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