And oft I hear the call of
this green Shire,
This spirit bright at dawn of day-
Of pleasant pastures where cows
busy at the whey;
And from her rural heart the
huntsmen tally-ho the rising morn,
And green meadows resound to the thunder
of the Belvoir, Fernie, Cottesmore and Quorn.
This land whose woodlands gleam
beneath the Beacon’s crown,
And slender spires her jewels
of rural village and of town;
This Leicestershire that poets
paint with pen and artists with
And where at eventide o’er
Bradgates oaks there steals
a quiet hush.
And the Moon rises above
these gently rolling hills,
And Robin-a-tiptoe under a
star strewn sky lies still;
Then awaits the dawn and with
the rising morn the Sun’s glory
ascends to the harmony of winged lyres,
That welcome to the rising day
this queen of all the Shires!
The sky had opened to the hunters’ cry,
To ravenous hounds green meadows rubefy;
Nature casts her season’s long shadow,
Horses lathered, riders Tally-Ho!
In the dark wood tall trees sigh.
Over the trembling earth the hunter rides,
Thunders the rills and bleak hillsides;
The sound of the horn slicing morning air.
Man is himself.
In an epic sky above the curve of a hill,
A kestrel rides the morning still;
The baying of hounds shatter the peace,
The fox from his tormenters craves release;
The chase close to the kill.
Man is himself.
The hunter’s red stained hills of
Leicestershire rise to fanfare the
Thundering rills chatter, galloping
through meadows that create the
Sullen landscapes lie beneath a
Nature’s tortured scream shouts
Peter Morriss 03.01.03
Click on the thumbnails for larger image.
More hunting poems coming soon.