The Idler’s Calendar. Twelve Sonnets For The Months. September

FEAST OF ST. PARTRIDGE The only saint in all our calendar Is good St. Partridge. 'Tis his feast to--day, The happiest day of all a happy year, And heralded as never yet was May. The dawn has found us marshalled for the fray, Striding the close--shorn stubbles ranked in line, With lust of battle and with lust of play Made glorious drunk as men are drunk with wine. There go the coveys, forward birds and strong, Bound for the mangold where they wheel and stop. Now, steady, men, and bring the left along. A fortune waits us in each turnip--top. With a wild shriek, and then a whirr of wings, The covey rises. Brace and brace they drop, Joining the dead ranks of forgotten things In glorious death, the fierce delight of kings.