Yon sound’s neither sheep-bell nor bark,
They’re running—they’re running, Go hark!
The sport may be lost by a moment’s delay;
So whip up the puppies and scurry away.
Dash down through the cover by dingle and dell,
There’s a gate at the bottom—I know it full well;
And they’re running—they’re running,
Go hark!

They’re running—they’re running, Go hark!
One fence and we’re out of the park;
Sit down in your saddles and race at the brook,
Then smash at the bullfinch; no time for a look;
Leave cravens and skirters to dangle behind;
He’s away for the moors in the teeth of the wind,
And they’re running—they’re running,
Go hark!

They’re running—they’re running, Go hark!
Let them run on and run till it’s dark!
Well with them we are, and well with them we’ll be,
While there’s wind in our horses and daylight to see:
Then shog along homeward, chat over the fight,
And hear in our dreams the sweet music all night
Of—They’re running—they’re running,
Go hark!

Eversley, 1856.