Death had beckoned with grisly hand
To the finest Whip in hunting-land.
‘ My time is short,’ Tom Moody said,
‘ Master, when I am done and dead,
Lay me at Barrow beneath the yew
In the dear old shire we have hunted through.
Let six earth-stoppers carry me there
With slow step and heads bare.
Bring the old horse that I used to ride,
With my whip and boots to his saddle tied.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem