# Hunting Poetry



## icklemadame (29 November 2007)

I'm a real one for poetry in any form or guise, however hunting poetry tends to stir the soul in a way I just cannot describe  I know its probably been done before, but does anyone have any favourites? And does anyone know the words to the poem for the farmers, that ends "and to grandfather, father and son..."?

Here is my favourite - sent to me many many moons ago as a xmas card from my pony club DC - its from memory so it may not be entirely accurate!!

A smart young fox sat airing his view in dingly dell one night,
I'm glad to see that human folk at last set things a right,
Abolish all blood sports they say, and down with hunting men!!
What rubbish are you quoting?
Said an old grey fox just then.
Young man I'm old and grey I know,
My coat is stained and worn,
But the song I always love to hear is the tune of a hunting horn.
Your foolish talk may sound quite fine, to ignorant folk or dull,
But to foxes who have lived some years their fears it will not lull.
Yes fears my friend for look you here if our hunting friends do go,
There'll be the farmer and his gun, he'll be a bitter foe.
No more off chicken we shall dine, not turkey goose nor foul,
We shall not die a sportsmans death,
We shall not dare to prowl!!
For there'll be traps, those cruel things,
which break a leg or bone,
And shots which never kill outright,
But send us bleeding home.
And poison, in a piece of meat, they'll hide for you and me,
And hunger drives us there to get a death of agony.
You're just a green young cub you know,
And life may seem all play,
But wait until you feel the thrill of a real hunting day!!
As o'er countryside you fly,
Up hill, down vale you rush,
A sporting run, and then you're home
Once more you've saved your brush!!
A fox is cunning, swift and sure,
And if he turns at bay,
He means to die a sportsmans death,
He's had his glorious day!!
So master fox, come fill your glass,
The foxes toast now drink,
Long live our friends the hunting folk,
And here's to the man in Pink!!


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## JenHunt (29 November 2007)

i do have a favourite, but will have to dig it out at home, as i can only remember the first half verse...
it was printed on the back of our point to point racecard a few years ago....

has mister foster ever thought
what would happen to our sport
if hunting goes, which is his aim
then who'll support the jumping game?

.... it continues, but as i said, can't remember the rest.


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## Loupride (29 November 2007)

That gave me goosebumps!!!
Its great   :grin:


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## icklemadame (29 November 2007)

The fact that I can remember it completely by heart shows how much I love it!! I also love all W.H Ogilvies poems... I might dig some of those out tonight to put up here


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## winterhorse (29 November 2007)

have a fab book called the poetry of horses.
my fav hunting 1 from it is 
the huntsmans horse
by edric roberts

the huntsmans horse, whether brown or bay,
or brightest chestnut, or sober grey,
whate'er his colour, a hunting day
is all the same to him, come what may.

when other horses, too full of beans,
unship their riders by artful means,
or kick each other to smithereens,
he takes no part in such ugly scenes.

he never bucks, or attempts to shy,
or play the fool if a car goes by,
or roll, or bolt, as do lesser fry,
on monday mornings, when tempers fly.

he knows his job, and he's well content,
to leave the frills to the 'sporting gent'
whose hunter-chaser was never meant
for long slow hunts on a failing scent.


dedicated to Ryan the best hunter a huntsman and his wife could have.


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## JenHunt (16 December 2008)

The Battered Brigade - WH Ogilvie

THE mark of a stake in the shoulder,

The brand of a wall on the knee,

Are scars to the careless beholder

And blemishes. So it may be ;

But every such blemish endorses

The pluck of a steed unafraid,

And the heart of a lover of horses

Goes out to the Battered Brigade.



Their knocks have been gathered in duty,

Their scars in the front of the fray;

It isn't your cleanest-legged beauty

That's first at the end of the day.

When five foot of timber before us

Has half of the pretty ones stayed,

If you want to catch up to the chorus

Come on with the Battered Brigade!



Turned out in the finest of fettle

'Tis sometimes the soundest that fails

And would rather hear hoofs on the metal

Than follow the rattle of rails;

But out on the grass with hounds racing

And fences as big as they're made

The cream of the gay steeple-chasing

Is left to the Battered Brigade.



Their line is the line of the foxes,

Their pace is the pace of the pack,

Though to-morrow they stand in their boxes

As stiff as the props of a stack;

And I 'll lay you my cheque at the banker's

They're forward next week undismayed.

Good luck to the blemished front-rankers!

Hats off to the Battered Brigade!


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