Mark you that group as it stands by the stell !-
Here is no ponderous pride,
Here is no swagger, no place for the swell,
But a handful of fellows who'11 ride
A fox to his death over upland and fell
Where a hundred good foxes have died.
Here is the Master of Hounds take note .
On a rough horse run on the farm ;
And here is the Whip in a rusty coat
With a terrier under his arm.
And a holloa hid in his rough red throat
To work hill-foxes harm.
And here is the pack, from their benches torn
Long ever the cocks had crowed.
To follow the hint of the Master's horn
Through the mist of the moorland road ;
Half of them lame, with pads red-worn
On the screes where the shingle showed.
And here 's the covert ; no woodland wide
But a bunch of stunted whin
A place where a mouse could hardly hide
Or a spider find room to spin.
The Master, up in his stirrups to ride.
Is cheering them ' Leu, boys, in !
Scarce have they quested a quarter through
With their sterns all waving gay,
When the hills are rent with a hullabaloo
And the fellow they want is away
A great hill-fox running right in view
With his mask to the Merlin Brae,
Up by the glidders he glides and goes
To his stronghold under the scar.
But a shepherd was there ere the sun-god rose
And his door shows bolt and bar,
So he turns his head to the south ; he knows
It is time to go fast and far.
Over the top come the lean white hounds
Screaming to scent and view ;
The hills are waked to their furthest bounds
As they clamour and drive him through,
And the joy of the far-flung challenge sounds
Till it shivers against the blue.
Then a clatter of hoofs. The Master first
Crouched low on his cat-foot grey
' If we don't get him now in the first quick burst
We 'II be riding the hills all day ! '
Says the Whip : ' That's the cove from the Brackenhurst
That carried Bob's lambs away ! '
'Faith, and it is! 'Bob, riding blind,
Comes slithering over the screes,
His pony now on its fat behind
And now on its battered knees
' He had legs as long as a foal, I mind,
And a trunk as big as a tree's.'
Says Bill : ' There 's a stranger stuck in the bog
With nowt but his head in sight.
And there he may lie like a drain-fast hogg
Till the hounds come back at night.
Look ye, man Dave, at yon old white dog
Going over the top ^yon 's right!
A holloa breaks from the hills ahead
And an answering ' For'ard on !'
There 's a clatter down in the burn's rough bed ;
Then the mist drops weird and wan;
The rubble rings to a clinking tread
Far off and the hunt is gone.
