Classic Poem

When making for the brook, the falconer doth espy
On river, plash, or mere, where store of fowl doth lie,
Whence forced over land, by skillful falconers trade,
A fair convenient flight may easily be made.
He whistleth off his hawks, whose nimble pinions straight
Do work themselves by turns into a stately height,
And if that after check, the one or both do go,
Sometimes he them the lure, sometimes doth water show.
The trembling fowl that hear the jigging hawk-bells ring
And find it is too late to trust then to their wing,
Lie flat upon the flood, whilst the high-mounted hawks,
Then being lords alone in their ethereal walks,
Aloft so bravely stir, their bells so thick that shake,
Which when the falconer sees, that scarce one plane they make,
The gallantest birds, saith he, that ever flew on wing
And swears there is a flight were worthy of a King.
Then making to the flood to force the fowls to rise,
The fierce and eager hawks, down thrilling from the skies,
Make sundry canceleers e'er they the fowl can reach,
Which then to save their lives, their wings do lively stretch.
But when the whizzing bells the silent air do cleave
And that their greatest speed them vainly do deceive,
And the sharp, cruel hawks they at their backs do view,
Themselves for very fear they instantly ineawe.
The hawks get up again into their former place
And ranging here and there in that their airy race;
Still as the fearfull fowl attempt to scape away,
With many a stooping brave, them in again they lay.
But when the falconers take their hawking-poles in hand,
And crossing of the brook, do put it over land,
The hawk gives it a souse that makes it to rebound
Well near the height of man, sometime above the ground,
Oft takes a leg, or wing, oft takes away the head,
And oft from neck to tail, the back in two doth shred.
With many a wo ho ho and jocond lure again,
When he his quarry makes upon the grassy plain.