62 JOHN HARGREAVES. 



And forrard again, ever crossing the breeze, 

 The fox is still forward, I ween. 



See, the good hounds are speeding away by the trees 

 With the Master beside them still going at ease 

 To note where their quarry has been. 



But mark, on the fallow the hounds are at fault, 



Like beagles they stoop and they try ; 



But the Master's " Hold hard ! " brings the field to a halt, 



For he holds that a sportsman is not worth his salt 



Who presses hounds scouring to cry. 



And forrard again ; how he twists and he turns 

 This fox, yet he leads us a dance ; 

 But the Master is hard on his track and soon learns 

 His movements, which movements he quickly discerns ; 

 No doubt he could hunt him to France. 



We sink to the valley, and rise to the hill, 



To old maiden castle we fly ; 



The earth is unstopped — will he gain it ? He will ! 



No ! Look ! — they have got him. " Who-whoop ! " it's a kill. 



'• Who-whoop ! then, who-whoop ! " is the cry. 



And journeying homewards we think of the day, 



The whips and the huntsman so keen ; 



We think of the crowd ever streaming away 



O'er the hills of the Cattistock, so bright and so gay, 



And ponder on what we have seen. 



