Besides the wild-deer on Exmoor, there are, as everyone knows, creatures almost as wild—herds of Exmoor ponies. Very few now are pure 'Exmoors,' except those belonging to Sir Thomas Acland. Among these ponies the true breed has been carefully preserved, and there has been no crossing. It seems a little odd to think of Exmoor ponies being mentioned in Domesday, but Mr Chanter quotes an entry referring to the stock in the parishes of Lynton and Countisbury, '72 brood mares, probably the Exmoor ponies running half wild on the moor; in Brendon, 104 wild mares (equas indomitas) are mentioned.'
'The average height is 12½ hands, and bays and buffy bays with mealy noses prevail; in fact, are in the majority of three to one.' The older ponies live out all the year round, but stacks of hay and straw are built by the herdsmen against the time when the snow lies deep. 'Still, like honest, hard-working labourers, the ponies never assemble at the wicket till they have exhausted every means of self-support by scratching with their fore-feet in the snow for the remnants of the summer tufts, and drag wearily behind them an ever-lengthening chain of snowballs.'
The moor makes an excellent sheep-walk, but attempts to cultivate it have not prospered. As far as agriculturists are concerned, 'Exmoor is best left alone—the "peat and heather in hill and dale."'
There is an old ballad called 'The Farmer's Son of Devonshire,' in which the views of one character, 'Brother Jack,' show a distinct resemblance to those of the great John Fry in 'Lorna Doone.' Here are a few verses. The sub-title is a long one, beginning: 'Being the Valiant Coronel's Return from Flanders.' To the tune of 'Mary, live long.'
'Will. Well met, Brother Jack, I've been in Flanders
With valiant Commanders, and am return'd back to England again;
Where a while I shall stay, and shall then march away;
I'm an Officer now.
Go with me, dear Brother, go with me, dear Brother,
And lay by the Plow.
I tell thee, old boy, the son of a farmer,
In glittering armour, may kill and destroy
A many proud French;
As a Squire or Knight, having courage to fight,
Then valiantly go,
In arms like a Soldier, in arms like a Soldier,
To face the proud foe.
'Jack. But, dear Brother Will, you are a vine yellow,
And talk mighty mellow, but what if they kill
Thy poor brother Jack
By the pounce of a gun? If they shou'd I'm undone.
You know that I never, you know that I never,
Had courage to fight.
[Will replies at some length.]
'Jack. The enemies' men with horror will fill me,
Perhaps they may kill me, and where am I then?
This runs in my mind;
Should I chance to be lame, will the trophies of Fame
Keep me from sad groans?
A fig for that honour, a fig for that honour,
Which brings broken bones.
'Such honour I scorn, I'd rather be mowing,
Nay, plowing or sowing, or threshing of corn,
At home in a barn;
Then to leave Joan my wife, and to loose my sweet life,
In peace let me dwell;
I am not for fighting, I am not for fighting,
So, Brother, Farewell.'