76 



Sometimes when you pass in the balmy November, 

 The roll of the gallop may fall on mine ear, 



Sometimes as you pass I may hear and remember 

 The notes of the pack as they fly to the cheer. 



Ah think of me still when your pulses are beating 



In time to the tune of the musical horn, 

 And spare me a thought when the moments are fleeting 



So brilliantly by on a fine hunting morn. 



Good-bye to the chase, many friends have I numbered 

 Through half a long century, now I must pass 



From those that are left to the ones that have slumbered 

 So sweetly and silently under the grass. 



In harmony blended our best inclinations, 

 In love and good fellowship onward we ride, 



Still holding our own in the march of the nations, 

 The spirit of sport is the Englishman's pride. 



But hush ! through the woodland the night-wind is stealing, 

 The whisper of death passes over the plain, 



The moon in her glory is softly revealing 

 The fields I may never ride over again. 



The night and the morning were silently meeting. 

 The mists from the meadows crept over the hill. 



The watchers stood watching the life that was fleeting. 

 And all in the chamber were silent and still, 



