Gone Away
‘ He's away ! '- With a quickened wild beat of the heart
Every horseman responds, riding hard for a start,
While back on the breeze with insistence is borne
The clamour of hounds and the call of the horn.
What crowding and crossing! What foaming and fret!
'Don't pull, you old duffer,' we'll get to them yet I '-
‘ Confound that slow tailor up there on the bay!
Does the fellow not know that a fox is away? '
Hark! Something like music! Ye gods, how they chime !
'Excuse me ! '_ ‘ Go on, then ! ' 'Oh, dash it, take time ! '
Don't cross me, confound you I '-' They're running some clip ! '-
'Look out for that pony ! '-' Way, there, for the Whip ! '
There's some one got kicked, and he's stopping to curse;
But we're clear of the crowd and it might have been worse.
The pick of the vale is the line he has gone.
‘ Gar'r away on to him ! Gar' away on !'
poem by William Henry Ogilvie
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
The Find
Yon sound's neither sheep-bell nor bark,
They're running-they're running, Go hark!
The sport may be lost by a moment's delay;
So whip up the puppies and scurry away.
Dash down through the cover by dingle and dell,
There's a gate at the bottom-I know it full well;
And they're running-they're running,
Go hark!
They're running-they're running, Go hark!
One fence and we're out of the park;
Sit down in your saddles and race at the brook,
Then smash at the bullfinch; no time for a look;
Leave cravens and skirters to dangle behind;
He's away for the moors in the teeth of the wind,
And they're running-they're running,
Go hark!
They're running-they're running, Go hark!
Let them run on and run till it's dark!
Well with them we are, and well with them we'll be,
While there's wind in our horses and daylight to see:
Then shog along homeward, chat over the fight,
And hear in our dreams the sweet music all night
Of-They're running-they're running,
Go hark!
Eversley, 1856.
poem by Charles Kingsley
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Hunter’s Song
RISE! Sleep no more! ’T is a noble morn:
The dews hang thick on the fringed thorn,
And the frost shrinks back, like a beaten hound,
Under the steaming, steaming ground.
Behold, where the billowy clouds flow by,
And leave us alone in the clear gray sky!
Our horses are ready and steady.—So, ho!
I ’m gone, like a dart from the Tartar’s bow.
Hark, hark!—Who calleth the maiden Morn
From her sleep in the woods and the stubble corn?
The horn,—the horn!
The merry, sweet ring of the hunter’s horn.
Now, thorough the copse, where the fox is found,
And over the stream, at a mighty bound,
And over the high lands, and over the low,
O’er furrows, o’er meadows, the hunters go!
Away!—as a hawk flies full at its prey,
So flieth the hunter, away,—away!
From the burst at the cover till set of sun,
When the red fox dies, and—the day is done!
Hark, hark!—What sound on the wind is borne?
’T is the conquering voice of the hunter’s horn.
The horn,—the horn!
The merry, bold voice of the hunter’s horn.
Sound! Sound the horn! To the hunter good
What ’s the gulley deep or the roaring flood?
Right over he bounds, as the wild stag bounds,
At the heels of his swift, sure, silent hounds.
O, what delight can a mortal lack,
When he once is firm on his horse’s back,
With his stirrups short, and his snaffle strong,
And the blast of the horn for his morning song?
Hark, hark!—Now, home! and dream till morn
Of the bold, sweet sound of the hunter’s horn!
The horn,—the horn!
O, the sound of all sounds is the hunter’s horn!
poem by Barry Cornwall
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Pony Ride
(diane berglund/jim phillips)
Youre going up and down, back and forth
Youre on a wild pony ride
Pony run, run out the door
A free spirit, you hear it
Even the sun wont bring you down
Pony run, run like before
Nights coming, keep running
When will those moonbeams slow you down
Turn you round, let you believe
Run, pony, run, can you fly
See the night sky turning blue
song performed by by Olivia Newton-John
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Hounds going home in the Dark
Rustle of feet in the roadside grass,
Trample of horses' hoofs, and - Hark!
