Hunting Poetry

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...

In this comic narrative poem, the author RE Egerton-Warburton sits and listens to the tall tales from a group of hunting friends before and after a day with hounds.   Four friends, all scarlet-coated, Eager all to join the pack, At the breakfast board were seated, Jem and Jerry, Ned and Jack. Giant Jem, a...

A huntsman musing on his old worn hunting horn and the exploits they shared ‘Though toil hath somewhat worn thy frame And time hath marred thy beauty ; Come forth, lone relic of my fame, Thou well hast done thy duty. Time was when other tongues would praise Thy wavering notes of pleasure ; Now,...

COME ! Say what is the fairest sight­. The sweetest view! Come! Tell what makes your chief delight, And I’ll tell you The artist loves to paint of scenes That suit his brush; I wish not for the views he means, Nor care a rush. The brush he wields to ply his art May prove...

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 thy...

Yes, that is the one! The old brown in the box! There may be as good; but a better’s not bred. Pure in blood, strong of bone, and as game as a fox! Has a heart like a. lion’s; and brains in his head. Too big is no country, too long is no run! He...

NB Although this poem was written for Thomas Assheton Smith its verses, particularly the final one, though written a century ago,  might suit anyone looking for suitable words in memory of a hunting friend.       Down in the park by the scene of his calling Assheton Smith lies near the whispering trees Under...

They tell me I’m not musical, they blame my want of ear For symphonies and harmonies; they say ’tis rather queer That a man of my attainments ” is as devoid of toon As a Leicester-Square grimalkin or American Racoon.” But listen to me while I tell-I’ve told it all along- What wild mad music...

WELCOME the chase, with its balmy November Welcome the colours of scarlet and grey! Welcome the friends that we meet and remember, Year after year, on the opening day! Blame me not, reader, nor say I’m romancing : Phantom-shaped horsemen I seem to discern, Riding among the gay squadrons advancing, Each one equipped for the...