A Song for the Golden Hare by Irena Szirtes

Golden hares only occur on the island of Rathlin, off the North Coast of Ireland. They have blonde coats and bright blue eyes. The poem below is written from a lurcher’s point of view. Hare coursing, where the first dog to turn (not catch)  a Hare wins, is still legal in Ireland. Lurchers in the UK retain the instinct, and can take part in simulated coursing with a lure.

A Song for the Golden Hare.

Come, dream of Rathlin’s golden hare,

Of moonlight made, and seaweed air,

Stitched by soundless grace and guile,

Fashioned only on that Isle.

 

Dream of Rathlin’s golden hare, feet

Soft as clover; from his lair, he

Scans horizons with an eye

Blue as tumbled skeins of sky.

 

Pelt of moon-gold wraps him round;

At dawn he sears the salt-specked ground,

Leaping, sweeping past the lake,

Scatt’ring  moonbeams in his wake.

 

You think, quite delicate he seems,

Yet he is not the stuff of dreams –

Wiry, wild, strong-legged is he,

Scorns the gale from Rathlin’s sea.

 

How salt-air-sifted is his home:

He flattens, safe in lairs dry-blown;

Sphagnum moss, with blue speedwell,

Purple orchids, asphodel,

 

Garlic, iris, daffodil,

Vetch and cranesbill ever fill

His eye, as blue as bottle glass,

While white-tailed eagles pause,  then pass.

 

Oh, how we long to pit our hearts

Against his cunning,  and outsmart

This moon-birthed creature, harvest gold,

And course him through the Rathlin cold!

 

And though he’d run as if he’s prey,

There’d be no catching -  not that day –

Spellbound, we’d refuse to take

A hare with moonbeams in his wake.

 

We dream of Rathlin’s golden hare,

Of moonlight made, and seaweed air;

Stitched by soundless grace and guile,

Fashioned only on that Isle. 

The Poacher's Dog by Irena Szirtes

    'The Poacher’s Dog' was written by a group of longdogs in the 1930s. Its inspiration was Roddy, a deerhound cross whose stealth was legendary in his own lifetime. 

   Poachers' dogs don’t always share song outside their own secretive circles, but all lurchers and longdogs know stories about Roddy. His record for taking game stands unequalled,  though his master was never ever convicted of poaching. 

The Poacher's Dog

  Swift as seconds belting by,

Moonbeams flicker from his eye,

Sifting through the blackest night

Melding, brushed in flecked starlight,

Like a ghost, then out of sight,

Glancing by in soundless flight -

The Poacher’s Dog.

  By blackened stove

On thick rag-rug, he curls.

All who spy him sleep would swear

He'd lain all night, no single hair

Upon his back had stirred -

Eyes so heavy, front paws crossed,

Every accusation’s lost.

Yet deft, devoid of slightest sound

He swept across His Lordship’s ground -

Like a ghost, then out of sight,

Glancing by in soundless flight  -

The Poacher’s Dog.

At daybreak, here comes Constable

To the cottage door:

"His Lordship asks if you were seen

Upon his land, beyond the stream?"

"On such a filthy night? Not me,

Why wind shook each and every tree!

The stream? It roared with pouring rain!

Besides," he winks, "My dog is lame!"

Just then, two kindly liquid eyes

Gaze up from rug to Constable.

This dog, a rogue? How could it be?

"You’re right,  he’s lame, it’s plain to see!"

So, when there’s little left to say,

The Constable goes on his way.

"I'm sure," he adds, "You meant no harm,"

(The brace of pheasants on his arm

Swinging gently, like a charm.)

"I'll see you at The Seven Stars,

We'll shoot the breeze and sink two jars

Or more of Mandy’s best."

"Just so: when Roddy’s limp has gone

I'll bring some rabbits to sell on.

My wife, you know, has always said,

'No poacher’s welcome in my bed!

Roddy’s my devoted friend,

You'll keep him safe,  and there’s an end!