Blast of an anxious horn! Hounds pass;
Hounds going home in the dark.
Bold was our huntsman galloping free
On a difficult line to the hills to-day,
But his hand is trembling against his knee
At the hint of a light on the King's Highway.
‘ Car!' And the gold spreads over the sky ;
‘ Keep to the front there! Stop them, Mark!
' Toot-toot-too-oot ! - ' Halloo, there !-Hi ! ‘-
Hounds going home in the dark.
Crack of a whip as the headlights near-
Blind in the blaze they group and grope.
‘ Curse the feller, and can't he hear?
Put 'em across, there I-Cope, boys, cope! '
When never a star is hung in the sky,
With never a lamp or a lantern spark,
Huntsman and Whips go groping by,
Blowing them home in the dark.
poem by William Henry Ogilvie
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Running On!
The dusk is down on the river meadows,
The moon is climbing above the fir,
The lane is crowded with creeping shadows,
The gorse is only a distant blur;
The last of the light is almost gone,
But hark! They're running!
They're running on !
The count of the years is steadily growing;
The Old give way to the eager Young;
Far on the hill is the horn still blowing,
Far on the steep are the hounds still strung.
Good men follow the good men gone;
And hark! They're running!
They're running on!
poem by William Henry Ogilvie
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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One-Trick Pony
I am not a one-trick pony
I am not a one-trick pony
I really feel no one can own me
I really feel nothing can hold me
Nobody can control me
Nobody can conform me
Nobody can disown me
Nobody can ignore me
So slow down
One-trick pony
I am not a one-trick pony
I am not a one-trick pony
For you i will not dance
For you i will not prance
And where I was last
I'll never be at
And After that
I've already passed
So slow down
And hear this sound
One-trick pony
Yeah, you do it for a price
I can see it in your eyes
See that role was never mine
I don't want to stand in line
See how that one-trick story goes
If she weren't on time you'd never know
cause a one-trick pony steals the show
You're just a pony
So back down
To the ground
And chill out
Girl, you better shape up, girl, you better shape up
Yeah the ride is so, so, so, so, so fast
Yeah, you better shape up
Yeah, just keep your chin up
No half ass...no half ass
One-trick pony
Just ride ride ride
Just ride ride ride
Ride ride ride
song performed by by Nelly Furtado
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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What Makes The Irish Heart Beat
(Van Morrison)
All that trouble all that grief
That's why I had to leave
Staying away too tong is in defeat
Why I'm singing this song
Why I'm heading back home
That's what makes the Irish heart beat
I'm just like a hobo riding a train
I'm like a gangster living in Spain
Have to watch my back and I'm running out of time
When I roll the dice again
If lady luck will call my name
That's what makes the Irish heart beat
Well that's what makes it beat
When I'm standing on the street
And I'm standing underneath this Wrigley's sign
Oh so far away from home
But I know I've got to roam
That's what makes the Irish heart beat
And it was off to foreign climes
On the Piccadilly line
We were standing underneath the Wrigley's sign
So far away from home
Well I know I've got to roam
That s what makes the Irish heart beat
Just like a sailor out on the foam
Any port in a storm
Where we tend to burn the candle at both ends
Down the corridors of fame
Like the spark ignites the flame
That's what makes the Irish heart beat
But I roll the dice again
If lady luck will call my name
That s what makes the Irish heart beat
Oh, that's what makes the Irish heart beat
That's what makes the Irish heart beat
song performed by by Van Morrison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Pembroke: When workmen strive to do better than well,
They do confound their skill in covetousness;
And oftentimes excusing of a fault
Doth make the fault the worse by th’ excuse.
line from King John, Act IV, Scene 2 by William Shakespeare (1596)
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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My Hunting Song
Forward! Hark forward's the cry!
One more fence and we're out on the open,
So to us at once, if you want to live near us!
Hark to them, ride to them, beauties! as on they go,
Leaping and sweeping away in the vale below!
Cowards and bunglers, whose heart or whose eye is slow,
Find themselves staring alone.
