Hunting Poetry

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...

‘Will you walk a puppy?’ the Hunt enquired Being sportsmen, we did as the Hunt desired And in early June there arrived a man With an innocent bundle of black and tan A fat little foxhound, bred to the game With a rollicking eye and a league-long name, And he played with a cork on...

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,...