Legal game is all I’ll see -

Do as you’re bid, or deal with me!' "

By blackened stove

On thick rag-rug, he curls:

Eyes so heavy, front paws crossed,

Every accusation’s lost.

Yet deft, devoid of slightest sound

He sweeps across His Lordship’s ground - 

Swift as seconds belting by,

Moonbeams flicker from his eye,

Sifting through the blackest night,

Melding, brushed in flecked starlight,

Like a ghost, then out of sight,

Glancing by in soundless flight  -

The Poacher’s Dog.   

Creator's Symphony by Irena Szirtes

credit: Irena Szirtes

  Lurchers attribute this song to Moss, a whippet cross border terrier, born in the 1920s. Moss was renowned for outstanding vermin control, and her descendants are still active in the North of England today. It is said Moss was so swift despatching rats, she wasn't bitten once in her long career, and that she could hear rats even when they kept very still. Lurchers believe at least one pup per litter in Moss' line of descent, will inherit her outstanding ability to locate and despatch vermin. Some might even create new songs to add to Lurcher Lore.

Creator's Symphony.

Bouncing conkers, swishing grass,

Swooshing pigeons, wind on glass,

Twittery larks and scuffly pigs,

Breath of cows or snappy twigs:

Lurchers hear it all.

Icy drips and fing’ring rain,

Water tickling stones again,

Swirly breeze or patter-feet,

Nearby feathers, far-off bleats-

Lurchers hear it all.

Diggy-dig mole kicking up soil,

Scrapey scales or snakey coil,

Froglets' leap and fledglings’ fall,

Rats-in-hiding, one and all!

Seeds popping, acorns dropping,

Fish high-jumping, belly-flopping,

Nestled fawns or whirry wings,

Cracking eggs and crunched-up things-

Lurchers hear it all.

Rabbit feet in morning grass,

Lurchers hear what people pass,

Lurchers hear a storm in-coming,

Petals blowing, insects running,

Raspy squeaks of wriggle-nose shrew,

Reeds a-tremor through and through,

Landing leaves and snowflakes’ kiss,

Lurchers hear what people miss.

credit: Irena 

credit: Irena Szirtes

Harriet, and (maybe) transferred epithets by Irena Szirtes

    The puddle, in league with chill mist slashed by surly drizzle, lay dark and rebellious across the path-so Harriet would not cross it. It was a puddle we could not skirt: tangled scrub withstood us either side. It was silent, yet seemed to have a voice only Harriet heard, forbidding us to pass. I tried to make her step through, but its waters defied her, and she knew it. 

Was Harriet having me on? I didn't understand. After all, she crossed the flooded footbridge, waters flowing fast around her legs and into my wellies. Why not cross a puddle? Eventually, I understood: Harriet was trying to tell me something the puddle was telling her. I pulled a long stick from the scrub, pushed it into the sullen water. Collapsed path around a lidless drain, dissembling a puddle, swallowed the stick whole.  

  From that day, Harriet and I were not the same. We didn't cross a puddle, but crossed a line that deepened our trust in each other. We began to grow the bond Harriet had been afraid of, and which I had lived, but never truly felt.

A Limerick (and more) Concerning the Chair and a Big Black Dog by Irena Szirtes

A Chairman who doesn't speak hound

Held writing group minus the sound-

No writer was there, just Black Dog and the Chair,

While nobodies danced all around.

Then Dog said, “You must learn, you know,

To hear and speak dog like a pro-

It isn't so hard, you'll soon be a bard

In best dog-speak, let's give it a go!”

“Ah no!” gasped the Chair in his fright,

“It's YOU must hone new skills tonight-

The rules are quite clear, grab a pencil my dear,

All members must come here to write!”

Black Dog said, “Impossible task,

Humungous, just too much to grasp-

But people can learn to truly discern

Our language: you just have to ask!”

Now Chairman (who doesn't speak hound)

Didn't realise dogs speak without sound-

So, he barked, “Doggy, sit!” and waited a bit,

While nobodies danced all around.

