Rustle of feet in the roadside grass,
Trample of horses’ hoofs, and – Hark!
Blast of an anxious horn! Hounds pass;
Hounds going home in the dark.
Bold was our huntsman galloping free
On a difficult line to the hills to-day,
But his hand is trembling against his knee
At the hint of a light on the King’s Highway.
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‘ Car!’ And the gold spreads over the sky ;
‘ Keep to the front there! Stop them, Mark!
‘ Toot-toot-too-oot ! – ‘ Halloo, there !-Hi ! ‘-
Hounds going home in the dark.
Crack of a whip as the headlights near-
Blind in the blaze they group and grope.
‘ Curse the feller, and can’t he hear?
Put ’em across, there ! -Cope, boys, cope! ‘

When never a star is hung in the sky,
With never a lamp or a lantern spark,
Huntsman and Whips go groping by,
Blowing them home in the dark.

William Henry Ogilvie

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