We searched the fields that grows around, Our trail is lost, our game is found, Then out she springs, through brake she flies, Then out she springs, through brake she flies. Follow, follow the musical horn, Sing follow, hark follow, the innocent hare. Our horses go galloping over the ground, Go breathing all after the torturing hound. Such a game she has led us four hours or more, Such a game she has led us four hours or more, Follow, follow the musical horn, Sing follow, hark follow, the innocent hare. Our huntsman blows the joyful sound, See how he scours over the ground. Our hare's a sinking, see how she creeps, Our hare's a sinking, see how she creeps, Follow, follow, the musical horn, Sing follow, hark follow, the innocent hare. All on the green turf she pants for breath, Our huntsman shouts out for death. Hullo, hullo, we've tired our hare, Hullo, hullo, we've tired our hare. Wine and beer we'll drink without fear, We'll drink success to the innocent hare. The last line has an irony which no one seemed to see. I must confess that a whole evening of song is to me full measure, and I took all the opportunities I could of getting Uncle Jonah, the voiceless shepherd in the smock, to talk of old times; but always with the fear of the Director very lively in me. For anecdotage is nothing to him. His purpose in life is to fill blank bars with little magical dots; for this and this only does he scour the coloured counties. All conversation is therefore an interruption, if not a misdemeanour. But when the singers, having sung all that the Director did not know, began to respond with songs that he did, I openly drew Uncle Jonah aside and filled again his glass and made certain masonic signs to indicate that though no doubt the Director was a worthy and even gifted man, here was one who sympathized with those who had no music in them, but preferred character and comedy in the blessed spoken word. Old shepherds are peculiarly the treasuries of reminiscences of eccentric and historic figures of the country-side: such as Charley Dean, over at Coombe Place, who would ride his horse down the steepest slopes of the hills when hunting, so that you could see slide-marks several yards long afterwards--a "terrible daring rider he was"; and old David Wade, over at Madingdean, who did his own farriery work and mended his grey mare's broken leg so out an' out cleverly that he won a Point to Point steeple-chase on her the next year; and Tom Woolley, over at West Green, whose lifelong feud with the Gipos (or gipsies), who stole his chickens and cut his gorse for umbrella handles, drove him, with the assistance of strong drink, off his head, so that he attacked every stranger with his stick and had to be kept in one room, the barred window of which is still to be seen, while Mrs. Woolley made the farm pay as it had never paid before.