On hearing more from the Chair,

Black dog held his tail in the air,

Then scooted along, bottom downwards (no pong)

Till our Chairman gave up in despair!

(And if you're really wond’ring how this happened, if at all,

When Chair's sum total dog-speak is just ‘sit' and ‘fetch the ball,’

We'll never know for sure because no one else was there,

No one but a big black dog, and yes, of course, the Chair!

Not a poet or a proser had taken up the call,

Or worked out how Chair heard Black Dog, who answered, if at all...

Yet we know Black Dog was offered the chance to ‘sit' and write,

We know the Chair waxed on, and hoped the evening would come right,

We know there was no writing, though Dog was very keen

To scoot along or give a paw, and generally be seen-

The moral of this tale, you're sure, simply has to be...

WHATEVER NONSENSE YOU CONCOCT- THERE ISN'T ONE, YOU SEE!

The Lurcher Anthem. The Lurcher Anthem is one of the most popular songs in lurcher lore, sung with gusto! It is attributed to Fern, a brindle lurcher, and two of her pups, Jock and Meg.

Lurchers                                                                                                              Irena Szirtes

Which dog is jaunty,

Yet gentle and kind,

Keen-honed as a blade,

With lightning-fast mind?

     A lurcher, a lurcher,

     Such beauty and zest,

     A lurcher, a lurcher,

     By far heaven's best!

Which dog is most agile

For turning the hare,

Or spies the hare crouching

As if he's not there?

Which dog leaps higher than

Fawns in the Spring,

Or turns on a claw-point

Again and again?

      A lurcher, a lurcher,

      Such beauty and zest,

      A lurcher, a lurcher,

      By far heaven's best!

Which dog’s eyes shine brightest

And spy far away

Some movement that tells him

The nature of prey?

Whose ears are flattest,

Yet quickest to rise,

Not missing a whispering

Breath from his prize?

     A lurcher, a lurcher,

     Such beauty and zest,

     A lurcher,  a lurcher,

     By far heaven's best!

Which dog tosses some

Plaything up high,

Runs in swift circles

As fast as a fly?

Which dog sports muscle,

Strong sinew and might

Before other dogs,

Without picking a fight?

     A lurcher, a lurcher,

     Such beauty and zest,

     A lurcher, a lurcher,

     By far heaven's best!

Which dog runs swiftest

Like wind through a lane,

Fanning men's love to

A flaring hot flame?

Which dogs hide mischief,

Then sleep in their pen,

Yet cause men to love them

Again and again?

    A lurcher, a lurcher,

    Such beauty and zest,

    A lurcher, a lurcher,

    By far heaven's best!

Which dogs truly know

Creator draws near,

Gifting them bold hearts

For trampling through fear?

Which dog echoes

Creator's sweet grace,

Keeps loving his master

While keeping his place?

   A lurcher! A lurcher!

   So loyal and true-

   A lurcher,  a lurcher,

   O beauties, it's you!

   A lurcher! A lurcher!

   Such beauty and zest,

   A lurcher, a lurcher-

   By far heaven's best!

What a dog! by Jennie Hart

 

Jock had been abandoned but my dad adopted him. Dad was not just alone, he was lonely. When mum was alive we had had German Shepherds, partly to guard the shop we lived above, but mostly as companions.  I used to ring dad after mum died and often he would coax his German Shepherd, Sheba to the phone and she would bark into the mouthpiece. Sheba died, so the arrival of Jock was a wonderful gift.

He was mixed breed with a big dollop of black and white cocker spaniel. His ears dangled, his short legs ensured he was close to the ground; he had an irresistible smile; well, more of a laugh, showing perfect canines and molars; he had beautiful brown eyes that eyed you with longing.

Jock had a reputation; he was a philanderer; like a sailor with a girl in every port only he got about town by bus. There was no stop outside dad’s house but Jock was favoured. When a driver spotted him sitting by the kerb-side, he would halt the bus and Jock would clamber onto the platform. He had been spotted by passengers getting off at the other end of town in order to meander back home, no doubt calling at a girl-friend’s on the way.

