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The Land - Peter Bellamy
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 laying in to hay
And the aged Hobden answered
I remember as a lad
My father told your father
That she wanted dreaming bad
And 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 waters
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 of meadow now
For five and fifty year
Have it just 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
Which is why in cleaning ditches
Now and then we find a flint
Ogier died His sons grew English
Anglo-Saxon was their name
Until 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 you might have known
That would happen from the way the valley lies
When you can't hold back the water
You must try and save the sile
Have it just as you've a mind to
But if I was you I'd spile
So they spiled along the water-course
With trunks of willow-trees
And planks of elms behind them
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 with 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
Over the track-betraying dew
Demand his dinner-basket
Into which my pheasant flew
Confiscate his evening faggot
Under which my conies ran
And summons him to judgment
I would sooner summons Pan
For 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 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
Have it just as you've a mind to
But and here he takes command
For whoever pays the taxes
Old Mus' Hobden owns the land
