There is a great tradition of Fox Hunting verse a few examples of which appear here.

Keep it up till we return	The Gentle Art
The Fox's Prophecy By D.W. Nash 1871.	Breeding and The Labour Party
A Plea for the Countryside

	Breeding and The Labour Party Mary Staib Breeding and the Labour Party Do not go hand in hand, To them it's so old fashioned They fail to understand. That traditions of this country Are our substance, our repast, Not to be ashamed of Swept aside and outcast. Stability is our backbone History does relate, That educated leaders, Rule by sense and don't dictate. We have fought and won most battles We have learnt over the years, Who to trust and look up to When set against ones peers. There's a system that we work to When deciding who to wed, It's not a simple thing Like just jumping into bed. There's the height and the carriage The nose &endash; that must be sound, The colour's most important When one's breeding from a hound. The hounds pass on their knowledge It's a generation thing, The older ones will teach their young When to speak and when to sing. There's no dissent in kennels Each hound will know its place, They all look to their leaders Adoring eyes and trusting face Years and years of effort Have been concentrated thus; By dedicated sportsmen Such knowledge, little fuss. Records carefully kept and Points noted in their thoughts, A veritable class system These things cannot be bought. It's this the Labour Party Cannot stand and won't abide, One day the truth will out and then Their trust will be denied. Autonomy is hammered home This will be Labour's way Any coloured suit will do As long as it is grey. Our England is our countryside Our way of life unique, We cannot let this be destroyed By a Left Wing fit of pique. The fox looks down his nose at us And thinks with great disdain, How can the humans be so dim With breeding, 'one' remains.
The Gentle Art Top of Page We all ken John Peel the huntsman with his vivid coat so gay Though we see him all too seldom as he's very far away Surely countrymen and townsmen both enjoy the visual treat Of the horses hounds and huntsmen as they gather at the meet. But is fox-hunting cruel? Yes of course. All death is cruel, By whatever agents it's performed, and with whatever tool. Yet in suffering of animals our species sets in motion, The death of a few foxes is a drop in a wide ocean. Indeed, fortunate these victims of flamboyant pleasure-seekers Compared with foxes caught in gins or poisoned by gamekeepers; Trapped in lingering agony to lie upon the heath More merciful by far must be sudden canine teeth. Leaving aside the huntsman, perhaps we may take heart On seeing other sportsmen, who persue the Gentle Art Described by Isaak Walton in his celebrated book; The famous Complete Angler treats of pleasures of the hook Such innocence of pleasure! I never saw the like As I read his fine instructions for the catching of the Pike. All couched in sublime English, as everybody knows, A literary masterpiece, a model of fine prose. He deals so very gently with the subtleties and thrills Of threading hooks inside frogs' mouths and out again at gills. 'Tie the legs as if you loved them, as your love could not be fonder, Then, dangled as a tempting bait, the frogs will live the longer.' May a tentative comparison between the two be drawn? The angler with his rod and line, the huntsman with his horn? The latter now is deemed so cruel his sport may soon be banned, While multitudes of anglers in our green and pleasant land Ply gentle hooks in lakes and brooks without a cry of shame Rejoicing in a million deaths, yet they receive no blame. There must be subtle reasons for this strange anomaly, Can it stem from perverse teachings of the nineteenth century That all should be oppressed by awareness of their lot Regarding wealth in others as a prize unfairly got? Horses cost far more than hooks I really must confess. Is it possible the hunt is doomed to sate class-consciouness? By Osmund Dennis Hollington
This poem was published during the early years of the Great War. Written by a Miss M. Wynter who is reported as saying: "I wrote that poem because I felt deeply the injustice done to the men who loved foxhunting, by those who had never known it." A. Henry Higginson, M.F.H. records that it was printed on the reverse of the menus at a MFHA dinner held at the Riding Club of New York. The dinner was in honour of Sir Charles Gunning, head of the British Remount Commission in America at that time. A.H.H re-published it in his wartime (WW2) volume "A Tale of Two Brushes" as he felt it particularly relevant as at that time there was some political will to introduce a ban. The debt that we owe those men and women who gave their lives in two wars has not diminished and so it is just as relevant now.		Keep it up till we return Top of Page Miss Maude Wynter There's a Vale for which I am sighing, I can see its fences still And my thoughts go backward flying With the pack to Golden Hill. I can hear that welcome holloa; "G-O-N-E AWAY - He's broke at last." Hear the thundering hooves that follow As I ride into the past. Memories, bitter sweet come thronging As I pace the prison ground And my heart is sick with longing For a sight of horse and hound. But however drear the days be, Fair or foul, or rain, or shine, Not the Fates themselves can rob me Of those hunts that once were mine Pause a moment, oh, my brothers Who at home so glibly prate How you hope to see Foxhunting Soon abolished by the State. We have fought for you, and gladly, Would you now requite us this? Kill the sport we love so madly? Think what hunting means to us. For the sake of those who're absent For the sake of those who're gone All those gallant cheery comrades Who once rallied to the horn; For the youngster, true to breeding, Longing soon the game to learn - Hear us Soldier Exiles pleading Keep it up till we return
