We started from the Valley Pride,
And Farnham way we went.
We waited at the cover-side,
But never found a scent.
Then we tried the withy beds
Which grow by Frensham town,
And there we found the old gray fox,
The same old fox,
The game old fox;
Yes, there we found the old gray fox,
Which lives on Hankley Down.
So here’s to the master,
And here’s to the man!
And here’s to twenty couple
Of the white and black and tan!
Here’s a find without a wait!
Here’s a hedge without a gate!
Here’s the man who follows straight,
Where the old fox ran.
The Member rode his thoroughbred,
Doctor had the gray,
The Soldier led on a roan red,
The Sailor rode the bay.
Squire was there on his Irish mare,
And Parson on the brown;
And so we chased the old gray fox,
The same old fox,
The game old fox,
And so we chased the old gray fox
Across the Hankley Down.
So here’s to the master,
And here’s to the man!
&c. &c. &c.
The Doctor’s gray was going strong
Until she slipped and fell;
He had to keep his bed so long
His patients all got well.
The Member he had lost his seat,
’Twas carried by his horse;
And so we chased the old gray fox,
The same old fox,
The game old fox;
And so we chased the old gray fox
That earthed in Hankley Gorse.
So here’s to the master,
And here’s to the man!
&c. &c. &c.
The Parson sadly fell away,
And in the furze did lie;
The words we heard that Parson say
Made all the horses shy!
The Sailor he was seen no more
Upon that stormy bay;
But still we chased the old gray fox,
The same old fox,
The game old fox;
Still we chased the old gray fox
Through all the winter day.
So here’s to the master,
And here’s to the man!
&c. &c. &c.
And when we found him gone to ground,
They sent for spade and man;
But Squire said ‘Shame! The beast was game!
A gamer never ran!
His wind and pace have gained the race,
His life is fairly won.
But may we meet the old gray fox,
The same old fox,
The game old fox;
May we meet the old gray fox
Before the year is done.
So here’s to the master,
And here’s to the man!
And here’s to twenty couple
Of the white and black and tan!
Here’s a find without await!
Here’s a hedge without a gate!
Here’s the man who follows straight,
Where the old fox ran.
’WARE HOLES
[‘’_Ware Holes!_’ _is the expression used in the hunting-field to warn
those behind against rabbit-burrows or other such dangers_.]
A sportin’ death! My word it was!
An’ taken in a sportin’ way.
Mind you, I wasn’t there to see;
I only tell you what they say.
They found that day at Shillinglee,
An’ ran ’im down to Chillinghurst;
The fox was goin’ straight an’ free
For ninety minutes at a burst.
They ’ad a check at Ebernoe
An’ made a cast across the Down,
Until they got a view ’ullo
An’ chased ’im up to Kirdford town.
From Kirdford ’e run Bramber way,
An’ took ’em over ’alf the Weald.
If you ’ave tried the Sussex clay,
You’ll guess it weeded out the field.
Until at last I don’t suppose
As ’arf a dozen, at the most,
Came safe to where the grassland goes
Switchbackin’ southwards to the coast.
Young Captain ’Eadley, ’e was there,
And Jim the whip an’ Percy Day;
The Purcells an’ Sir Charles Adair,
An’ this ’ere gent from London way.
For ’e ’ad gone amazin’ fine,
Two ’undred pounds between ’is knees;
Eight stone he was, an’ rode at nine,
As light an’ limber as you please.
’E was a stranger to the ’Unt,
There weren’t a person as ’e knew there;
But ’e could ride, that London gent—
’E sat ’is mare as if ’e grew there.
They seed the ’ounds upon the scent,
But found a fence across their track,
And ’ad to fly it; else it meant
A turnin’ and a ’arkin’ back.
’E was the foremost at the fence,
And as ’is mare just cleared the rail
He turned to them that rode be’ind,
For three was at ’is very tail.
‘’Ware ’oles!’ says ’e, an’ with the word,
Still sittin’ easy on his mare,
Down, down ’e went, an’ down an’ down,
Into the quarry yawnin’ there.
Some say it was two ’undred foot;
The bottom lay as black as ink.
I guess they ’ad some ugly dreams,
Who reined their ’orses on the brink.
’E’d only time for that one cry;
‘’Ware ’oles!’ says ’e, an’ saves all three.
There may be better deaths to die,
But that one’s good enough for me.
For mind you, ’twas a sportin’ end,
Upon a right good sportin’ day;
They think a deal of ’im down ’ere,
That gent what came from London way.