Jock led a happy life, cheering up dad, investigating the streets and snuggling up to the cat, until one terribly sad day. Dad’s house stood next to a coal yard and Fisher the coal man would drive his vehicle up and down the track to the yard, several times a day. Dad’s back gate led on to this track, and when he opened it to bring in his milk, Jock would sneak out to look for adventure -  exciting smells or doggy acquaintances.

On a sunny day, Jock liked to lie on the warm, dirty tarmac of Fisher’s drive, enraging Fisher who would wind down his window to shout at the animal. One day Fisher was backing his lorry up the drive and did not shout out. He ran over Jock..

My dad was not a confident man, he’d had a shocking childhood but had been sheltered from the routines of daily life in his later years, like going to the bank or paying the rent; Mum took care of those things. When Mr Fisher carried in the seriously injured Jock and dropped him on the floor in front of dad, and then left, saying ‘You should look after your animal’, dad was traumatised. He didn’t know what to do. He had never called a vet and was too distressed to call my brother. When Brian called in after work, Jock still lay at dad’s feet and dad was crying.

Jock was barely alive but Brian carefully lifted him into his van and took him to the vet but he couldn’t be saved. That was dad’s saddest day since losing mum, but he never talked about it after that.

Moment by Irena Szirtes

The valley where I was born.                                                                                            credit Irena Szirtes

    My red terrier, and a moment on Frostrow Fell.          

Sting-soft kisses

slide into meltdown

over our faces,

as the sky falls

through steel silence.

Even my terrier waits,

not wiry, or raring to run,

loath to sully whiteout

with our footsteps.

Bent Dali-like

over Frostrow,

snowfall drapes hills

and, hunkering low

across peat-bogs,

smothers reeds, slides

into blackened streams.

We feel invisible,

melting into landscape;

fells terraform inside of me,

as influential as ancestors

in shaping who I am.

Suddenly wild geese

scissor the snowfall,

mesmerising, wild, as

their thin song echoes

my emergent sense of being.

 

Many days meld

into subconscious soup:

Not that day.

That day, decades behind,

is a piece of eternity

snatched from heaven,

scooped into linear time:

a fragment of gold in my pocket

to feel and finger secretly,

or pull out and look at

again, and again.

My red terrier                                                                credit Irena Szirtes

 

Harriet and a Moment in Comer Wood by Irena Szirtes

Credit: Irena Szirtes

“Old dogs can be a regal sight. 

Their exuberance settles over the years into a seasoned nobility.” 

Gail Caldwell

   

Mist stole through Comer Wood, fingering our faces, flaunting the scent of soaked pines, in case we should take the beauty of fresh winter days for granted.

Credit Irena Szirtes

We were transfixed, like my terrier and I, all those years ago. But neither snow nor wild geese arrested us: it was a badger. He limped toward us, paused nearby, and gazed. I quietly clipped on Harriet's leash, though our eyes were locked on the badger. Somehow, we all understood what this moment was. It was not about looking, so much as truly seeing: savouring the essence of a different being with unfettered awe. Yet the moment was bitter-sweet. Mists, chill and grey now, began fingering my mind, agitating with the

Credit: Irena Szirtes

“You see Badger, but do you see Harriet today? Really see? Do you really see?”

  Reluctantly, I understood. It was strange the badger had confidence to show himself, and stranger still that Harriet stood content. She would once have protested fiercely, because giving chase to badgers was off-limits. As we continued to gaze, cold thoughts began whispering again and again, 

“Harriet is growing old! Harriet is growing old!” 

 

Harriet                                                                        Credit: Irena Szirtes

 I had simply failed to notice she wasn't tracking rabbits so far, or so often. When had she last run in crazy circles, throwing, dropping, catching or scooping up my glove? How long since she and Cassie raced, splashed in water or dug holes together, delighting in each others silliness? When Cassie succumbed to old age some months before, Harriet had still seemed well and strong. But she was definitely slower now, less inclined to range in circles in, then out of, my sight.

