BY FLOOD AND FIELD.
19
FYTTE II.
BY FLOOD AND FIELD.
[A LEGEND OF THE COTTISWOLD.]
“They have saddled a hundred milk-white steeds,
They have bridled a hundred black.”—Old Ballad.
“He turned in his saddle, now follow who dare,
I ride for my country quoth * * .”--Laurence.
I remember the lowering wintry morn
And the mist on the Cotswold hills
Where I once heard the blast of the huntsman's horn,
Not far from the seven rills.
Jack Esdale was there, and Hugh St. Clair,
Bob Chapman, and Andrew Kerr,
And big George Griffiths on Devil-May-Care,
And—black Tom Oliver.
And one who rode on a dark brown steed,
Clean jointed, sinewy, spare,
And the mist on the Cotswold hills
Where I once heard the blast of the huntsman's horn,
Not far from the seven rills.
Jack Esdale was there, and Hugh St. Clair,
Bob Chapman, and Andrew Kerr,
And big George Griffiths on Devil-May-Care,
And—black Tom Oliver.
And one who rode on a dark brown steed,
Clean jointed, sinewy, spare,
