WITH THE CHIDDINGFOLDS

   The horse is bedded down
      Where the straw lies deep.
   The hound is in the kennel;
      Let the poor hound sleep!
   And the fox is in the spinney
      By the run which he is haunting,
   And I’ll lay an even guinea
      That a goose or two is wanting
When the farmer comes to count them in the morning.

   The horse is up and saddled;
      Girth the old horse tight!
   The hounds are out and drawing
      In the morning light.
   Now it’s ‘Yoick!’ among the heather,
      And it’s ‘Yoick!’ across the clover,
   And it’s ‘To him, all together!’
      ‘Hyke a Bertha!  Hyke a Rover!’
And the woodlands smell so sweetly in the morning.

   ‘There’s Termagant a-whimpering;
      She whimpers so.’
   ‘There’s a young hound yapping!’
      Let the young hound go!
   But the old hound is cunning,
      And it’s him we mean to follow,
   ‘They are running!  They are running!
      And it’s ‘Forrard to the hollo!’
For the scent is lying strongly in the morning.

   ‘Who’s the fool that heads him?’
      Hold hard, and let him pass!
   He’s out among the oziers
      He’s clear upon the grass.
   You grip his flanks and settle,
      For the horse is stretched and straining,
   Here’s a game to test your mettle,
      And a sport to try your training,
When the Chiddingfolds are running in the morning.

   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

We started from the Valley Pride,
   And Farnham way we went.
We waited at the cover-side,
   But never found a scent.
Then we tried the withy beds
   Which grow by Frensham town,
And there we found the old gray fox,
      The same old fox,
      The game old fox;
Yes, there we found the old gray fox,
   Which lives on Hankley Down.
         So here’s to the master,
         And here’s to the man!
      And here’s to twenty couple
      Of the white and black and tan!
   Here’s a find without a wait!
   Here’s a hedge without a gate!
   Here’s the man who follows straight,
      Where the old fox ran.

The Member rode his thoroughbred,
   Doctor had the gray,
The Soldier led on a roan red,
   The Sailor rode the bay.
Squire was there on his Irish mare,
   And Parson on the brown;
And so we chased the old gray fox,
      The same old fox,
      The game old fox,
And so we chased the old gray fox
   Across the Hankley Down.
         So here’s to the master,
         And here’s to the man!
            &c. &c. &c.

The Doctor’s gray was going strong
   Until she slipped and fell;
He had to keep his bed so long
   His patients all got well.
The Member he had lost his seat,
   ’Twas carried by his horse;
And so we chased the old gray fox,
      The same old fox,
      The game old fox;
And so we chased the old gray fox
   That earthed in Hankley Gorse.
         So here’s to the master,
         And here’s to the man!
            &c. &c. &c.

The Parson sadly fell away,
   And in the furze did lie;
The words we heard that Parson say
   Made all the horses shy!
The Sailor he was seen no more
   Upon that stormy bay;
But still we chased the old gray fox,
      The same old fox,
      The game old fox;
Still we chased the old gray fox
   Through all the winter day.
         So here’s to the master,
         And here’s to the man!
            &c. &c. &c.

And when we found him gone to ground,
   They sent for spade and man;
But Squire said ‘Shame!  The beast was game!
   A gamer never ran!
His wind and pace have gained the race,
   His life is fairly won.
But may we meet the old gray fox,
      The same old fox,
      The game old fox;
May we meet the old gray fox
   Before the year is done.
         So here’s to the master,
         And here’s to the man!
      And here’s to twenty couple
      Of the white and black and tan!
      Here’s a find without await!
      Here’s a hedge without a gate!
      Here’s the man who follows straight,
         Where the old fox ran.