This poem was discovered amongst the papers of the late Mr. D.W. Nash as was probably written in about 1870. The prophecies were made by an ancient fox that appeared to Tom Hill in Guiting Wood in the Cotswolds.   Top of Page	The Fox's Prophecy By D.W. Nash 1871. Tom Hill was in the saddle, One bright November morn, The echoing glades of Guiting Wood Were ringing with his horn. The diamonds of the hoar-frost Were sparkling in the sun. Upon the falling leaves the drops Were shining one by one. The hare lay on the fallow, The robin carolled free; The linnet and yellow finch Twittered from tree to tree. In stately march the sable rook Followed the clanking plough; Apart their watchful sentinel Cawed from the topmost bough. Peeped from her hole the field-mouse Amid the fallen leaves. From twig to twig the spider Her filmy cable weaves. The wavings of the pine boughs The squirrel's form disclose; And through the purple beech-tops The whirring pheasant rose. The startled rabbit scuttered Across the grassy ride; High in mid-air the hovering hawk Wheeled round in circles wide. The freshest wind was blowing O'er groves of beech and oak And through the boughs of larch and pine The struggling sunbeam broke. The avried tints of autumn Still lingered on the wood, And on the leaves the morning sun Poured out a golden flood. Soft, fleecy clouds were sailing Across the vault of blue. A fairer hunting morning No huntsman ever knew. All nature seemed rejoicing That glorious morn to see; All seemed to breathe a fresher life - Beast, insect, bird and tree. But sound and sight of beauty Fell dull on eye and ear; The huntsman's heart was heavy His brow oppressed with care. High in his stirrups raised he stood, And long he gazed around; And breathlessly and anxiously His listened for a sound. But nought he heard save the song bird Or jay's discordant cry; Or when among the the tree-tops The wind went murmuring by. No voice of hound, no sound of horn The woods around were mute, As though the earth had swallowed up His comrades - man and brute.  He thought, "I must essay to find My hounds at any cost; A huntsmand who has lost his hounds Is but a huntsman lost".  Then round he turned his horse's head And shook his bridle free, When he was struck by an aged fox That sat beneath a tree. He raised his eye in glad surprise, That huntsman keen and bold; But there was in that fox's look That made his blood run cold.  He raised his hand to touch his horn, And shout a "Tally-ho" But mastered by that fox's eye, His lips refused to blow. For he was grim and gaunt of limb, With age all silvered o'er; He might have been an arctic fox Escaped from Greenland's shore. But age his vigour had not tamed, Nor dimm'd his sparkling eye, Which shone with an unearthly fire - Fire that could never die.  And thus the huntsman he addressed, In tones distinct and clear, Who heard as they who in a dream The fairies' music hear.  "Huntsman" he said - a sudden thrill Through all the listeners ran, To hear a creature of the wood Speak like a Christian man - "Last of my race, to me' tis given The future to unfold, To speak the words which never yet Spake fox of mortal mould. "Then print my words upon your heart And stamp them on your brain, That you to others may impart My prophecy again. "Strong life is your's in manhood's prime, Your cheek with heat is red; Time has not laid his finger yet In earnest on your head.  "But ere your limbs are bent with age, And ere yours locks are grey, The sport that you have loved so well Shall long have passed away. "In vain shall generous Colmore, Your hunt consent to keep; In vain the Rendcomb baronet With gold your stores shall heap. "In vain Sir Alexander, And Watson Keen in vain, O'er the pleasant Cotswold hills The joyous sport maintain. "Vain all their efforts: spite of all, Draws nigh the fatal morn, When the last Cotswold fox shall hear The latest huntsman's horn. "Yet think not, huntsman, I rejoice To see the end so near; Nor think the sound of horn and hound To me a sound of fear. "In my strong youth, which numbers now Full many a winter back, How scornfully I shook my brush Before the Berkeley pack. "How oft from Painswick hill I've seen The morning mist uncurl, When harry Airis blew the horn Before the wrathful Earl. "How oft I've heard the Cotswolds' cry As Turner cheered the pack, And laughed to see his baffled hounds Hang vainly on my track. "Too well I know, by wisdom taught The existance of my race O'er all wide England's green domain Is bound up with the Chase. "Better in early youth and strength The race for life to run, Than poisoned like the noxious rat, Or slain by felon