Not the lord of copse or covert
Lying lazy in the sun,
But the late returning lover
Is the fox we fain would run,
Stealing home across the meadows
In the glare and dust of noon
Like an exile of the shadows
Filled with memories of the moon.
As the cigarettes are lighted,
While the rein is on the wrist,
For a moment he is sighted
Ere he melts away like mist ;
And our bridles we recover,
And we fling our weeds away.
For we know that moonlight lover
Means to make the pace to-day.
He is scarce a field before us
When a lifted cap for sign
Sets a sixteen-couple chorus
Chiming loudly on his line.
We shall learn before it 's over
Just how far a fox can roam,
And the pace of a night-rover
When his mask is set for home.
With that one endeavour burning
He will lead us, straight of neck ;
There '11 be neither twist nor turning,
There '11 be neither pause nor check ;
We shall learn by each disaster,
Rotten bank and breaking bar,
There is nothing travels faster
Than a homing Lochinvar.
All we ask for is a rover
That the waking Spring beguiles
To go forth and meet a lover
Over many moonlit miles.
May there sound the sudden holloa
That discovers him next day.
And may I be there to follow
When that rover leads the way !
