Hunting Poetry

This cubbing morn, an August number, Many folk still steeped in slumber. The air was fresh the day was young, A swiftly rising autumn sun. The time of year when hunting men, Slip nocturnal from their den. Enthusiasm crystal clear, What a magic time of year! The morning sunlight rose and made, A golden grotto...

Great big lolloping lovable things! Rolling and tumbling on every lawn, Tearing at slippers and bones and wings- Wonderful loot from the ash-heap drawn: Foxhound puppies Contented puppies Dipping your ears in the dews of dawn! Lapping your porridge at farm-house doors, Cracking a biscuit, robbing a nest Printing your tracks upon kitchen floors, Dodging...

‘Will you walk a puppy?’ the Hunt enquired Being sportsmen, we did as the Hunt desired And in early June there arrived a man With an innocent bundle of black and tan A fat little foxhound, bred to the game With a rollicking eye and a league-long name, And he played with a cork on...

NB The “Fox’s Prophecy” poem is a truly remarkable piece of work. Written, about 150 years ago, it repeatedly “predicts” occurrences that have subsequently transpired, even down to the modern farming practices of removing hedgerows, and the current crisis in foxhunting in England.  The following verses, to which, the very apposite title of “The Fox’s...

Woodwork freshly painted, flower beds all in bloom. The gravel raked and dampened down, hounds all well in tune White coats neatly laundered, bowlers blacked and buffed. Kennels looking spick and span, yards all neatly brushed. Arriving at the puppy show, the walkers and the guests. Everyone discreetly prays, their puppies judged the best. The...

It is with sheer excitement, That we rise with the early dawn, Anticipating horse and hounds And the shrill of the hunting horn. Little do the town-folk know, Will they ever understand? What joy, a cold damp morn can bring, To the keepers of the land . We plough, we till, we thresh, we mill,...

A sad but poignant verse to a favourite hunter at that difficult time. To no misfortune in the field He bows, fit ending of the game; No weight of years bids him to yield, But swift disease that warps his frame. So Mercy stepping in must break The bonds that Love would fain hold fast,...

These lines were penned by Willet Randall the ninetenth century breeder of some exceptional American beagles including Forest Patch When the summer days are over, With the fields no longer green; And the lavish hand of Nature, Daubs her war-paint on the screen; There’s a thrilling recreation, Born of ages long since dead, That revives...

From our Own Correspondent. New York, Thursday, October 19. 1939 Barking loudly and wagging their tails, thirty-seven refugee foxhounds from England landed here today and were rushed to the country in a fleet of expensive limousines. The foxhounds looked so impressive that New York street hounds growled loudly at them. They belong to the North...

A smart young fox sat airing his view in Dingly Dell one night, I’m glad to see that human folk at last set things aright,  Abolish all blood sports they say, and down with hunting men!! What rubbish are you quoting? Said an old grey fox just then. Young man, I’m old and grey I...