THE FIND

Yon sound's neither sheep-bell nor bark,

They're running — they're running, Go hark!

The sport may be lost by a moment's delay;

So whip up the puppies and scurry away.

Dash down through the cover by dingle and dell,

There's a gate at the bottom — I know it full well;

And they're running — they're running,

Go hark!

They're running — they're running, Go hark!

One fence and we're out of the park;

Sit down in your saddles and race at the brook,

Then smash at the bullfinch; no time for a look;

Leave cravens and skirters to dangle behind;

He's away for the moors in the teeth of the wind,

And they're running — they're running,

Go hark!

They're running — they're running, Go hark!

Let them run on and run till it's dark!

Well with them we are, and well with them we'll be,

While there's wind in our horses and daylight to see:

Then shog along homeward, chat over the fight,

And hear in our dreams the sweet music all night

Of — They're running — they're running,

Go hark!