey buckingham.
Sensation sweet at my feet,
Such a strong appetite.
With love from here, love from there,
You only get one bite.
With love from here, love from there,
When everybody went stag,
With love from here, love from there,
Everybody was a drag.
Sensation sweet at my feet,
Working up to the loin.
With love from here, love from there,
They look you straight in the groin.
With love from here, love from there,
When everybody went stag,
With love from here, love from there,
Everybody was a drag.
song performed by by Lindsey Buckingham
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Towards Break Of Day
WAS it the double of my dream
The woman that by me lay
Dreamed, or did we halve a dream
Under the first cold gleam of day?
I thought: 'There is a waterfall
Upon Ben Bulben side
That all my childhood counted dear;
Were I to travel far and wide
I could not find a thing so dear.'
My memories had magnified
So many times childish delight.
I would have touched it like a child
But knew my finger could but have touched
Cold stone and water. I grew wild.
Even accusing Heaven because
It had set down among its laws:
Nothing that we love over-much
Is ponderable to our touch.
I dreamed towards break of day,
The cold blown spray in my nostril.
But she that beside me lay
Had watched in bitterer sleep
The marvellous stag of Arthur,
That lofty white stag, leap
From mountain steep to steep.
poem by William Butler Yeats
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A stag at bay is a dangerous enemy.
English proverbs
Submitted by Micheleflowerbomb
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Progeny
From seven-palm-tree depth of ocean
Tsunami of desires blew up.
Pushed the cloud away
But
Since than the ocean wails
With bouncing waives
To get back.
Teen eager and Alexandrian desire
Monsoon cloud eager to pervade
Floats on and on
For gold and glee.
Stag jumped off to a valley of bounty,
Ampule opened to mesmerize.
Instigated to roll on gold to squelch
And amused to squeal.
Wailing ocean embossed on
The amulet hanging on cloud.
Stag saw, recalled and turned squirrel
To climb up the cloud
Drained out to detergent white
And being towed away.
Cloud: with conflicts but consistent
Ocean: wailing but deep and calm
Hugs on bosoms
Cloud melts to drops in ocean.
***
Hrushikesha Mohanty
19th April 2008
poem by Hrushikesha Mohanty
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Just like the stag's horns, wisdom is a cumbersome ornament.
aphorism by Valeriu Butulescu from Immensity of the Point, translated by Eva A. Ziem
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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An army of stags led by a lion would be more formidable than one of lions led by a stag.
He who is an ass and takes himself to be a stag finds his mistake when he comes to leap the ditch.
He who is an ass and thinks himself a stag, finds his mistake when he comes to leap the ditch.
A mule that thinks he is a stag discovers his mistake when he comes to leap over the ditch.
I've got a stag weekend coming up and I've said I'm not doing anything more than a few drinks. I won't have it. I'll go home and watch Antiques Roadshow.
quote by Martin Freeman
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The doe’s illness
Limbs gaunt, gait dull, my doe turned pale.
All the drugs used were of no avail.
Her stag has been driven to hills.
My daughter too has fallen ill.
17.11.2008
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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The stag tells him that he is the eldest of the sons - the father's favorite - and he warns the father that if he tries to shoot any of the stags, their antlers will tear him to pieces.
quote by Georg Solti
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Song Of Exmoor
The Forest above and the Combe below,
On a bright September morn!
He's the soul of a clod who thanks not God
That ever his body was born!
So hurry along, the stag's afoot,
The Master's up and away!
Halloo! Halloo! we'll follow it through
From Bratton to Porlock Bay!
So hurry along, the stag's afoot,
The Master's up and away!
Halloo! Halloo! we'll follow it through
From Bratton to Porlock Bay!
Hark to the tufters' challenge true,
'Tis a note that the red-deer knows!
His courage awakes, his covert he breaks,
And up for the moor he goes!
He's all his rights and seven on top,
His eye's the eye of a king,
And he'll beggar the pride of some that ride
Before he leaves the ling!
Here comes Antony bringing the pack,
Steady! he's laying them on!
By the sound of their chime you may tell that it's time
To harden your heart and be gone.
Nightacott, Narracott, Hunnacott's passed,
Right for the North they race:
He's leading them straight for Blackmoor Gate,
And he's setting a pounding pace!
We're running him now on a breast-high scent,
But he leaves us standing still;
When we swing round by Westland Pound
He's far up Challacombe Hill.
The pack are a string of struggling ants,
The quarry's a dancing midge,
They're trying their reins on the edge of the Chains
While he's on Cheriton Ridge.
He's gone by Kittuck and Lucott Moor,
He's gone by Woodcock's Ley;
By the little white town he's turned him down,
And he's soiling in open sea.
So hurry along, we'll both be in,
The crowd are a parish away!
We're a field of two, and we've followed it through
From Bratton to Porlock Bay!
So hurry along, we'll both be in,
The crowd are a parish away!
We're a field of two, and we've followed it through
From Bratton to Porlock Bay!
poem by Sir Henry Newbolt
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Twist 6
it hurts him to see you lag behind
when you are much better
the way you write about evil
his way of putting good becomes a tail
the horns of the stag are always beautiful
on the head
it runs as nimble as needle
and the threads simply land smoothly on the eye
passing the labyrinths of
lies.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The White Stag
I ha' seen them 'mid the clouds on the heather.
Lo! they pause not for love nor for sorrow,
Yet their eyes are as the eyes of a maid to her lover,
When the white hart breaks his cover
And the white wind breaks the morn.
‘'Tis the white stag, Fame, we're a-hunting,
Bid the world's hounds come to horn!’
poem by Ezra Pound
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