THE WILLEY RECTOR, AND OTHER OF THE SQUIRE’S FRIENDS.
The Squire’s Friends and the Willey Rector more fully
drawn—Turner—Wilkinson—Harris—The Rev. Michael Pye Stephens—His
Relationship to the Squire—In the Commission of the Peace—The Parson and
the Poacher—A Fox-hunting Christening.
BESIDES professional sportsmen who were wont to make the Willey
roof-trees echo with their shouts, the Squire usually assembled round his
table, on Sundays, the leading men of the neighbourhood, each of some
special note or importance in his own district, who formed at Willey a
sort of local parliament. Among these were brother magistrates, tenants,
and members of the clerical, legal, and medical professions. Thomas
Turner, a county magistrate, and the chairman of a court of equity, to
establish which the Squire assisted him in obtaining an Act of
Parliament, to whom was dedicated a sermon delivered before the justices
of the peace by the Rev. L. Booker, LL.D., was one of these. Mr. Turner
carried on the now famous Caughley works, where he succeeded in
producing, by means of English and French workmen, china of superior
merit, which, like the old Wedgwood productions, is now highly prized by
connoisseurs. He was the first producer of the “willow pattern,” still
so much in demand, and his general knowledge gave him great influence.
The Squire paid occasional visits to his elegant chateau at Caughley, and
gave him one of the two portraits of himself which he had painted, a
picture now in possession of the widow of Mr. Turner’s son, George, of
Scarborough, in which the Squire is represented—as in our engraving—in
his scarlet hunting coat, with a fox’s brush in his hand—a facsimile of
the one from which our woodcut is taken. Another, but only an occasional
visitor at the Hall, was John Wilkinson, “the Father of the Iron Trade,”
as he is now called, who then lived at Broseley, and who was one of the
most remarkable men of the past century. He was for some years a tenant
of the Squire, and carried on the Willey furnaces. He was also a friend
of Boulton and Watt, and was the first who succeeded in boring their
cylinders even all through; he was the first, too, who taught the French
the art of boring cannon from the solid. He built and launched at Willey
Wharf the first iron barge—the precursor of all iron vessels on the
Thames and Tyne, and of the Great Eastern, as well as of our modern
iron-clads. Mr. Harries of Benthall, Mr. Hinton of Wenlock, Mr. Bryan of
The Tuckies, and Mr. John Cox Morris, farmer of Willey, who took the
first silver cup given by the Agricultural Society of Shropshire for the
best cultivated farm, and who had still further distinguished himself in
the estimation of sportsmen by a remarkable feat of horsemanship for a
large amount, were among those who visited the Squire.
But a more frequent guest at the Hall and at the covert-side was the
Willey Rector, the Rev. Michael Pye Stephens, whose family was related to
that of the Welds, through the Slaneys. The Rector was therefore, as
already shown, on familiar terms with the Squire, and the more so as he
was able to tell a good tale and sing a good song. The rural clergy a
century ago were great acquisitions at the tables of country squires, and
were not unfrequently among the most enthusiastic lovers of the chase.
It was by no means an uncommon thing, forty years ago, to see the horse
of the late Rector of Stockton, brother to the Squire of Apley, waiting
for him at the church door at Bonnigale, which living he also held, that
he might start immediately service was over for Melton Mowbray. His
clerk, too, old Littlehales, who to more secular professions added that
of village tailor, has often told how his master, being sorely in need of
a pair of hunting breeches for Melton, undertook to close the church one
Sunday in order to give him the opportunity of making them, with the
remark, “Oh, d—n the church, you stop at home and make the breeches.”
But the Rector of Willey was by no means so enthusiastic as a sportsman.
He was not the
“Clerical fop, half jockey and half clerk,
The tandem-driving Tommy of a town,
Disclaiming book, omniscient of a horse,
Impatient till September comes again,
Eloquent only of the pretty girl
With whom he danced last night!”
