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 till it's dark!
    Well with them we are, and well with them we'll be,
    While there's wind in our horses and daylight to see:
Then shog along homeward, chat over the fight,
And hear in our dreams the sweet music all night
Of - They're running - they're running,
    Go hark!

Eversley, 1856.

Charles Kingsley

Charles Kingsley was an English writer, historian, and clergyman born on June 12, 1819, in Holne, Devon. He was associated with the Christian Socialist movement and was a friend of prominent figures such as Charles Darwin. Kingsley is best known for his historical novels, including 'Westward Ho!' and 'Hypatia,' as well as his children's book 'The Water-Babies.' His works often explore social issues and aim to contribute to societal reform. Kingsley died on January 23, 1875, in Eversley, Hampshire.

Charles Kingsley

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Charles Kingsley, Simple Poetry

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Charles Kingsley, Simple Poetry

English

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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

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

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 i...

Henry John Newbolt

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

Song of the Cattle-Hunters

While the morning light beams on the fern-matted streams,
And the water-pools flash in its glow,
Down the ridges we fly, with a loud ringing cry
Down the ridges and gullies we go!
And the cattle we hunt they are racing in front,
With a roar like the thunder of waves,
As the beat and the beat of our swift horses feet
Start the echoes away from their caves!
As the beat and the beat
Of our swift horses feet
Start the echoes away from their caves!

Like a wintry shore that the waters ride oer,
All the lowlands are filling with sound;
For swiftly we gain where the herds on the plain,
Like a tempest, are tearing the ground!
And well follow them hard to the rails of the yard,
Oer the gulches and mountain-tops grey,
Where the beat and the beat of our sw...

Henry Kendall

After the Hunt

Underneath the windy mountain walls
Forth we rode, an eager band,
By the surges and the verges and the gorges,
Till the night was on the land
On the hazy, mazy land!
Far away the bounding prey
Leapt across the ruts and logs,
But we galloped, galloped, galloped on,
Till we heard the yapping of the dogs
The yapping and the yelping of the dogs.

Oh, it was a madly merry day
We shall not so soon forget,
And the edges and the ledges and the ridges
Haunt us with their echoes yet
Echoes, echoes, echoes yet!
While the moon is on the hill
Gleaming through the streaming fogs,
Dont you hear the yapping of the dogs
The yapping and the yelping of the dogs?

Henry Kendall