i6 



TWELVE MILES IN THE OPEN. 



" Hold hard, it's a vixen I " Oh, grief and disaster ! 



The dog has gone out at the end of the ride, 

 The whipper-in's rate and the horn of the Master 



Restrain for awhile the impetuous tide. 



" Hold hard for a moment ! " the hounds are collecting, 

 Old Benedict speaks ; how they fly to his cry ! 



The thoughts of the chase all our senses infecting, 

 We wait in the hopes of a sweet by-and-bye. 



Right over the hill in the light of the morning. 

 Right out in the open, as game as can be, 



The dog-fox is off, and he gives us fair warning, 

 " Come follow me on, I am game for a spree." 



And soon on the side of the wind we are running, 

 For the part of the forest, the home of his birth. 



Where Reynard was bred with his marvellous cunning. 

 With more of his sort in a snug little earth. 



We see the dark woodland away in the distance, 

 The dull purple line in the southerly sky ; 



All praise to the saints for a sporting existence. 

 All praise to the science, and never say die. 