Neither did he resemble those more bilious members of the profession of
modern times—
“Who spit their puny spite on harmless recreation.”
On the contrary, he held what it may be difficult to gainsay, that
amusements calculated to strengthen the frame and to improve the health,
if fitting for a gentleman, were not unfitting for a clergyman. His
presence, at any rate, was welcomed by neighbouring squires in the field,
as “Hark in! Hark in! Hark! Yoi over boys!” sounded merrily on the
morning air; and as he sat mounted on the Squire’s thorough-bred it would
have been difficult to have detected anything of the divine; the
clerico-waistcoat and black single-breasted outer garment having given
place to more fitting garb. Fond of field sports himself, he willingly
associated with his neighbours and joined in their pastimes and
amusements. A man who was a frequent guest at the Hall, who received
letters from the Squire when in London, and who would take a long pipe
now and then between his lips, and moisten his clay from a pewter tankard
round a clean-scoured table in a road-side inn, was naturally of
considerable importance in his own immediate district.
The Rector of Willey had, we believe, been brought up to the legal
profession, he had also a smattering knowledge of medicine, which enabled
him to render at times service to his parishioners, who called him Dr.
Stephens. He was in the commission of the peace, too, for the borough;
and so completely did the characters combine—so perfectly did law and
divinity dove-tail into each other—that he might have been taken as a
personification of either.
“Mild were his doctrines, and not one discourse
But gained in softness what it lost in force.”
Without stinginess he partook of the good things heaven to man supplies;
he was “full fed;” his face shone with good-humour, and he was as fond of
a joke as of the Squire’s old port. As a justice of the peace he was no
regarder of persons, providing they equally brought grist to his mill; he
had no objection to litigants smoothing the way to a decision by
presents, such as a piece of pork, a pork pie, or a dish of fish; once or
twice, however, he found the fish to have been caught the previous night
out of his own pond. Next to a weakness for fish was one for
knee-breeches and top-boots, which in the course of much riding required
frequent renewal; and, ’tis said, that seated in his judicial chair, he
has had the satisfaction of seeing a pair of new chalked tops projecting
alike from plaintiff’s and defendant’s pockets. In which case, with
spectacles raised and head thrown back, as though to look above the petty
details of the plaint, after sundry hums and haws, with inquiries after
the crops between, and each one telling some news about his neighbour, he
would find the evidence on both sides equally balanced and suggest a
compromise! A good tale is told of the justice wanting a hare for a
friend, and employing a notorious poacher to procure one. The man
brought it in a bag. “You’ve brought a hare, then?” “I have, Mr.
Stephens, and a fine one too,” replied the other, as he turned it out,
puss flying round the room, and over the table amongst the papers like a
mad thing. “Kill her! kill her!” shouted Stephens. “No, by G—,” replied
the poacher, who knew that by doing so he would bring himself within the
law, “you kill her; I’ve had enough trouble to catch her.” After two or
three runs the justice succeeded in hitting her on the head with a ruler,
and thus brought himself within the power of the poacher.
The parson was sometimes out of temper, and then he swore, but this was
not often; still his friends were wont to joke him on the following
domestic little incident:—His services were suddenly in demand on one
occasion when, a full clerical costume being required, he found his bands
not ready, and he set to work to iron them himself. He was going on
swimmingly as he thought, and had only left the iron to go to the bottom
of the stairs, with a “D—n you, madam,” to his wife, who had not yet come
down; “d—n you, I can do without you,” when, on returning, he found his
bands scorched and discoloured.
