Ride, Fair American: Efiglishman, Ride 317 



Hark! There's a crack of a whip at the turning. 

 Yonder they join us, "Hounds, gentlemen, please" 



Eighteen sweet couple of hitches, all yearning 

 For the game to begin, come up under the trees, 



Sorty and true with an absence of lumber. 



Even in stature with bone to the feet. 

 Each was distinct, yet a part of the number. 



Each was a foxhound, and all were a treat. 



Strains from the Belvoir and Quorn interblended, 

 Warwickshire's fastest, and Brocklesby's best. 



Right through the pack the tradition descended. 

 Work was the watchword, and work was the test. 



Near in the crowd, sitting well on their horses. 

 Two good horsemen stood still by the way. 



Each loved the chase and the pluck it enforces. 

 One was in scarlet and one was in grey. 



He in the pink was an Englishman, leading 

 The life of a sportsman and true to his creed. 



Born of the best, and a type of his breeding, 

 Master of hounds and part of his steed. 



He in the grey was from over the ocean. 



Born in America, bred in the West, 

 Keen for a hunt, he'd a very good notion 



Of riding to hounds with the hardest and best. 



Hark! there's a note of the horn, and a holloa, 



Reynard goes gallantly over the grass. 

 Follow them, follow them, follow them, follow. 



Onward they gallop, and onward they pass. 



