318 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 



Onward they gallop, those hitches so lightly. 

 Never a hound's left behind in the gorse. 



Comely and Crafty, and Sportive and Sprightly, 

 Break at the head of the galloping force. 



Forward away where the pastures are gleaming. 

 Set in the heart of broad England so fair. 



Forward away where the sunlight is streaming. 

 Forward away with the galloping jmir. 



Forward away for twelve miles they are moving. 

 Every hound up in her place in the pack. 



Every hound working, and every hound proving 

 The worth of her sort on the grass covered track. 



What, have they got him? Yes, Nosegay has nailed him. 

 Gamely he faced it, this fox in the vale; 



One and another they all have assailed him, 



Tear-him-and-eat-him-hounds. All within hail. 



Who has the brush? Who shall claim it, my inasters? 



He in the scarlet or he in the grey? 

 Both went so well and kept clear of disasters. 



Both went their best through the best of the day. 



Each has a look. Then the Englishman takes it. 



Handing it over in turn with a smile, 

 Then again touching the trophy he makes it 



Clear that the other is welcome the while. 



Yes, there is soviething that baffles the telling. 

 Men of the chase will know well what I mean. 



Something too deep for mere writing and spelling, 

 Something mysterious, something unseen. 