A foxhunter’s christening in which the Willey Rector played a part on one
occasion is too good to lose. He was the guest of Squire B—t, a
well-known foxhunter, who at one time hunted the Shifnal country with his
own hounds. A very jovial company from that side had assembled, and it
was determined to celebrate a new arrival in the Squire’s family, and to
take advantage of the presence of the parson to christen the little
stranger. The thing was soon settled, and Stephens proceeded in due form
with the ceremony necessary to give to the fair-haired innocent a name by
which it should be known to the world. The conversation of the company
had of course been upon their favourite sport, a good many bottles of
fine sherry and crusty old port had been drunk, and under their
influence, it was settled that one of the company should give the child a
name in which it should be baptized, let it be what it would. Stephens
having taken the child in his hands, in due form asked the name; it was
given immediately as Foxhunting Moll B—t! With this name the little
innocent grew up, and finally became the wife of Squire H—s; with this
name she of course signed all legal documents—first, as Foxhunting Moll
B—t, and, secondly, as Foxhunting Moll H—s.
CHAPTER, XI.
THE WILLEY WHIPPER-IN.
The Willey Whipper-in—Tom’s Start in Life—His Pluck and Perseverance—Up
Hill and down Dale—Adventures with the Buff-coloured Chaise—His own Wild
Favourite—His Drinking-horn—Who-who-hoop—Good Temper—Never
Married—Hangster’s Gate—Old Coaches—Tom Gone to Earth—Three View Halloos
at the Grave—Old Boots.
* * * * *
“The huntsman’s self relented to a grin,
And rated him almost a whipper-in.”
[Picture: Moody’s Horn, Trencher, Cap, Saddle, &c.]
TOM MOODY never rose above his post of whipper-in, but he had the honour
of being at the top of his profession; and before proceeding further with
our sketch of Squire Forester it may be well to dwell for a time upon
this well-known character, whom Dibdin immortalised in his song, so
familiar to all sportsmen. He was in fact, in many respects, what Mr.
Forester had made him: Nature supplied the material, and Squire Forester
did the rest. Tom had the advantage of entering the Squire’s service
when a youth. Like most boys of that period, he had been thrown a good
deal upon his own resources, a state of things not unfavourable to a
development of self-reliance, and a degree of humble heroism, such as
made life wholesome. Tom had no opportunities of obtaining a
national-school education, nor of carrying away the prize now sometimes
awarded to the best behaved lad in the village. But in the unorganized
school of common intercourse, common suffering, and interest, was
developed a pluck and daring which led him to perform a feat on the bare
back of a crop-eared cob that gave birth to the after events of his life.
It appears that he was apprenticed to a Mr. Adams, a maltster, who had
sent him to deliver malt at the Hall. On his return he was seen by the
Squire trying his horse at a gate, and repeating the attempt till he
compelled him to leap it. It is said that—
“He who excels in what we prize,
Appears a hero in our eyes.”
[Picture: Gone to earth]
And Squire Forester, struck by his pluck and perseverance, made up his
mind to secure him. He sent to his master to ask if he were willing to
give him up, adding that he would like to see him at the Hall. The
message alarmed the mother, who was a widow, for, knowing her son’s
froward nature, she at once imagined Tom had got into trouble. On
learning the true state of the case, however, and thinking she saw the
way open to Tom’s promotion, she consented to the change in his
condition. His master, too, agreed to give him up, and Tom was
transferred to the Willey stables, where, from his good nature and other
agreeable qualities, he became a favourite, and from his daring courage
quite a sort of little hero. It was Tom’s duty to go on errands from the
Hall, and once outside the park, feeling he had his liberty, he did not
fail to make use of opportunities for displaying his skill. In riding,
it was generally up hill and down dale, at neck-or-nothing speed,
stopping neither for gate nor hedge—his horse tearing away at a rate
which would have given him three or four somersaults at a slip. He
seldom turned his horse’s head if he could help it, and if he went down
he was soon up again. Extraordinary tales are told of Tom’s adventures
with the Squire’s buff-coloured chaise, in taking company from the Hall,
and in fetching visitors from Shifnal, then the nearest place to reach a
coach. Having a spite at a pike-keeper, who offended him by not opening
the gate quick enough, “Tom tanselled his hide,” and resolved the next
time he went that way not to trouble him. Driving up to the gate, he
gave a spring, and touching his horse on the flanks, went straight over
without starting a stitch or breaking a buckle. On another occasion he
tried the same trick, but failed; the horse went clean over, but the gig
caught the top rail, and Tom was thrown on his back. “That just sarves
yo right,” said the pike-keeper. “So it does, and now we are quits,”
added Tom; and they were friends ever after. This, however, did not
prevent Tom trying it again; not that he wanted to defraud the pike-man,
whom he generally paid another time, but for “the fun of the thing.”