So the great cause flashes by;
Nearer and clearer its purposes open,
While louder and prouder the world-echoes cheer us:
Gentlemen sportsmen, you ought to live up to us,
Lead us, and lift us, and hallo our game to us-
We cannot call the hounds off, and no shame to us-
Don't be left staring alone!
Eversley, 1849.
poem by Charles Kingsley
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Your Soul Will Be Hunted To Hell
I'm running like mad,
While my heart pounds,
This is really sad,
Why all these hounds.
I'm but one they're an army,
Of both horses and mounts,
This is really quite barmy,
If catching me is what counts.
I've done nothing wrong,
Except trying to survive,
On this Earth I belong,
Like you I'm alive.
They are saying I'm vermin,
Well that's their excuse,
Put it in my sermon,
This is animal abuse.
What is it I've done,
To be treated this way,
While to them it is fun,
I do not have a say.
They are catching me now,
I am so out of breath,
So I ask myself how,
Will I face my own death.
They've caught up at last,
I am dead on my feet,
The hounds have amassed,
I can no longer compete.
I feel a terrible fear,
Deep within my heart,
Those mounted all cheer,
As I'm torn apart.
Let me take you to task,
As your lies are deceiving,
Whilst in glory you bask,
What are you achieving?
My partner and cubs,
They're left without food,
While you head to the pubs,
They're left to brood.
You are nothing but cowards,
It is evil you court,
With self praise you'll be showered,
But it will never be sport.
Upon each of your souls,
I place a curse,
Then as your bell tolls,
Things will only things get worse.
Butchering Foxes makes no sense,
Why you do it only you can tell,
In your Gods eyes There'll be no defence,
'' Your Soul Will Be Hunted To Hell ''
Listen To Music
Listen to music
To change your mood
A fast beat
May make you shrewd
Listen to music
Just to relax
A melodious one
May freeze you as wax
Listen to music
Out of some passion
A slow beat
May keep you from tension
Listen to music
With a fresh cool breeze
A divine rythm
May keep you in peace
Listen to music
To keep doctors away
A classic tune
May keep your ail at bay
Listen to music
When your mind goes dull
A Rehman's composition
May cheer you up well
Listen to music
Just before you sleep
A bethoven's melody
May make your's deep
Listen to music
When your worries attack you
Then see those worries
Running out of view
Listen to music
When you turn as a angry hound
Your favourite beat
May cool you down
Listen to music
But when time says ''no''
Sing a song
And live so long
poem by Abinaya Saravanan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Music of the Chase
I don't know any tune from any other,
I couldn't sing a song if I were paid,
I couldn't for the ransom of a brother,
Hum a single thing that anybody played.
But I know one melody
That can stir the heart of me-
It's the mad and merry challenge of the horn !
With the chime of hounds that follow,
And the cheer and rate and holloa
That can shake the very dewdrops from the thorn!
I couldn't make a fortune with a fiddle,
I scarce can sing a psalm-tune in a pew,
I couldn't lead a partner 'down the middle'
With a more than sporting chance of getting through.
I couldn't for my life
Play a cornet or a fife
And the flute was never any friend of mine;
But I do appreciate
When a yokel on a gate
Gives a holloa that can hold us to the line!
For everything is music when you hunt,
From the guttural ' Gar'r' on there!' of the Whip
To the' Tally-ho !' of some one up in front
Or the holloa of a herdsman in the dip;
The crash of post and rail
In a sort of running scale,
The thunder as the gallopers go by,
The ringing' For'ard on ! '
That is swallowed up anon
In the chorus of the pack against the sky !
So let others swear by Melba if they will,
By Crossley, Tetrazzini, and the rest;
I 'll be happy if I hear upon the hill
The voices of the ladies I love best-
The voices of a pack
Running hot upon his track,
And the cheer of one that saw the way he went!
When they hustle him along
Is there any grander song
Than the song of sixteen couple on a scent?
poem by William Henry Ogilvie
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Meg's Curse
The sun rode high in a cloudless sky
Of a perfect summer morn.
