Hope The Hornblower

"Hark ye, hark to the winding horn;
Sluggards, awake, and front the morn!
Hark ye, hark to the winding horn;
    The sun's on meadow and mill.
Follow me, hearts that love the chase;
Follow me, feet that keep the pace:
Stirrup to stirrup we ride, we ride,
    We ride by moor and hill."

Huntsman, huntsman, whither away?
What is the quarry afoot to-day?
Huntsman, huntsman, whither away,
    And what the game ye kill?
Is it the deer, that men may dine?
Is it the wolf that tears the kine?
What is the race ye ride, ye ride,
    Ye ride by moor and hill?

"Ask not yet till the day be dead
What is the game that's forward fled,
Ask not yet till the day be dead
    The game we follow still.
An echo it may be, floating past;
A shadow it may be, fading fast:
Shadow or echo, we ride, we ride,
    We ride by moor and hill"

Henry John Newbolt

Sir Henry John Newbolt was an English poet and author, famous for his ballads such as 'Vitaï Lampada'. He graduated from Oxford and was called to the bar, but he is better remembered for his literary contributions than his legal career. Newbolt served as a government advisor on military and naval literature during World War I. He was knighted in 1915 for his services to literature. Newbolt's work often reflected themes of patriotism and duty.

Henry John Newbolt

Fond Counsel

Henry John Newbolt, Simple Poetry

Epistle

Henry John Newbolt, Simple Poetry

Victoria Regina

Henry John Newbolt, Simple Poetry

A Ballad of John Nicholson

Henry John Newbolt, Simple Poetry

English

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A Song Of Exmoor

The Forest above and the Combe below,
    On a bright September morn!
He's the soul of a clod who thanks not God
    That ever his body was born!
So hurry along, the stag's afoot,
    The Master's up and away!
Halloo! Halloo! we'll follow it through
From Bratton to Porlock Bay!

        So hurry along, the stag's afoot,
            The Master's up and away!
        Halloo! Halloo! we'll follow it through
            From Bratton to Porlock Bay!

Hark to the tufters' challenge true,
    'Tis a note that the red-deer knows!
His courage awakes, his covert he breaks,
    And up for the moor he goes!
He's all his rights and seven on top,
    His eye's the eye of a king,
And he'll beggar the pride of some that ride
    Before he leaves the l...

Henry John Newbolt

The Fox Hunters.

I.

With fleet-limbed steeds and baying pack
They follow close on Reynard's track,
And wake the slumbering echoes round
With music of the horn and hound;
Through wood and field, o'er hill and dale,
They course him in the moonlight pale,
And sport they find which brings delight--
These reckless riders of the night!


II.

The game is up! away, away!
Nor hedge nor fence their course can stay;
They clear them at a single leap,
And like the wind they onward sweep!
O'er fallen trunk and hidden ditch
The fearless horsemen plunge and pitch,
And heedless all they follow on
With ringing shout and winding horn!


III.

Thy wondrous ride, oh Tam O'Shanter,
To speed like theirs was but a canter;
Had you bestrode ...

George W. Doneghy

The Find

    Yon sound's neither sheep-bell nor bark,
    They're running - they're running, Go hark!
    The sport may be lost by a moment's delay;
    So whip up the puppies and scurry away.
Dash down through the cover by dingle and dell,
There's a gate at the bottom - I know it full well;
And they're running - they're running,
    Go hark!

    They're running - they're running, Go hark!
    One fence and we're out of the park;
    Sit down in your saddles and race at the brook,
    Then smash at the bullfinch; no time for a look;
Leave cravens and skirters to dangle behind;
He's away for the moors in the teeth of the wind,
And they're running - they're running,
    Go hark!

    They're running - they're running, Go hark!
    Let them run on and run ...

Charles Kingsley

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'...

Arthur Conan Doyle

My Hunting Song

    Forward!    Hark forward's the cry!
One more fence and we're out on the open,
So to us at once, if you want to live near us!
Hark to them, ride to them, beauties! as on they go,
Leaping and sweeping away in the vale below!
Cowards and bunglers, whose heart or whose eye is slow,
    Find themselves staring alone.

    So the great cause flashes by;
Nearer and clearer its purposes open,
While louder and prouder the world-echoes cheer us:
Gentlemen sportsmen, you ought to live up to us,
Lead us, and lift us, and hallo our game to us -
We cannot call the hounds off, and no shame to us -
    Don't be left staring alone!

Eversley, 1849.

Charles Kingsley

The Stag-Hunt.

The morning is breaking--
    The stag is away!
The hounds and the hunters
    The signal obey!
The horn bids the echoes
    Awake as we go,
And nature is jocund
    With hark!--tally-ho!
            Hark away!
                Tally-ho!

Hark forward!--Tantivy!--
    The woodland resounds
With shouts of the sportsmen
    To cheer on the hounds!
The horse and his rider,
    The deer and his foe,
Dash by to the music
    Of hark!--tally-ho!
            (He's at bay!)
                Tally-ho!

George Pope Morris