Indeed, with his old wild favourite, with or without the buff-coloured
gig, there were no risks he was not prepared to run. “Ay, ay, sir,” said
one of our aged informants, “you should have seen him on his horse, a
mad, wild animal no one but Tom could ride. He could ride him though,
with his eyes shut, savage as he was, and on a good road he would pass
milestones as the clock measured minutes; but give him the green meadows,
and Lord how I have seen him whip along the turf!” “He was like a winged
Mercury, making light both of stone walls and five-feet six-inch gates.
He was a regular centaur, for he and his horse seemed one,” said another.
“I cannot tell you the height of his horse,” said a third, “but he was a
big un; whilst Tom himself was a little one, and he used to be on
horse-back all day long. If he got into the saddle in a morning he
rarely left it till night.”
In giving the qualifications necessary for one aspiring to the post of
whipper-in, a well-known authority on sporting subjects has laid it down
that he should be light (not too young), with a quick eye and still
quicker ear, and that he should be—what in fact he generally is—fond of
the sport, or he seldom succeeds in his profession. Now Moody, or Muddy,
as his name was pronounced, answered to these conditions.
“His conversation had no other course
Than that presented to his simple view
Of what concerned his saddle, groom, or horse;
Beyond this theme he little cared or knew:
Tell him of beauty and harmonious sounds,
He’d show his mare, and talk about his hounds.”
He was what was called _Foxy_ all over—in his language, dress, and
associations. He wore a pin with a knob, something smaller than a
tea-saucer, of Caughley china, with the head of a fox upon it; and
everything nearest his person, so far as he could manage it, had
something to put him in mind of his favourite sport. His bed-room walls
were hung with sporting prints, and on his mantelpiece were more
substantial trophies of the hunt—as the brush of some remarkable victim
of the pack, his boots and spurs, &c. His famous drinking-horn, which we
have engraved together with his trencher in the trophy at the head of
this chapter, was equally embellished with a representation of a hunt,
very elaborately carved with the point of a pen-knife. At the top is a
wind-mill, and below a number of horsemen and a lady, well mounted, in
full chase, and with hounds in full cry after a fox, which is seen on the
lower part of the horn. A fox’s brush forms the finis. The date upon
the horn, which in size and shape resembles those in use in the mansions
of the gentry in past centuries when hospitality was dispensed in their
halls with such a free and generous hand, is 1663. It is a relic still
treasured by members of the Wheatland Hunt, who look back to the time
when the shrill voice of Moody cheered the pack over the heavy
Wheatlands; and together with his cap, of which we also give a
representation, is often made to do duty at annual social gatherings.
Tom was a small eight or nine stone man, with roundish face, marked with
small pox, and a pair of eyes that twinkled with good humour. He
possessed great strength as well as courage and resolution, and displayed
an equanimity of temper which made him many friends. The huntsman was
John Sewell, and under him he performed his duties in a way so
satisfactory to his master and all who hunted with him, as to be deemed
the best whipper-in in England. None, it was said, could bring up the
tail end of a pack, or sustain the burst of a long chase, and be in at
the death with every hound well up, like Tom. His plan was to allow his
hounds their own cast without lifting, unless they showed wildness; and
if young hounds dwelt on a stale drag behind the pack he whipped them on
to those on the right line. He never aspired to be more than “a
serving-man;” he wished, however, to be considered “a good whipper-in,”
and his fame as such spread through the country. There was not a spark
of envy in his composition, and he was one of the happiest fellows in the
universe. The lessons he seemed to have learnt, and which appeared to
have sunk deepest into his unsophisticated nature, were those of being
honest and of ordering himself “lowly and reverently towards his
betters,” for whom he had a reverence which grew profound if they
happened to have added to their qualifications of being good sportsmen
that of being “_Parliament_ men.”