She stood and gazed out into the street,
And wondered why she was born.
On the topmost branch of a maple-tree
That close by the window grew,
A robin called to his mate enthralled:
'I love but you, but you, but you.'
A soft look came in her hardened face-
She had not wept for years;
But the robin's trill, as some sounds will,
Jarred open the door of tears.
She thought of the old home far away;
She heard the whir-r-r of the mill;
She heard the turtle's wild, sweet call,
And the wail of the whip-poor-will, whip-poor-will, whip-poor-will.
She saw again that dusty road
Whence he came riding down;
She smelled once more the flower she wore
In the breast of her simple gown.
Out on the new-mown meadow she heard
Two blue-jays quarrel and fret,
And the warning cry of a Phoebe bird:
'More wet, more wet, more wet.'
With a blithe 'hello' to the men below
Who were spreading the new-mown hay,
The rider drew rein at her window-pane-
How it all came back to-day!
How young she was, and how fair she was;
What innocence crowned her brow!
The future seemed fair, for Love was there-
And now-and now-and now.
In a dingy glass on the wall near by
She gazed on her faded face.
'Well, Meg, I declare, what a beauty you are?'
She sneered, 'What an angel of grace!
Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!
What a thing of beauty and grace!'
She reached out her arms with a moaning sob:
'Oh, if I could go back!'
Then, swift and strange, came a sudden change;
Her brow grew hard and black.
'A curse on the day and a curse on that man,
And on all who are his,' she cried.
'May he starve and be cold, may he live to be old
When all who loved him have died.'
Her wild voice frightened the robin away
From the branch by the window-sill;
And little he knew as away he flew,
Of the memories stirred by his trill.
He called to his mate on the grass below,
'Follow me,' as he soared on high;
And as mates have done since the world begun
She followed, and asked not why.
The dingy room seemed curtained with gloom;
Meg shivered with nameless dread.
The ghost of her youth and her murdered truth
Seemed risen up from the dead.
She hurried out into the noisy street,
For the silence made her afraid;
To flee from thought was all she sought,
She cared not whither she strayed.
Still on she pressed in her wild unrest
Up avenues skirting the park,
Where fashion's throng moved gayly along
In Vanity Fair-when hark!
A clatter of hoofs down the stony street,
The snort of a frightened horse
That was running wild, and a laughing child
At play in its very course.
With one swift glance Meg saw it all.
'His child-my God! his child!'
She cried aloud, as she rushed through the crowd
Like one grown suddenly wild.
There, almost under the iron feet,
Hemmed in by a passing cart,
Stood the baby boy-the pride and joy
Of the man who had broken her heart.
Past swooning women and shouting men
She fled like a flash of light;
With her slender arm she gathered from harm
The form of the laughing sprite.
The death-shod feet of the mad horse beat
Her down on the pavings gray;
But the baby laughed out with a merry shout,
And thought it splendid play.
He pulled her gown and called to her: 'Say,
Dit up and do dat some more,
Das jus'ze way my papa play
Wiz me on ze nursery floor.'
When the frightened father reached the scene,
His boy looked up and smiled
From the stiffening fold of the arm, death-cold,
Of Meg, who had died for his child.
Oh! idle words are a woman's curse
Who loves a woman can;
For put to the test, she will bare her breast
And die for the sake of the man.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Winds Blow Those Lows To Go
I want to choose my element,
As music.
And select you to be,
Within each lyric that's composed.
I feel you destined to reach clear highs.
After riding wild on those lows.
Refusing to look up,
At a cloudless sky...
Without clouding shadows.
I want to choose my element,
As music.
And select you to be,
Within each lyric that's composed.
I feel the light sparkle as you dance.
Romancing to enhance the environment.
As if you have kicked up gold dust,
To paint my dreary bouts...
In accepting rays of Sunshine.
I want to choose my element,
As music.
I do.
The chemistry would be so harmonic.
With melodies to skip in lush green meadows.
I want to choose my element,
As music.
