The Forest above and the Combe below, On a bright September morn! He's the soul of a clod who thanks not God That ever his body was born! So hurry along, the stag's afoot, The Master's up and away! Halloo! Halloo! we'll follow it through From Bratton to Porlock Bay! So hurry along, the stag's afoot, The Master's up and away! Halloo! Halloo! we'll follow it through From Bratton to Porlock Bay! Hark to the tufters' challenge true, 'Tis a note that the red-deer knows! His courage awakes, his covert he breaks, And up for the moor he goes! He's all his rights and seven on top, His eye's the eye of a king, And he'll beggar the pride of some that ride Before he leaves the ling! Here comes Antony bringing the pack, Steady! he's laying them on! By the sound of their chime you may tell that it's time To harden your heart and be gone. Nightacott, Narracott, Hunnacott's passed, Right for the North they race: He's leading them straight for Blackmoor Gate, And he's setting a pounding pace! We're running him now on a breast-high scent, But he leaves us standing still; When we swing round by Westland Pound He's far up Challacombe Hill. The pack are a string of struggling ants, The quarry's a dancing midge, They're trying their reins on the edge of the Chains While he's on Cheriton Ridge. He's gone by Kittuck and Lucott Moor, He's gone by Woodcock's Ley; By the little white town he's turned him down, And he's soiling in open sea. So hurry along, we'll both be in, The crowd are a parish away! We're a field of two, and we've followed it through From Bratton to Porlock Bay! So hurry along, we'll both be in, The crowd are a parish away! We're a field of two, and we've followed it through From Bratton to Porlock Bay! Fidele's Grassy Tomb The Squire sat propped in a pillowed chair, His eyes were alive and clear of care, But well he knew that the hour was come To bid good-bye to his ancient home. He looked on garden, wood, and hill, He looked on the lake, sunny and still: The last of earth that his eyes could see Was the island church of Orchardleigh. The last that his heart could understand Was the touch of the tongue that licked his hand: "Bury the dog at my feet," he said, And his voice dropped, and the Squire was dead. Now the dog was a hound of the Danish breed, Staunch to love and strong at need: He had dragged his master safe to shore When the tide was ebbing at Elsinore. From that day forth, as reason would, He was named "Fidele," and made it good: When the last of the mourners left the door Fidele was dead on the chantry floor. They buried him there at his master's feet, And all that heard of it deemed it meet: The story went the round for years, Till it came at last to the Bishop's ears. Bishop of Bath and Wells was he, Lord of the lords of Orchardleigh; And he wrote to the Parson the strongest screed That Bishop may write or Parson read.