Tom’s voice was something extraordinary, and on one occasion when he had
fallen into an old pit shaft, which had given way on the sides, and could
not get out, it saved him. His halloo to the dogs brought him
assistance, and he was extricated. It was capable of wonderful
modulations, and to hear him rehearse the sports of the day in the big
roomy servants’ kitchen at the Hall, and give his tally-ho, or
who-who-hoop, was considered a treat. On one occasion, when Tom was in
better trim than usual, the old housekeeper is said to have remarked,
“La! Tom, you have given the who-who-hoop, as you call it, so very loud
and strong to-day that you have set the cups and saucers a dancing;” to
which a gentleman, who had purposely placed himself within hearing,
replied, “I am not at all surprised—his voice is music itself. I am
astonished and delighted, and hardly know how to praise it enough. I
never heard anything so attractive and inspiring before in the whole
course of my life; its tones are as fine and mellow as a French horn.”
When Squire Forester gave up hunting, the hounds went to Aldenham, as
trencher hounds; the farmers of the district agreeing to keep them. They
were collected the night before the hunt, fed after a day’s sport, and
dismissed at a crack of the whip, each dog going off to the farm at which
he was kept. But it was a great trial to Tom to see them depart; and he
begged to be allowed to keep an old favourite, with which he might often
have been seen sunning himself in the yard. He continued with his master
from first to last, with the exception of the short time he lived with
Mr. Corbet, when the Sundorne roof-trees were wont to ring to the toast
of “Old Trojan,” and when the elder Sebright was his fellow-whip.
Like the old Squire, Tom never married, although, like his master, he had
a leaning towards the softer sex, and spent much of his time in the
company of his lady friends. One he made his banker, and the presents
made to him might have amounted to something considerable if he had taken
care of them. In lodging them in safe keeping he usually begged that
they might be let out to him a shilling a time; but he made so many calls
and pleaded so earnestly and availingly for more, and was so constant a
visitor at Hangster’s Gate, that the stock never was very large. Indeed
he was on familiar terms with “Chalk Farm,” as the score behind the
ale-house door was termed; still he never liked getting into debt, and it
was always a relief to his mind to see the sponge applied to the score.
Tom was a great gun at this little way-side inn, which was altogether a
primitive institution of the kind even at that period, but which was
afterwards swept away when the present Hall was built. It then stood on
the old road from Bridgnorth to Wenlock, which came winding past the
Hall; and in the old coaching days was a well-known hostelry and a
favourite tippling shop for local notables, among whom were old Scale,
the Barrow schoolmaster and parish clerk; the Cartwrights and Crumps, of
Broseley; and a few local farmers. One attraction was the old coach,
which called there and brought newspapers, and still later news in
troubled times when battles, sieges, and the movements of armies were the
chief topics of conversation. Neither coachmen nor travellers ever
appeared to hurry, but would wait to communicate the news, particularly
in the pig killing season, when a pork pie and a jug of ale would be
sufficient to keep the coach a good half hour if need be. We speak of
course of “The time when George III. was king,” before “His Majesty’s
Mail” became an important institution, and when one old man in a scarlet
coat, with a face that lost nothing by reflection therewith—excepting
that a slight tinge of purple was visible—who had many more calling
places than post offices on the road, carried pistols in his holsters,
and brought all the letters and newspapers Willey, Wenlock, Broseley,
Benthall, Ironbridge, Coalbrookdale, and some other places then required;
and these, even, took the whole day to distribute. Although the
lumbering old vehicle was constantly tumbling over on going down slight
declivities, it was a great institution of the period; it was—
“Hurrah for the old stage coach,
Be it never so worn and rusty!
