Now there’s many a song about hunting,

Packs and huntsmen are honoured by name.

But there isn’t a song about terriers

Which in Lakeland have gained lasting fame.
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So always remember your terriers,

Protect them from wet and from cold,

For the love of a tyke for his master

Can never be measured in gold.



Whether it’s Fury or Trixie or Nellie,

Or Rock, Jock or Turk it’s the same,

One quality you’ll find among them,

And dalesfolk call it “dead game”,

And whether he’s rough or smooth-coated,

He’ll tackle badger, otter or fox,

Run a drain or creep into a soil-hole,

Or squeeze through a grike in the rocks.





He’ll yield not one inch though they maul him,

He’ll fight to the death on his own,

Though sometimes he’ll be imprisoned

By a rush-in of soil or of stone.

And then the brave lads of the valleys

To save him will toil day and night,

And join in a Hallo of triumph

As he blinks back to God’s blessed light.





Now at Cruft’s famous show down in London,

They have Lakelands that aren’t worth the name.

If you showed ‘ em a fox or an otter

They’d fly for their lives without shame.

There’re not built to creep or do battle,

But to sit on a chair in a house,

And they do say that on recent champion

Was chased down the road by a mouse!





So here’s to our gallant laal workers,

Not beauties, perhaps but they’ll do.

With gameness they’ve also affection,

And make you a pal good and true.

And when your terrier, in old age, is dying,

And the world all about you seems sad,

A lick on the hand will console you,

For a truer friend man never had.



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