TARWOOD 



Away ! away ! uncheck'd in pace, 

 O'er grass and fallow swept the chace ; 

 To hounds, to horses, or to men. 

 No child's play was the struggle then ; 

 A trespasser on Milward's ground. 

 He climb'd the pale that fenc'd it round ; 

 Then close by Little Hemel sped. 

 To Fairford pointing straight a-head. 

 Though now, the pack approaching nigh. 

 He heard his death-note in the cry. 

 They view'd him, and then seem'd their race 

 The very lightning of the chace ! 

 The fox had reach'd the Southropp lane. 

 He strove to cross it, but in vain. 

 The pack roll'd o'er him in his stride, 

 And onward struggling still — he died. 



This gallant fox, in Tarwood found. 

 Had cross'd full twenty miles of ground ; 

 Had sought in cover, left or right. 

 No shelter to conceal his flight ; 

 But nigh two hours the open kept. 

 As stout a fox as ever stept ! 

 That morning, in the saddle set, 

 A hundred men at Tarwood met ; 

 The eager steeds which they bestrode 

 Pac'd to and fro the Witney road. 

 For hard as iron shoe that trod 

 Its surface, the unyielding sod ; 

 Till midday sun had thaw'd the ground 

 And made it fit for foot of hound, 



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