From the Gallows Hill to the Tineton Copse There were ten ploughed fields like ten full stops, All wet red clay where a horse's foot Would be swathed, feet thick, like an ash-tree root. The fox raced on, on the headlands firm, Where his swift feet scared the coupling worm, The rooks rose raving to curse him raw He snarled a sneer at their swoop and caw. Then on, then on, down a half ploughed field Where a ship-like plough drave glitter-keeled, With a bay horse near and a white horse leading, And a man saying "Zook" and the red earth bleeding. He gasped as he saw the ploughman drop The stilts and swear at the team to stop. The ploughman ran in his red clay clogs Crying "Zick un, Towzer; zick, good dogs." A couple of wire-haired lurchers lean Arose from his wallet, nosing keen; With a rushing swoop they were on his track, Putting chest to stubble to bite his back. He swerved from his line with the curs at heel, The teeth as they missed him clicked like steel, With a worrying snarl, they quartered on him, While the ploughman shouted "Zick; upon him." The lurcher dogs soon shot their bolt, And the fox raced on by the Hazel Holt, Down the dead grass tilt to the sandstone gash Of the Pantry Brook at Tineton Ash. The loitering water, flooded full, Had yeast on its lip like raddled wool, It was wrinkled over with Arab script Of eddies that twisted up and slipt. The stepping stones had a rush about them So the fox plunged in and swam without them. [Illustration: He swerved from his line with the curs at heel] He crossed to the cattle's drinking shallow Firmed up with rush and the roots of mallow, He wrung his coat from his draggled bones And romped away for the Sarsen Stones. A sneaking glance with his ears flexed back, Made sure that his scent had failed the pack, For the red clay, good for corn and roses, Was cold for scent and brought hounds to noses. He slackened pace by the Tineton Tree, (A vast hollow ash-tree grown in three), He wriggled a shake and padded slow, Not sure if the hounds were on or no. A horn blew faint, then he heard the sounds Of a cantering huntsman, lifting hounds, The ploughman had raised his hat for sign, And the hounds were lifted and on his line. He heard the splash in the Pantry Brook, And a man's voice: "Thiccy's the line he took," And a clear "Yoi doit" and a whimpering quaver, Though the lurcher dogs had dulled the savour. The fox went off while the hounds made halt, And the horses breathed and the field found fault, But the whimpering rose to a crying crash By the hollow ruin of Tineton Ash. Then again the kettle drum horse hooves beat, And the green blades bent to the fox's feet And the cry rose keen not far behind Of the "Blood, blood, blood" in the fox-hounds' mind.