The rain-sodden grass in the ditches is dying, 
The berries are red to the crest of the thorn ; 
Coronet-deep where the beech leaves are lying 
The hunters stand tense to the twang of the horn ; 
Where rides are re-filled with the green of the mosses, 
All foam-flecked and fretful their long line is strung, 
You can see the white gleam as a starred forehead tosses, 
You can hear the low chink as a bit-bar is flung. 
The world's full of music. Hounds rustle the rover 
Through brushwood and fern to a glad 'Gone away!' 
With a 'Come along, Pilot! '-one spur-touch and over- 
The huntsman is clear on his galloping grey; 
Before him the pack's running straight on the stubble- 
Toot-toot-too-too-too-oot ! ,_, Tow-row-ow-ow-ow ! '
The leaders are clambering up through the double 
And glittering away on the brown of the plough. 
The front rank, hands down, have the big fence's measure; 
The faint hearts are craning to left and to right; 
The Master goes through with a crash on The Treasure, 
The grey takes the lot like a gull in his flight. 
There's a brown crumpled up, lying still as a dead one. 
There 's a roan mare refusing, as stubborn as sin, 
While the breaker flogs up on a green underbred one 
And smashes the far-away rail with a grin. 
The chase carries on over hilltop and hollow, 
The life of Old England, the pluck and the fun; 
And who would ask more than a stiff line to follow 
With hounds running hard in the Opening Run?