When autumn returns with its balmy November, 

 The cry of the hounds and the heat of the chase ; 

 I pause as I pass by the spot, and remember 

 The solemn procession, the beautiful face. 



And down in the vale, where the elm trees are shading 



The fairest of spots in the whole of the shire ; 



The gold of the autumn is silently fading, 



And yellow leaves fall on the grave of " the Squire." 



