Hunting Poetry

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...

The huntsman’s horse, whether brown or bay, or brightest chestnut, or sober grey, whate’er his colour, a hunting day is all the same to him, come what may. When other horses, too full of beans, unship their riders by artful means, or kick each other to smithereens, he takes no part in such ugly scenes....

We don’t turn out in scarlet, We are more at home in tweeds; We have no aristocratic hounds Or blood three figure steeds: Our home is in the up-lands Where the Great Creator spills His richest browns and purples On our everlasting hills   Our pack’s no beauty chorus Bred to win in show-ring class...

The huntsman drove up to our gate.. “I’ve brought you these..” he said, “This one has been rather ill, and messed on that one’s head!” I tried to look delighted, as any new mum should, but the smell of sick, and other things, had somewhat spoiled the mood! A gorgeous pair of tiny dogs had...