Cold is the plough, looking most uninviting, 

 Heartless the country to huntsman and hound ; 



Facing the gale against which we are fighting, 

 Dairymaid leads o'er the coldest of ground. 



See how they cast when they check by the spinney, 

 Over the valley they spread like a fan. 



Dairymaid has it down wind for a guinea. 

 Slowly she hunts from her place in the van. 



Now, like a beagle, so carefully turning. 

 Feathering aw^ay at her work with a will ; 



Game to the last, she is eagerly learning 

 The line of her fox on the side of the hill. 



Short in his turnings the good fox is failing. 



Dairymaid shows us each move in the game. 

 " Yonder he goes crawling under the paling." 



Dairymaid's teeth are the first in his frame. 



Stiff as a crutch, how they tear him and eat him. 



Many's the time he got fairly away. 

 Thanks to the hound who so brilliantly beat him, 



Reynard is ours at the end of to-day. 



Later at night, as the moon in her glory, 

 Falls on the meadows with silvery beams. 



Some hound, at least, is repeating the story. 



And Dairymaid hunts the good fox in her dreams. 