And select you to be,
Within each lyric that's composed.
I feel you destined to reach clear highs.
After riding wild on those lows.
And those,
Sentimantal memories...
Your mind stays fixed to fill
With hopeful wishes to recapture.
I want to choose my element,
As music.
And select you to be,
Within each lyric that's composed.
I feel you destined to reach clear highs.
After riding wild on those lows.
Winds blow those lows...
To go!
Winds blow those lows...
To go!
To go!
Winds blow those lows...
To go!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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From an Upper Verandah
What happier haunt could the gods allot
For loftiest musing to sage or bard?—
Yet I would that this upper verandah did not
Look down on my beautiful Neighbour's Back-yard!
I stir the afflatus: Descend, O ye Nine!
Let the crystalline gates of the soul be unbarred!
No. My thoughts will keep running in one fixed line—
The clothes-line that hangs in my Neighbour's Back-yard!
Let me gaze on the hills; let me think of the sea;
Of the dawn rosy-fingered—the night silver-starred:—
(What dear little feet must the owner's be
Of those stockings that hang in my Neighbour's Back-yard!)
Let me tune my soul to a measure devout:—
Ah, the musical mood is all jangled and jarred,
While things with borders, and things without,
Keep flutt'ring down there in my Neighbour's Back-yard!
Are the True and the Good and the Beautiful dead,
That I win not one gleam of Pierian regard?
(Does she suffer, I wonder, from cold in the head?—
Such a lot of mouchoirs in my Neighbour's Back-yard!)
Comes the fit. While it sways me, high themes would I sing!
Prometheus! Achilles! Have at you! En grade!
Alexander the Great—(oh that I were a string
On that apron hung out in my Neighbour's Back-yard!)
I will shut my eyes fast—I have hit it at last,
Now my purest Ideals flit by me unmarred;
And odours of memory rise from the past,
(And an odour of suds from my Neighbour's Back-yard!)
Ah, yes! when the eyelids together are prest,
Every vestige of earth we throw off and discard.
(These are flannels, I think. Is she weak in the chest?—
There! I'm looking again at my Neighbour's Back-yard!)
Since the Muses back out, let Philosophy in:
Let me ponder its problems cold and hard.
Ah! Philosophy dies in a celibate grin
At that bolster-case down in my Neighbour's Back-yard!
Oh shame on my rapidly silvering hairs!
Oh shame on this veteran battered and scarred!
I to be witched with these frilled—affairs!
Confound my neighbour! Confound her Back-yard!
Why seek for the blossoms of Auld Lang Syne,
When the boughs where they budded are blasted and charred?—
Faugh! the whole concern's too alkaline—
It's washing day in my Neighbour's Back-yard!
poem by James Brunton Stephens
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Ive Been Kicked Around
Well Ive been kicked around
What do you see
Am I alright?
Im alright
I once had a heart
I was ripped from it
Chewed up then spat out
Like a cherry pit
And if I seem a little hard
Its just that Ive been kicked around
I dont know how I got this far
The way that Ive been kicked around
Uh huh
Well Ive been kicked around
What do you see
Am I alright?
Am I alright?
Well Ive been kicked around
What do you see
Am I alright?
Am I alright?
I once had a soul
It was torn from me
I wont cry a tear
I will carry me
And if I seem a little hard
Its just that Ive been kicked around
I dont know how I got this far
The way that Ive been kicked around
Dont worry, Im all right
So if I seem a little hard
Its just that Ive been kicked around
I dont know how I got this far
The way that Ive been kicked around
The way that Ive been kicked around
The way that Ive been kicked around
The way that Ive been kicked around
The way that Ive been kicked around
The way that Ive been kicked around
The way that Ive been kicked around
song performed by by Eels
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Epic Joureny
Epic Journey
This story happened before the invention of snow-scooters,
a couple- the Østerjøen was frozen over- wanted to flee
the poverty of Suomi to the relative prosperous Svearike on
a sledge pulled by their pony. It was a long, cold treck, their
small horse got very tired and could not pull them anymore.