gun. "Better by wily sleight and turn The eager hound to foil, Than slaughtered by each baser churl Who yet shall till the soil. "For not upon these hills alone The doom of sport shall fall; O'er the broad face of England creeps The shadow on the wall. "The years roll on: old manors change, Old customs lose their sway; New fashions rule; the grandsire's garb Moves ridicule to-day. "The woodlands where my race has bred Unto the axe shall yield; Hedgerow and copse shall cease to shade The ever widening field. "The manly sports of England Shall vanish one by one; The manly blood of England In weaker veins shall run. "The furzy down, the moorland heath, The steam plough shall invade; Nor park nor manor shall escape - Common, nor forest glade. "Degenerate sons of manlier sires To lower joys shall fall; The faithless lore of germany, The gilded vice of Gaul. "The sports of their forefathers To baser tastes shall yield; The vices of the town displace The pleasures of the field. "For swiftly o'er the level shore The waves of progress ride; The ancient landmarks one by one Shall sink beneath the tide. "Time honoured creeds and ancient faith, The Alter and the Crown, Lordship's hereditary right, Before that tide go down. "Base churls shall mock the mighty names Writ on the roll of time; Religion shall be held a jest, And loyalty a crime. "No word of prayer, no hmyn of praise Sound in the village school; The people's education Utilitarians rule. "In England's ancient pulpits Lay orators shall preach New creeds, and free religions Self made apostles teach. "The peasants to their daily tasks In surly silence fall; No kindly hospitalities In farmhouse nor in hall. "Nor harvest feast nor Christmas tide Shall farm or manor hold; Science alone can plenty give, The only God is gold. "The homes where love and peace should dwell Fierce politics shall vex, And unsexed woman strive to prove Herself the coarser sex. "Mechanics in their workshops Affairs of state decide; Honour and truth - old fashioned words - The noisy mob deride. "The statesman that should rule the realm Coarse demagogues displace; The glory of a thousand years Shall end in foul disgrace. The honour of old England, Cotton shall buy and sell, And hardware manufacturers Cry "Peace - lo, all is well". Trade shall be held the only good And gain the sole device; The statesman's maxim shall be peace, and peace at any price. "Her army and her navy Britain shall cast aside; Soldiers and ships are costly things, Defence an empty pride. "The German and the Muscovite Shall rule the narrow seas; Old England's flag shall cease to float In triumph on the breeze. "The footsteps of th' invader, Then England's shore shall know, While home-bred traitors give the hand To England's every foe. "Disarmed, before the foreigner, The knee shall humbly bend, And yield the treasures that she lacked The wisdom to defend. "But not for aye - yet once again, When purged by fire and sword, The land her freedom shall regain, To manlier thoughts restored. "Taught wisdom by disaster, England shall learn to know, That trade is not the only gain Heaven gives to man below. "The greed for gold departed The golden calf cast down, Old England's sons shall raise again The Alter and the Crown. "Rejoicing seas shall welcome Their mistress once again; Once more the banner of St George Shall rule upon the main. "The blood of the invader Her pastures shall manure, His bones unburied on her fields For monuments to endure. "Again in hall and homestead, Shall joy and peace be seen, And smiling children raise again The maypole on the green. "Again the hospitable board Shall groan with Christmas cheer, And mutual service bind again The peasant and the peer. "Again the smiling hedgerow Shall field from field divide; Again among the woodlands The scarlet troop shall ride." Again it seemed that aged fox, More prophecies would say, When sudden came upon the wind, "Hark forrard, gone away". The listener started from his trance - He sat there all alone; That well-known cry had burst the spell, The aged fox was gone. The huntsman turned, He spurred his steed, And to the cry he sped; And when he thought upon that fox, Said naught, but shook his head.
A PLEA FOR THE COUNTRYSIDE Please Mr.Blair just tell me what to do, How do I get you to change your mind And stop your Anti Hunting Bill from going thru. Do you really realise what it would mean, And how the wildlife would suffer From the change of country life scene. Woods and hedges would be gone under the farmers plough, As there will be no need for their conservation work now. And what of the people whose wages come from the hunting way of life, When the Kennelman loses his job what does he tell his wife That they have become a statistic in Tony Blairs grand plan. Think again Mr.Blair before you call for a hunting ban. Feed merchants, farriers and vets all stand to lose, Who can gauge the loss of income if you make this move. And what of the hunting horses and of course the hounds, Will you come and pull the trigger and lay them in the ground? Think again Mr.Blair find another issue to debate, Keep politics out of Field Sports before it's too late.			This poem was written in such a heartfelt manner by Penny Rendle of the New Forest Hunt.   Top of Page