Hunting Poetry

Come, horsemen all, from every field And taste this rare delight, And see what English pastures yield To those whose hearts beat right! Come, haste and quaff the stirrup-cup! Turn down the empty glass! The horn is blown, the hunt is up, And here’s our English grass! And here are foxes swift to find And...

When the opal lights in the West had died And night was wrapping the red ferns round, As I came home by the woodland side I heard the cry of a single hound. The huntsman had gathered his pack and gone ; The last late hoof had echoed away ; The horn was twanging a...

Cherish us for our courage Instead of for our looks; Look on us more as comrades, And less as picture books. Breed to the strains that serve you The best throughout the chase; Remember that your stewardship Spells trustee to our race. The duty now before you Is not to mess us up, And not...

O brown are the moors in the grey morning lying Where the west wind comes singing o’er wide sea and plain; O blithe on the hills when the autumn is dying The hound and the horn wake the echoes again. Here’s to the hills bleak and bare: To the winds that give challenge to care!...

Now the last meet is over, the last hunt is done, And the last farewell spoken at set of the sun, And the ghost of a voice in the waft of a cry Seems to ring far away ‘twixt the fields and the sky: ‘For’ard on!’ Hey, Bugler, hey, Beaver, and hounds one and all,...

They were here on the side Of the downs a few minutes ago . . . Hounds dappled and pied, And riders pink-coated and black, And people on foot holding back Their bobbery pack On leads, All sizes and breeds, The laughter and chatter As neighbour greets neighbour, the sound Of the whip’s voice berating...

Yo were but a little un, Crowner my lad, When th’ huntsman he said yo’d be t’ spit o’ yo’r dad, An’ now yo’re a big un, an’ Spring comin’ round, Time’s come for partin’, lad! – mak’ a good hound! I thowt I’d ne’er rear yo, lad, six month ago, But I’se warrant to-day...

Now hark, all good hunters, I’ll sing you the praise Of a brave hound and goodly, that’s worth As gallant a creature as God made for man Since the hound and the horn on this old earth began. He’s strong and he’s straight, lads, his tongue like a bell, And the stout heart that’s in...

Through yon little planting, by yonder streamside, Where Ribble’s sweet waters flow softly and wide, While the dew’s on the meadows it’s up and away, A-hunting the otter at break o’ the day. 0 hear the glad music of horn and of hound; 0 hear how they welcome in day with the sound: 0 hear...

When the last of my hunts is over and done, And I go to my rest with the sinking sun, And horse and hound are forsaken, Will all we loved be vanished and vain, And the years of our life be as nought again In that land where at last we waken? I think that...