They needed the pony it could be used as carter of gods in
Stockholm. They made the tired animal lie down
on the sledge put a big blanket over it and continued their
journey. The winter night was very cold and they also got
too tired to pull the sledge. They lay down beside the horse
and slept snugly to a dazzling sunlight awoke them.
The pony rested was fed with the last sack of hay left and
harnessed. In good mood all three continued their heroic
crossing to Svearike and new future.
poem by Oskar Hansen
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The First Flight
While there's one on his feet with a tale to repeat
And another is sampling a drink,
The eager First Flight have a girth to draw tight
Or a chain to let out by a link;
While the boisterous laugh in that circle of chaff
The opening music has drowned,
You will hear the First Flight as they whisper 'That's right!'
To the note of a favourite hound.
When a holloa makes sure that his start is secure
And dispels every doubt of a run,
When the crowd gallops straight to the obvious gate
With the latch that is never undone,
You will see the First Flight cram a topper on tight,
Catch a willing old nag by the head
And clapping on sail at the blackthorn or rail,
Take the line of the robber in red.
They thunder away over stubble and clay,
Over roots or the level o' lea,
The gallant First Flight that are soon out of sight
While the slow ones are sadly at sea.
The crash of a rail in the cream of the vale
Is to them but a matter of mirth,
And the avalanche fall of a hoof-rattled wall
But the merriest music on earth.
There are gaps, there are gates for the coward who waits,
There are roads for the fellow who fears;
To left nor to right go the gallant First Flight
Save to veer with the chase as it veers.
No field has a fence so dark-looming and dense
Or a rail so unyielding and stout
But if once the First Flight have got in it all right
You may trust them to find a way out.
Now the men who ride first may be frequently cursed
As they press on the faltering pack,
But we're all of us loth to pull up for an oath
When it comes from a field or two back;
And the Master may blame and the jealous declaim
But the weakest must go to the wall,
And it's plain the First Flight have the premier right
If the hounds may be hustled at all.
Come drink with me, then, to the big-hearted men
Who have pluck to sit down and go straight!
Whether farmer or squire may they keep out of wire
And be spared a lift home on a gate!
Fill your glasses tonight to the gallant First Flight,
Let us wish them the luck of the line
And tomorrow's recall to the best game of all,
And the wind that is better than wine!
poem by William Henry Ogilvie
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Speed Trials
Hes pleased to meet you underneath the horse
In the cathedral with the glass stained black
Singing sweet high notes that echo back
To destroy their master
May be a long time til you get the call-up
But its sure as fate and hard as your luck
No onell know where you are
Its just a brief smile crossing your face
Running speed trials still standing in place
When the sockets not a shock enough
You little child what makes you think youre tough
When all the people you think youre above
They all know whats the matter
Youre such a pinball yeah you know its true
Theres always something you come back running to
To follow the path of no resistance
Its just a brief smile crossing your face
Running speed trials standing in place
Its just a brief smile crossing your face
Running speed trials all over the place
song performed by by Elliott Smith
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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You Made Okay To Do It Your Way
You pick up then you kicked the ball.
You pick up then you kicked the ball.
You pick up then you kicked the ball.
You pick up then you kicked the ball.
Why did you choose to pick a ball,
Knowing picking it...
Wasn't cool to do.
You complained,
That you couldn't take the weight.
And a waiting too late makes it okay.
You pick up then you kicked the ball.
You pick up then you kicked the ball.
You pick up then you kicked the ball.
You pick up then you kicked the ball.
You made okay to do it your way,
To...
Pick then kick a ball.
To,
Pick then kick a ball.
You made okay to do it your way,
To...
Pick then kick a ball.
To,
Pick then kick a ball.
Why did you choose to pick a ball,
Knowing picking it...
Wasn't cool to do.
You made okay to do it your way,
To...
Pick then kick a ball.
To,
Pick then kick a ball.
You pick up then you kicked the ball.
You pick up then you kicked the ball.
You pick up then you kicked the ball.
You pick up then you kicked the ball.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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