The Blackthorn Hare Poem by Francis Duggan
On a cold and wild December morn
In a field down under old Blackthorn
In a rushy patch the brown hare slept
As through the field a dog fox crept.
The big red fox's cunning mate
A vixen waited by the gate
There by the gate she quietly lay
She knew the hare would come this way.
Upwind the fox was drawing near
He did not wish the hare to hear
For him it was a hungry night
And badly did he need a bite.
But the hare awoke and pricked one ear
He sensed danger was somewhere near
Then bolted from his cushy seat
This hare would not be easy meat.
Out of the rushes he did race
The angry fox was quick to chase
He ran the field up to the gate
Where the hidden vixen lay in wait.
The vicious vixen dived to kill
But missed the prey and took a spill
The vixen in a coat of mud
Chased with the fox thirsting for blood.
At Blackthorn bridge the hare turned right
He had travelled this way every night
His little heart began to pound
The foxes they were gaining ground.
The foxes quite a speedy pair
Drew level with the dodging hare
They thought the hare was going to yield
That they would kill him in this field.
But little did the foxes know
That two months short of a year ago
In coursing meetings throughout the Land
This hare had left fleet greyhounds stand.
A poacher caught him with a dazzler light
On a wild and dark october night
He blindly ran into the poacher's net
That night he never will forget.
The awful feeling of shock and fear
When the poacher seized him by the ears
Then put him in a brown cord sack
And carried him off on his back.
For him ten quid the poacher got
And to a poacher ten quid is a lot
He sold him to a Coursing Club
And drank the money in a pub.
He never ever could forget
The way he dodged and cheated death
The way he gave the hounds the slip
Their mouths wide open for to rip.
Those bitter nights so cold and dark
He spent in unsheltered Coursing Parks
With not much to eat and in poor shape
In a little plot called 'the escape'.
From the escape he heard his comrades die
He listened to their painfull cry
He listened with a throbbing heart
As the hounds they tore his friends apart.
The human faces all about
The way they used to cheer and shout
The judge upon a noble steed
Instilled in him great fear indeed.
The Coursing Season it was done
His well earned freedom he had won
They set him free in Blackthorn Dell
Since then he knew this country well.
He love the open Blackthorn range
The grassy fields of Kingston Grange
The sallies down by Hawthorn inn
The bushes in the furzy glen.
And better to be chased by foxes
Than in Coursing Meetings in small boxes
Waiting with a throbbing heart
For the hounds to tear your bones apart.
Again he faced a vital test
And to live he had to run his best
He could see the foxes razor teeth
Their mouths wide open for to eat.
His little legs began to tire
But the will to live it did inspire
He used his great side stepping skill
Each time the foxes closed to kill.
The vixen she began to flag
She galloped like a jaded nag
Her body ached her bones did rack
She quit the chase and turned back.
With weary legs and spirits dropping
The tiring fox he felt like stopping
On him the rapid pace did tell
As on they raced through blackthorn dell.
The gallant hare felt weary too
His little body felt like glue
He could even feel the fox's breath
But still he slipped away from death.
Blackthorn hill rose high and steep
The rapid pace slowed to a creep
The uphill journey it was tough
The dog fox stopped he'd had enough.
His race for life the hare had won
The fox and vixen he'd outrun
He had ran four miles at his outright best
And he took a badly needed rest.
Francis Duggan's Other Poems
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Comments about this poem (The Blackthorn Hare by Francis Duggan )
Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
A Dream Within A Dream
Edgar Allan Poe
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
Robert Louis Stevenson
(27 October 1914 – 9 November 1953)
(6 January 1878 – 22 July 1967)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)