With Hounds

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...
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