The Find

A poem by Charles Kingsley

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!

Eversley, 1856.

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