Posted on Sunday, July 11, 2021
In: Hunting Poetry
Written by: Peter Brook
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...