If ever you're handling a rough one
There's bound to be perched on the rails
Of the Stockyard some grizzled old tough one
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Rustle of feet in the roadside grass,
Trample of horses' hoofs, and - Hark!
Blast of an anxious horn! Hounds pass;
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Last night I walked among the lamps that gleamed,
And saw a shadow on a window blind,
A moving shadow; and the picture seemed
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Now, gatherin' 'ounds is a job I like
W'en the winter day draws in,
W'en shadows are lyin' by every dyke
An' creepin' out o' the whin ;
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Always our fathers were hunters, lords of the pitiless spear,
Chasing in English woodlands the wild white ox and the deer,
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With arrows on their quarters and with numbers on their hoofs,
With the trampling sound of twenty that re-echoes in the roofs,
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Gold and green the elm leaves lean and interlace,
All the coloured woodlands are calling to the Chase.
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He asks no favour from the Field, no forward place demands
Save what he claims by fearless heart and light and dainty hands;
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There's colour in the woodlands as far as eye can reach,
Pale gold upon the elm-tree and bronze upon the beech;
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