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Poem by Arthur Conan Doyle

Songs of Action (1898). 16. With the Chiddingfolds

   The horse is bedded down
      	Where the straw lies deep.
   The hound is in the kennel;
      	Let the poor hound sleep!
   And the fox is in the spinney    
     	 By the run which he is haunting,
   And Ill lay an even guinea
      	That a goose or two is wanting
When the farmer comes to count them in the morning.
   The horse is up and saddled;
     	Girth the old horse tight!                                
   The hounds are out and drawing
      	In the morning light.
   Now its Yoick! among the heather,
      	And its Yoick! across the clover,
   And its To him, all together!
      	Hyke a Bertha!  Hyke a Rover!
And the woodlands smell so sweetly in the morning.
   Theres Termagant a-whimpering;
      	She whimpers so.
   Theres a young hound yapping!
      	Let the young hound go!
   But the old hound is cunning,   
      	And its him we mean to follow,
   They are running!  They are running!
      	And its Forrard to the hollo!
For the scent is lying strongly in the morning.	

   Whos the fool that heads him?
      	Hold hard, and let him pass!
   Hes out among the oziers
      	Hes clear upon the grass.
   You grip his flanks and settle,
      	For the horse is stretched and straining,
   Heres a game to test your mettle,
      	And a sport to try your training,
When the Chiddingfolds are running in the morning.	

   Were up by the Coppice
      	And were down by the Mill,
   Were out upon the Common,
      	And the hounds are running still.
   You must tighten on the leather,
      	For we blunder through the bracken;
   Though youre over hocks in heather
      	Still the pace must never slacken
As we race through Thursley Common in the morning.
   We are breaking from the tangle
     	We are out upon the green,
   Theres a bank and a hurdle
      	With a quickset between.
   You must steady him and try it,
      	You are over with a scramble.
   Heres a wattle!  You must fly it,
      	And you land among the bramble,
For its roughish, toughish going in the morning.

   Ware the bog by the Grove
      	As you pound through the slush.
   See the whip!  See the huntsman!
      	We are close upon his brush.
   Ware the root that lies before you!
      	It will trip you if you blunder.
   Ware the branch thats drooping oer you!
      	You must dip and swerve from under
As you gallop through the woodland in the morning.

   There were fifty at the find,
      	There were forty at the mill,
   There were twenty on the heath,
      	And ten are going still.
   Some are pounded, some are shirking,
      	And they dwindle and diminish
   Till a weary pair are working,
      	Spent and blowing, to the finish,
And we hear the shrill whoo-ooping in the morning.

   The horse is bedded down
      	Where the straw lies deep,
   The hound is in the kennel,
      	He is yapping in his sleep.
   But the fox is in the spinney
      	Lying snug in earth and burrow.
   And Ill lay an even guinea
      	We could find again to-morrow,
If we chose to go a-hunting in the morning.

Arthur Conan Doyle

Arthur Conan Doyle's other poems:
  1. Songs of the Road (1911). 8. The Outcasts
  2. Songs of the Road (1911). 17. Man's Limitation
  3. Songs of the Road (1911). 4. A Post-Impressionist
  4. Songs of the Road (1911). 27. Sexagenarius Loquitur
  5. The Guards Came Through (1919). 7. Grousing

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