Hunting Poetry

In this comic poem written by LL in the late 19th century and set in the bar parlour of the ” Worthy Fox,” a great hunting pub, the subject under discussion is “The inferiority of present-day hounds.” The meeting having at length settled itself, one member, the local butcher declares he can give an account...

Bright shines the sun on November’s first morning, Decking with diamonds the dew-laden spray, Clouds in the distance conveying a warning; Autumn yet lingers, suggestive of May. Eagerly waited for, now the day beckons on Youth, ever ready to take his place there, Down by the covert-side; all that he reckons on, Twang of the...

A poem in praise of Wilton Rosemary Bred at the Quorn, and so true to her breeding, Light in her colour of lemon and white, Rosy’s fair daughter is eagerly leading The pack through the covert and guiding them right. True to the blood, could you doubt it with Clasper, Clasper of Warwickshire fame for...

Oh don’t you remember the brave runs of old, When we raced over hill and o’er dale, And we laughed as we leapt with the wild joy of youth, And courage no danger could quail? But now we are old, and the saddle, old friend, Will ne’er see us mounting again; And of all the...

Now, gatherin’ ‘ounds is a job I like W’en the winter day draws in, W’en shadows are lyin’ by every dyke An’ creepin’ out o’ the whin ; W’en ‘Armony ‘s missin’ an’ Houtcast too, An’ the Master ‘e says to me- ‘Jim, you go back to that gorse we drew, For it’s there them...

Apart from the crowd with its banter and mirth, Sitting loose on his mare with an eye to the whins, He has looked to his curb, he has tightened his girth, He has marked out a place where the big double thins. Here’s a good one to follow, To follow, to follow- A good one...

The galloping seasons have slackened his pace, And stone wall and timber have battered his knees It is many a year since he gave up his place To live out his life in comparative ease. No more does he stand with his scarlet and white Like a statue of marble girth deep in the gorse;...

Bright strings of glittering pearls adorn The fresh fair rosy cheeks of morn; O’er vale and hill the huntsman’s horn, With clamour hoarse, Proclaims the season’s opening day, And to the meet, without delay, Calls man and horse. From all the Pytchley country round Red coat and farmer, horse and hound, And ladies fair on...

My hunter may rest in his stable, No more, sitting down on his back, Shall I push him as fast as I’m able In the wake of the musical pack. No more shall I canter to covert, No more across country be borne, Good-bye to the season, it’s over, Good-bye to the hound and the...

Pheasant or fox? Saddle or gun? That is the question! both give us fun. Foxes with pheasants can live within reason, Try for the two, and have a jolly good season! Shoot a bit early, hunt a bit late, Give in a little each side, and the gate Soon will fly open, ready to greet...