   Suddenly, the moment was broken. Harriet decided she was not quite ready to forsake the pleasures of youth. As flattened lurcher ears rose almost imperceptibly, the badger took off on three legs, with an astonishing turn of speed, and disappeared into the bracken.

  Harriet seemed convinced the badger knew she was indeed a Lurcher of noble stock, not to be trifled with despite advancing years. 

“Never forget whom I was born to be,” she’d told him, “And do not imagine the woods are yours if a Lurcher wanders there!”

  But I couldn't enjoy the rest of our walk. Cold mists were still snaking around my mind, and the breezes persisted, 

“There was a time you didn't want her, wasn't there, wasn't there?” 

Guilty. She had been so very messed up; I was afraid I’d never win her.

“Non-Lurcher life cannot be imagined, can it? Cannot be imagined, can it?”

True. Our bond had become so deep and intuitive, we each knew what the other was thinking.

 “How do you know what she wants?” Andy would often ask. Harriet and I were living a kind of shared life. I hadn't considered I would one day be without her.

   She, however, remained a little jaunty. I suspect she sang the Lurchers’ ancient badger song that night, and had badgers inhabit her dreams. There is deep respect between badgers and lurchers, though neither openly own it. To avoid conflict, both proffer traditional songs, full of posturing and bravado. Perhaps the badger sang his song too, dreaming of when he learnt it, breathing his mother's scent in deep dark tunnels, his tiny belly warm, and swollen with milk.

Credit: Irena Szirtes

   The Lurchers' song: Lord of the Wild Wood.

  

Lord of the Wild Wood you might be,

Strutting by moonlight, master-less, free-

Ancient pathways you might keep,

Trodden long years as lapdogs sleep-

But do not imagine the woods are yours 

When a Lurcher wanders there,

If a Lurcher wanders there, 

If a Lurcher wanders there!

   

Dreaded night-bear, King of the dark,

Guard your pathways, scent and mark:

Yes! you rule beneath the ground,

But see! Here run keen-hearted hounds,

So do not imagine the woods are yours 

When a Lurcher wanders there, 

If a Lurcher wanders there,

If a Lurcher wanders there!

   

Bear of the earth, whose curving claws

Are fearsome as those iron jaws,

 Renowned in legend you might be-

Bombastic make-believe we see!

So do not imagine the woods are yours 

When a Lurcher wanders there, 

If a Lurcher wanders there,

If a Lurcher wanders there!

    

Lord of the Wood, how can it be

Such lofty might and majesty

Hides from daylight, clings to the dark?

Bear of the earth, can it just be

That Lurchers rule for all to see?

  Ha! Do not imagine the woods are yours 

When a Lurcher wanders there, 

If a Lurcher wanders there! 

Ha! Do not imagine the woods are yours,  

For Lurchers wander there,

YES! Lurchers wander there.......HA! 

 breeze, 

Credit: Irena Szirtes

The Badgers' song: Oust those Lurchers!

 

Badgers are we, king-hearted and strong,

   Fierce, independent, no need to belong 

To mankind!

Your insolent song boasts woods are not ours,

Imagines out hunting we're looking behind, 

Looking behind for you!

Lurchers are you, keen- hearted and strong,

    Fierce, independent but need to belong

To mankind-

Triumphant, we sing all wild woods are ours,

Knowing out hunting you're looking behind,

Looking behind for us!

Badgers royal, Badgers strong

Come rise up tall and

Roar our song!

There's no back down in our ranks

So Lurchers flee, and 

Give your thanks

You have another place to go,

Back to your pens and back to your men,

Regretting you tangled with Badgers again!

Badgers royal, Badgers strong 

Who yield no ground

Come, roar our song! 

To Badgers, yes, Wild woods belong!

   Oust those Lurchers, 

That is our song! 

Musical accompaniments by Andrew Szirtes. 

Comer Woods            credit: Irena Szirtes