SONG OF THE EXMOOR HUNT by ALFRED PERCEVAL GRAVES

Awake, arise! The south wind sighs,
Beneath a cloudy curtain
Old Sol is snoozing in the skies,
There's scent to-day for certain.
And down deep o'er Slowley Steep
The harbourer swears he shall drop, boys,
On brow, bay, bay and tray,
Tray and three on top, boys!

Look up, a stream of sporting pink
Along the ridge is rushing,
Morn's ashen cheek you'd almost think
To rosy red was blushing;
But few, few, so smart of hue
And spick and span from the shop, boys,
Shall stick to-day to brow, bay,
Tray and three on top, boys!

What ho! the tufters on a find
Are turning to the nor'ard.
Hark back! hark back!'tis but a hind!
The stag himself! Hark for'ard!
O'er hedge, spine, sedge and rhine,
Full cry we course and hop, boys,
Behind brow, bay and tray,
Tray and three on top, boys!

Past Dunster towers and Wootton bowers,
Up Cutcombe Crest he's gliding.
Here, roadster friends, your fun it ends,
We've done with arm-chair riding,
And full sail, head to tail,
Down Dunkery side we drop, boys,
On brow, bay, bay, and tray,
Tray and three on top, boys!

We've chucked a City swell to the pig
In his mixen at Cloutsham Corner;
We've hung our artist by his wig,
Like Absalom, in Horner,
Till hard pressed by all our best
From Boscombe Head full flop, boys,
Goes brow, bay, bay and tray,
Tray and three on top, boys!

A boat! a boat! the Weirmen float,
And after him go racing;
But see! to shore he heads once more,
His foes with fury facing.
And back, back! he hurls the pack,
Or heaves them, neck and crop, boys,
Till now, now, down goes brow,
Bay, tray, and three on top, boys!

Yet only five of all the hive
That set on foot the sport, boys,
Rode straight and true the whole hunt thro'
And mingled at the mort, boys!
Now name, name those sons of fame,
Who'll match them nearer and farther?
Jim Scarlett, Bissett, and Basset were there,
With Parson Jack Russell and Arthur.

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