Hunting Poetry

The fox has fairly broke away, The joyous wood resounds, And crashing timbers yield to him Who rides beside the hounds. Stout fences are as wattled stakes; Steep hills become as mounds; While fickle fortune stands by him Who rides up close to hounds. Oh merry race to gain a place; Oh pleasure,  where’s thy...

I found him in the Privet and I viewed him o’er the ride, I asked the Field to keep their horses quietly outside, My whipper-in he Holloa’d when he saw him steal away, And a crashing burst of music caused me inwardly to say: Oh! It’s Huntsman this, and Huntsman that, and Huntsman Blow’em out!...

There’s a cure for the ills of all sorts and conditions Of men, that is seldom prescribed by physicians : ‘Tis a day with the hounds, for all trouble and care A ringing view-holla resolves into air. ‘Tis the key that our casket of evils unlocks When the hounds get away on the back of...

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 long...

Rustle of feet in the roadside grass, Trample of horses’ hoofs, and – Hark! Blast of an anxious horn! Hounds pass; Hounds going home in the dark. Bold was our huntsman galloping free On a difficult line to the hills to-day, But his hand is trembling against his knee At the hint of a light...

The hoofs of the horses! — Oh! witching and sweet Is the music earth steals from the iron-shod feet; No whisper of lover, no trilling of bird Can stir me as hoofs of the horses have stirred.They spurn disappointment and trample despair, And drown with their drum-beats the challenge of care; With scarlet and silk...

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...

Death had beckoned with grisly hand To the finest Whip in hunting-land. ‘ My time is short,’ Tom Moody said, ‘ Master, when I am done and dead, Lay me at Barrow beneath the yew In the dear old shire we have hunted through. Let six earth-stoppers carry me there With slow step and heads...

A tribute to those hunting horses and men lost in war. Every head across the bar, Every blaze and snip and star, Every nervous twitching ear, Every soft eye filled with fear, Seeks a friend and seems to say : Whither now, and where away?’ Seeks a friend and seems to ask : ‘Where the...

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...