The Poacher

I can't find my picture of Jake Bithell's dog, Lad so this is of the Dee at a point near the scene of the poem.

 

The Poacher.

 

They trod the river’s bank at dead of night,           

Jake and Lad, the poacher and his hound,

Two winters now he’d slaved with all his might

To keep together hearth and home and ground.

                     

Since in the way that life will not stand still,          

That goodly masters pass and sons replace,

Such change occurred and boded Jake much ill

So 'keeper now a poacher’s life must face.

 

He’d only told the truth, such as he had

On many occasions spoken to his Lord.

Then why should Son be ever half so bad

That such dire strait should now be Jake's reward?

 

Although his 'keeper friends help out as can,

Dire hardship still is Jake’s full desperate lot,

And Chester gaol has seen this errant man

Held and flogged 'til raw and sore and cut.

 

He was by nature no nocturnal thief,

Such poaching truly cut across the grain,

But hunger saw him on the banks of Dee

With net and gaff, his family's food to gain.

 

Even as the silver salmon died forlorn

Upon the muddy bank where he now stood

His thoughts were of his wife and child unborn,

Of sustenance, of love and fatherhood.

 

'Come Lass,’ said Jake, ‘tonight right well we’ll dine'

'The water's on the hob,' she prompt ' replied.

With mushrooms, from the field and elder wine,

A feast was soon prepared by Jake's young bride.

 

 

That night they sat and supped like hungry Lords

As nature's bounteous offerings fed them well.

And thus, replete, spoke cheering, loving words,

And soundly slept as frosty darkness fell.

 

A new head keeper now held sway, and he,

Acquainted with poor Jake's ill fated strait

Swore to catch him soon, that all should see

That Edwards' realm should be inviolate.

 

Each night Jake took enough to meet his need,

That hunger would not be his family’s plight.

His poaching was not brought about by greed,

Nor was it simply Edwards to requite

 

Autumn’s gold gave way to winter’s harshness

As gales blew hard and cold across the Dee.

With snow and sleet straight off the Shotwick marshes,

Not even season’s wildfowl did Jake see.

 

Heavily, Lass hedge and furrow crossed,

Gathering lowly bounty from the field,

But hard was winter now with hoary-frost,

And poor indeed, the gleaner’s scanty yield.

 

The ice-mist left such clear-scuffed tracks to follow,

That proof of presence could not be denied.

So hungry slept his family, 'til the morrow,

When Nature’s tell-tale canvas would be dried.

 

One night when moon was hid' in heavy sky,

Jake made a foray near the oxbow dip.

But Edwards, waiting, hidden well did lie.

Tonight he vowed, Jake wouldn’t give the slip.

 

With constable, unwilling at his side,

Welsh Edwards, careful, set his cunning trap

And silently sat by the warren’s side

To wait for Jake to fall into his lap.

 

Poor Daniels’ presence was at best unwilling,

He had a high regard for hard done Jake,

But duty claimed he should be at the killing

He had to hope his friend was wide-awake.

 

Edwards nudged him, having heard a twig crack,

He chortled silently with evil glee.

Jake’s slipping, Daniels thought and held well back,

For noisy’s what Jake never used to be.

 

Sounds came from left and right, Edwards followed,

Leaning out that he might better hear

Whence came the sounds, on which his spirits rode,

Feeling that his sweet revenge was near.

 

They followed ‘til the ground was unfamiliar,

But Edwards had the bit between his teeth,

And, leaping blind, with howl of evil triumph,

Went “Splatt” into a waterhole beneath.

 

A chuckle came from slightly parted bushes

And thrumming from the tail of faithful Lad,

Daniels joy was seeing, through the rushes

A squelching ‘keeper, smelling very bad.

 

For though the cattle drank the slimy brew

That wasn’t all they used the hollow for,

So, crawling, stinking Edwards surely knew

He’d find a welcome through no local door.

 

By luck, a meeting with the local gossip

Ensued upon his smelly, homeward way,

Which made sure that the whole of Chester’s City

Knew everything before the end of day.

 

That night the Bithells ate a brace of pheasant

With porter Daniels brought to their front door,

While Edwards, still not smelling very pleasant,

Could face the local wits and wags no more.

 

So back to Wales he went, his ears still ringing,

His head hung low, heart filled with hate and shame

While children in the street his fate were singing

And locals, jeering played their mocking game.

 

Jake Bithell, re-employed on the estate, where

Hard work and skill restored his honest name,

Found rash young Lord now seemingly more fair

Well – absent mostly, hunting London’s ‘game’

 

Corrie and Jake now had a healthy son’   

A bonny, bouncing boy, Jake thought, and said,

What d’you think Lad, perhaps we’ll name him John,

Or better still, he laughed, we’ll call him Ted.

 

Daniels, now Godfather to young Edward

Had wished to see him given the name of ‘Dan’

Jake smiling said he’d like to have his son called

By a name that brought the laughter to a man.

**********************************************************

Written as a story poem to accompany the picture

of a poacher sitting in gaol with his dog.

Fidelity 1869 by Briton Riviere, Lady Lever Art Gallery, Wirral.

Times were hard in the 19^th Century. A poacher could be flogged and gaoled if caught and yet, many of the poor could only survive by taking the odd rabbit, pheasant, or fish from the estate of the local landowner, who would employ a small army of gamekeepers to prevent this. Jake had been a ‘keeper but been sacked for the very quality – honest forthrightness – which had endeared him to the original, benevolent landowner. The son was a different prospect – dissolute with no feel for the countryside or his social responsibility to tenants and staff. Jake and Corrie – his pregnant wife (aka Lass – a common expression in the Cheshire of those days) with his faithful dog ‘Lad’, Edwards the nasty ‘keeper brought in from Caernarfon and Daniels, the local constable make up the immediate cast.

 

 

 

 

 

Author's Note

Written in the fashion of narrative poetry. Not long enough for epic perhaps, but lengthy.

Reviews

[emmajoy]

What a brilliant poem .. not that this is unusual from you.

I love the historical content of this writing. You've captured so many aspects of the time: the way of life, the fight for life, the layered society, the names, the language, etc. all so beautifully put, yet, the whole is natural and free flowing.

This could very easily be used in class to show youngsters the era's goings on from most angles plus the feel of its literary heritage

Congratulaions, John - this is yet another winner from a man with diverse qualities.

[Cherrie Palmer]

A wonderful fluid testament of days long past

[R J Askew]

A great read, in part for it's insight into British social history and that of the picture, as well as for the human story which is timeless in the way it charts economic struggle and personal rivalries. It is also funny with a sense that moral justice has prevailed.

It is sobering to recall how the game laws were and the sight of vicious man traps in museums.

[Linda Marie Van Tassell]

Thank you for your review of my poem entitled, "Let Live The Moments Burst With Sound," for it created a bridge between your words and mine, allowing me the pleasure of reading this most enchanting narrative poem. For some crazy, odd reason, this poem reminds me of the television show, "Little House on the Prairie."

To be specific, when Edwards fell into the waterhole, I could easily visualize Mr. Edwards, of Little House, doing such a foolish thing. He was always stumbling and bumbling his way into some nonsense.

Thanks to David Lewis Paget, of the Writers' Cafe, I have truly grown fond of the narrative poem. It encompasses two joys: storytelling and poetry. More oft than not, it captures history and relates it to the present.

This was a beautifully writ poem, ripe with humor. Thank you for the smile.

Linda Marie Van Tassell