We’re up by the Coppice And we’re down by the Mill, We’re out upon the Common, And the hounds are running still. You must tighten on the leather, For we blunder through the bracken; Though you’re over hocks in heather Still the pace must never slacken As we race through Thursley Common in the morning. We are breaking from the tangle We are out upon the green, There’s a bank and a hurdle With a quickset between. You must steady him and try it, You are over with a scramble. Here’s a wattle! You must fly it, And you land among the bramble, For it’s roughish, toughish going in the morning. ’Ware the bog by the Grove As you pound through the slush. See the whip! See the huntsman! We are close upon his brush. ’Ware the root that lies before you! It will trip you if you blunder. ’Ware the branch that’s drooping o’er you! You must dip and swerve from under As you gallop through the woodland in the morning. There were fifty at the find, There were forty at the mill, There were twenty on the heath, And ten are going still. Some are pounded, some are shirking, And they dwindle and diminish Till a weary pair are working, Spent and blowing, to the finish, And we hear the shrill whoo-ooping in the morning. The horse is bedded down Where the straw lies deep, The hound is in the kennel, He is yapping in his sleep. But the fox is in the spinney Lying snug in earth and burrow. And I’ll lay an even guinea We could find again to-morrow, If we chose to go a-hunting in the morning. A HUNTING MORNING Put the saddle on the mare, For the wet winds blow; There’s winter in the air, And autumn all below. For the red leaves are flying And the red bracken dying, And the red fox lying Where the oziers grow. Put the bridle on the mare, For my blood runs chill; And my heart, it is there, On the heather-tufted hill, With the gray skies o’er us, And the long-drawn chorus Of a running pack before us From the find to the kill. Then lead round the mare, For it’s time that we began, And away with thought and care, Save to live and be a man, While the keen air is blowing, And the huntsman holloing, And the black mare going As the black mare can. THE OLD GRAY FOX