Hurrah for the smooth high road,
Be it glaring, and scorching, and dusty!
“Hurrah for the snug little inn,
At the sign of the Plough and Harrow,
And the frothy juice of the dangling hop,
That tickles your spinal marrow.”
It was a great treat to travellers, who would sometimes get off the coach
and order a chaise to be sent for them from Bridgnorth or Wenlock, to
stop and listen to Tom relating the incidents of a day’s sport, and a
still greater treat to witness his acting, to hear his tally-ho, his
who-who-hoop, or to hear him strike up—
“A southerly wind and a cloudy sky
Proclaim a hunting morning.”
Another favourite country song just then was the following, which has
been attributed to Bishop Still, called—
THE JUG OF ALE.
“As I was sitting one afternoon
Of a pleasant day in the month of June,
I heard a thrush sing down the vale,
And the tune he sang was ‘the jug of ale,’
And the tune he sang was the jug of ale.
“The white sheet bleaches on the hedge,
And it sets my wisdom teeth on edge,
When dry with telling your pedlar’s tale,
Your only comfort’s a jug of ale,
Your only comfort’s a jug of ale.
“I jog along the footpath way,
For a merry heart goes all the day;
But at night, whoever may flout and rail,
I sit down with my friend, the jug of ale,
With my good old friend, the jug of ale.
“Whether the sweet or sour of the year,
I tramp and tramp though the gallows be near.
Oh, while I’ve a shilling I will not fail
To drown my cares in a jug of ale,
Drown my cares in a jug of ale!”
To which old Amen, as the parish clerk was called, in order to be
orthodox, would add from the same convivial prelate’s farce-comedy of
“Gammer Gurton’s Needle:”—
“I cannot eat but little meat
My stomach is not good;
But sure I think that I can drink
With him that wears a hood.”
A pleasant cheerful glass or two, Tom was wont to say, would hurt nobody,
and he could toss off a horn or two of “October” without moving a muscle
or winking an eye. His constitution was as sound as a roach; and whilst
he could get up early and sniff the fragrant gale, they did not appear to
tell. But he had a spark in his throat, as he said, and he indulged in
such frequent libations to extinguish it, that, towards the end of the
year 1796, he was well nigh worn out. After a while, finding himself
becoming weak, and feeling that his end was approaching, he expressed a
desire to see his old master, who at once gratified the wish of the
sufferer, and, without thinking that his end was so near, inquired what
he wanted. “I have,” said Tom, “one request to make, and it is the last
favour I shall crave.” “Well,” said the Squire, “what is it, Tom?” “My
time here won’t be long,” Tom added; “and when I am dead I wish to be
buried at Barrow, under the yew tree, in the churchyard there, and to be
carried to the grave by six earth-stoppers; my old horse, with my whip,
boots, spurs, and cap, slung on each side of the saddle, and the brush of
the last fox when I was up at the death, at the side of the forelock, and
two couples of old hounds to follow me to the grave as mourners. When I
am laid in the grave let three halloos be given over me; and then, if I
don’t lift up my head, you may fairly conclude that Tom Moody’s dead.”
The old whipper-in expired shortly afterwards, and his request was
carried out to the letter, as the following characteristic letter from
the Squire to his friend Chambers, describing the circumstances, will
show:—
“DEAR CHAMBERS,
“On Tuesday last died poor Tom Moody, as good for rough and smooth as
ever entered Wildmans Wood. He died brave and honest, as he
lived—beloved by all, hated by none that ever knew him. I took his
own orders as to his will, funeral, and every other thing that could
be thought of. He died sensible and fully collected as ever man
died—in short, died game to the last; for when he could hardly
swallow, the poor old lad took the farewell glass for success to
fox-bunting, and his poor old master (as he termed it), for ever. I
am sole executor, and the bulk of his fortune he left to
me—six-and-twenty shillings, real and _bonâ fide_ sterling cash, free
from all incumbrance, after every debt discharged to a farthing.
