ACROSS COUNTRY <br /> <br />November's here. Once more the pink we don, <br />And on old Centaur, at the coverside, <br />Sit changing pleasant greetings one by one <br />With friend and neighbour. Half the county's pride <br />Is here to--day. Squire, parson, peer, bestride <br />Their stoutest nags, impatient to be gone. <br />Here, schoolboys on their earliest ponies ride, <br />And village lads on asses, not out--done. <br /> <br />But hark! That sounds like music. Ay, by God! <br />He's off across the fallow. ``No, sirs, no; <br />``Not yet a minute, just another rod! <br />``Then let him have it. Ho, there, tallyho!'' <br />Now that's worth seeing! Look! He's topped the wall, <br />Leaving his whole field pounded in a row. <br />A first flight place to--day was worth a fall. <br />So forward each, and Heaven for us all!<br /><br />Wilfrid Scawen Blunt<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-idler-s-calendar-twelve-sonnets-for-the-months-november/
