17 



Twelve miles to the forest, how quick we are sailing, 

 Twelve miles in the open as fast as you can ; 



The multitude flags, and the bad ones are failing, 

 While six have it all to themselves in the van. 



A yokel has seen him, and shouts information ; 



No need for a halloa, no time for a cheer ; 

 If you turn from one fence it soon means degradation, 



You're hopelessly out and you're far in the rear. 



Come along ! have a shy where the oak rail is lying 

 Beneath the dark bramble ; come, give us a lead ; 



The deep ditch beyond will necessitate flying, 

 Let him go, if you like, at the best of his speed. 



Forrard on, we are over ; the forward division 

 Are sailing along in the wake of the hounds ; 



The bruiser in front has both nerve and decision 

 His soul is revived by those musical sounds. 



Enough is a feast. Are we running for ever ? 



We ask ourselves all in this wonderful race. 

 The horsemen are game and the horses are clever, 



But the fox is a regular glutton for pace. 



The shades of the forest begin to surround us, 

 The main earth is open : he'll gain it or die, 



The cry of the hounds who are hunting around us 

 Infer that their quarry is very close by. 

 c 