Noble deeds for Tom, you’d say. The poor old ladies at the Ring of
Bells are to have a knot each in remembrance of the poor old lad.
“Salop paper will show the whole ceremony of his burial, but for fear
you should not see that paper, I send it to you, as under:—
“‘Sportsmen, attend.—On Tuesday, 29th inst., was buried at Barrow,
near Wenlock, Salop, Thomas Moody, the well-known whipper-in to G.
Forester, Esq.’s fox-hounds for twenty years. He was carried to the
grave by a proper number of earth-stoppers, and attended by many
other sporting friends, who heartily mourned for him.’
“Directly after the corpse followed his old favourite horse (which he
always called his ‘Old Soul’), thus accoutred: carrying his last
fox’s brush in the front of his bridle, with his cap, whip, boots,
spurs, and girdle, across his saddle. The ceremony being over, he
(by his own desire), had three clear rattling view haloos o’er his
grave; and thus ended the career of poor Tom, who lived and died an
honest fellow, but alas! a very wet one.
“I hope you and your family are well, and you’ll believe me, much
yours,
“G. FORESTER.
“WILLEY, Dec. 5, 1796.”
We need add nothing to the description the Squire gave of the way in
which Tom’s last wishes were carried out, and shall merely remark that
the old fellow kept on his livery to the last, and that he died in his
boots, which were for some time kept as relics—a circumstance which leads
us to appropriate the following lines, which appeared a few years ago in
the _Sporting Magazine_:—
“You have ofttimes indulged in a sneer
At the old pair of boots I’ve kept year after year,
And I promised to tell you (when ‘funning’ last night)
The reasons I have thus to keep them in sight.
“Those boots were Tom Moody’s (a better ne’er strode
A hunter or hack, in the field—on the road—
None more true to his friend, or his bottle when full,
In short, you may call him a thorough John Bull).
“Now this world you must own’s a strange compound of fate,
(A kind of tee-to-turn resembling of late)
Where hope promised joy _there_ will sorrow be found,
And the vessel best trimm’d is oft soonest aground.
“I’ve come in for my share of ‘Take-up’ and ‘Put-down,’
And that rogue, Disappointment, oft makes me look brown,
And then (you may sneer and look wise if you will)
From those old pair of boots I can comfort distil.
“I but cast my eyes on them and old Willey Hall
Is before me again, with its ivy-crown’d wall,
Its brook of soft murmurs—its rook-laden trees,
The gilt vane on its dovecot swung round by the breeze.
“I see its old owner descend from the door,
I feel his warm grasp as I felt it of yore;
Whilst old servants crowd round—as they once us’d to do,
And their old smiles of welcome beam on me anew.
“I am in the old bedroom that looks on the lawn,
The old cock is crowing to herald the dawn;
There! old Jerry is rapping, and hark how he hoots,
‘’Tis past five o’clock, Tom, and here are your boots.’
“I am in the old homestead, and here comes ‘old Jack,’
And old Stephens has help’d Master George to his back;
Whilst old _Childers_, old _Pilot_, and little _Blue-boar_
Lead the merry-tongued hounds through the old kennel door.
“I’m by the old wood, and I hear the old cry—
‘Od’s rat ye dogs—wind him! Hi! Nimble, lad, hi!’
I see the old fox steal away through the gap,
Whilst old Jack cheers the hounds with his old velvet cap.
“I’m seated again by my old grandad’s chair,
Around me old friends and before me old fare;
Every guest is a sportsman, and scarlet his suit,
And each leg ’neath the table is cas’d in a boot.
“I hear the old toasts and the old songs again,
‘_Old Maiden_’—‘_Tom Moody_’—‘_Poor Jack_’—‘_Honest Ben_;’
I drink the old wine, and I hear the old call—
‘Clean glasses, fresh bottles, and _pipes_ for us all.’”