Hunting Poetry

They call me Charles James (and a few other names….) Such as Reynard and Charlie the Fox. I’m a glutton for hens and for turkeys in pens And a worry to men who tend flocks. People cut quite a dash and they pay out good cash When it’s me that they’re huntin’ y’know. I’m a...

Ahh!, how I miss him where the trees That fringe the gorse are softly dripping, Sore-hearted as I feel my knees The flanks of his successor gripping: His gleaming heels no more, alas, Shall leave the straggling field behind him; No more across a stretch of grass The fastest run unbeaten find him. For he...

A tale in verse of Dimple ’94 and her time with Stephen Goodall and the Pytchley. Dedicated to Mr. F. Lort Phillips The Pytchley hounds are running hard across the “Badby Vale “; They fly like swallows on the wing, although it blows a gale. ‘T’would make an old man young, I swear, to see...

‘Lay me in a cushioned chair; Carry me, ye four, With cushions here and cushions there, To see the world once more. ‘To stable and to kennel go; Bring what is there to bring; Lead my Lollard to and fro, Or gently in a ring. ‘Put the chair upon the grass: Bring Rody and his...

Hunters are fretting, and hacks in a lather, Sportsmen arriving from left and from right; Bridle-roads bringing them, see how they gather, Dotting the meadows in scarlet and white. Foot-people staring and horsemen preparing, Now there’s a murmur, astir, and a shout, Fresh from his carriage, as bridegroom in marriage, The Lord of the Valley...

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...