Zu der edlen Yagd - [A Treatise On TreesVine-tree v. Saddle-Tree]

Now, welcome, welcome, masters mine,     Thrice welcome to the noble chase,     Nor earthly sport, nor sport divine,     Can take such honourable place.     - Ballad of the Wild Huntsman. (Free Translation.)     I remember some words my father said,     When I was an urchin vain;     God rest his soul, in his narrow bed     These ten long years he hath lain.     When I think one drop of the blood he bore     This faint heart surely must hold,     It may be my fancy and nothing more,     But the faint heart seemeth bold.     He said that as from the blood of grape,     Or from juice distilled from the grain,     False vigour, soon to evaporate,     Is lent to nerve and brain,     So the coward will dare on the gallant horse     What he never would dare alone,     Because he exults in a borrowed force,     And a hardihood not his own.     And it may be so, yet this difference lies     Twixt the vine and the saddle-tree,     The spurious courage that drink supplies     Sets our baser passions free;     But the stimulant which the horseman feels     When he gallops fast and straight,     To his better nature most appeals,     And charity conquers hate.     As the kindly sunshine thaws the snow,     Een malice and spite will yield,     We could almost welcome our mortal foe     In the saddle by flood and field;     And chivalry dawns in the merry tale     That Market Harborough writes,     And the yarns of Nimrod and Martingale     Seem legends of loyal knights.     Now tell me for once, old horse of mine,     Grazing round me loose and free,     Does your ancient equine heart repine     For a burst in such companie,     Where the powers that be in the front rank ride,     To hold your own with the throng,     Or to plunge at Faugh-a-Ballaghs side     In the rapids of Dandenong.     Dont tread on my toes, youre no foolish weight,     So I found to my cost, as under     Your carcase I lay, when you rose too late,     Yet I blame you not for the blunder.     What! sulky old man, your under-lip falls!     You think I, too, ready to rail am     At your kinship remote to that duffer at walls,     The talkative roadster of Balaam.