The Land
Words: Rudyard
Kipling. Music by: Peter Bellamy.
(Recorded by Tom Lewis on 360° All Points of the Compass)
When Julius Fabricius, Sub-Prefect of The
Weald,
In the days of Diocletian owned our Lower River-field,
He called to him Hobdenius, a Briton of the clay,
Saying: "What about that River-piece for layin' in to hay?"
And the aged Hobden answered: "I remember as a lad,
My father told your father that she wanted dreenin' bad.
An' the more that you neglect her the less you'll get her
clean.
Have it just as you've a mind to, but if I was you, I'd
dreen."
So they drained it long and crossways in the lavish Roman
style -
Still we find among the river-drift their flakes of ancient
tile,
And in drouthy middle August, when the bones of meadows show,
We can trace the lines they followed sixteen hundred years
ago.
Then Julius Fabricius died as even Prefects do,
And after certain centuries Imperial Rome died too.
Then did robbers enter Britain from across the Northern Main,
And our Lower River-field was won by Ogier the Dane.
Well could Ogier work his war-boat - well could Ogier wield
his brand,
Much he knew of foaming water - not so much of farming land.
So he called to him a Hobden of the old unaltered blood,
Saying: "What about that River-piece; she doesn't look no
good?"
And that aged Hobden answered: "'Tain't for me to interfere,
But I've known that bit o' meadow now for five and fifty year,
Have it jest as you've a mind to, but I've proved it time on
time,
If you want to change her nature you have got to give her
lime!"
Ogier sent his wains to Lewes, twenty hours' solemn walk,
And drew back great abundance of the cool, grey, healing
chalk.
And old Hobden spread it broadcast, never heeding what was
in't -
Which is why in cleaning ditches, now and then we find a
flint.
Ogier died. His sons grew English - Anglo-Saxon was their
name,
Till out of blossomed Normandy another pirate came;
For Duke William conquered England and divided with his men,
And our Lower River-field he gave to William of Warenne.
But the brook (you know her habit) rose one rainy autumn
night,
And tore down sodden flitches of the bank to left and right.
So, said William to his Bailiff as they rode their dripping
rounds:
"Hob, what about that River-bit - the brook's got up no
bounds?"
And that aged Hobden answered: "'Tain't my business to
advise,
But ye might ha' known 'twould happen from the way the valley
lies.
Where ye can't hold back the water you must try and save the
sile.
Hev it jest as you've a mind to, but, if I was you I'd spile!"
They spiled along the water-course with trunks of willow
trees,
And planks of elm behind 'em and immortal oaken knees.
And when the spates of autumn whirl the gravel-beds away,
You can see their faithful fragments, iron-hard in iron clay.
Georgii Quinti Anno Sexto, I, who own the River-field,
Am fortified by title deeds, attested, signed and sealed,
Guaranteeing me, my assigns, my executors and heirs,
All sorts of powers and profits which - are neither mine nor
theirs.
I have rights of chase and warren, as my dignity requires.
I can fish - but Hobden tickles - I can shoot - but Hobden
wires.
I repair, but he reopens, certain gaps which men allege,
Have been used by every Hobden since a Hobden swapped a hedge.
Shall I dog his morning progress o'er the track-betraying
dew,
Demand his dinner-basket into which my pheasant flew,
Confiscate his evening faggot under which my conies ran,
And then summons him to judgment? I would sooner summons Pan.
His dead are in the churchyard - thirty generations laid.
Their names were old in history when Domesday Book was made;
And the passion and the piety and the prowess of his line,
Have seeded, rooted, fruited in some land the Law calls mine.
Not for any beast that burrows, not for any bird that flies,
Would I lose his large sound council, miss his keen amending
eyes.
he is bailiff, woodman, wheelwright, field-surveyor, engineer,
And if flagrantly a poacher - 'tain't for me to interfere.
"Hob, what about that River-bit?" I turn to him again,
With Fabricius and Ogier and William of Warenne.
"Hev it jest as you've a mind to but" - and here he takes
command.
For whoever pays the taxes old Mus' Hobden owns the land.
