Off Tineton Common to Tineton Dean, Where the wind-hid elders pushed with green; Through the Dean's thin cover across the lane, And up Midwinter to King of Spain. Old Joe at digging his garden grounds, Said "A fox, being hunter; where be hounds? O lord, my back, to be young again, 'Stead a zellin zider in King of Spain. O hark, I hear 'em, O sweet, O sweet. Why there be redcoat in Gearge's wheat. And there be redcoat, and there they gallop. Thur go a browncoat down a wallop. Quick, Ellen, quick, come Susan, fly. Here'm hounds. I zeed the fox go by, Go by like thunder, go by like blasting, With his girt white teeth all looking ghasting. Look there come hounds. Hark, hear 'em crying. Lord, belly to stubble, ain't they flying. There's huntsmen, there. The fox come past (As I was digging) as fast as fast. He's only been gone a minute by; A girt dark dog as pert as pye." Ellen and Susan came out scattering Brooms and dustpans till all was clattering; They saw the pack come head to foot Running like racers nearly mute; Robin and Dansey quartering near, All going gallop like startled deer. A half dozen flitting scarlets shewing In the thin green Dean where the pines were growing. Black coats and brown coats thrusting and spurring Sending the partridge coveys whirring, Then a rattle up hill and a clop up lane, It emptied the bar of the King of Spain. Tom left his cider, Dick left his bitter, Ganfer James left his pipe and spitter, Out they came from the sawdust floor, They said, "They'm going." They said "O Lor." The fox raced on, up the Barton Balks, With a crackle of kex in the nettle stalks, Over Hammond's grass to the dark green line Of the larch-wood smelling of turpentine. Scratch Steven Larches, black to the sky, A sadness breathing with one long sigh, Grey ghosts of treen under funeral plumes, A mist of twig over soft brown glooms. As he entered the wood he heard the smacks, Chip-jar, of the fir pole feller's axe, He swerved to the left to a broad green ride, Where a boy made him rush for the further side. He swerved to the left, to the Barton Road, But there were the timberers come to load. Two timber carts and a couple of carters With straps round their knees instead of garters. He swerved to the right, straight down the wood, The carters watched him, the boy hallooed. He leaped from the larch wood into tillage, The cobbler's garden of Barton village.