Hunting Poems

Protests in Melton Mowbray about the hunting ban. 2005.

 

The protest took place on the 21.02.2005

550 riders 2,800 foot followers

 

Members of the Quorn Hunt

 

Cottesmore Hunt

 

Belvoir Hunt

 

                                                                           Oakley Beagles

 

                                                                                                

 

LEICESTERSHIRE ECHOES

 

 

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

the brush,

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!

 

 

Ó Peter Morriss

 

 

THE KILL

 

 

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.

 

Ó Peter Morriss

 

 

RED DAWN

 

 

The hunter’s red stained hills of

Leicestershire rise to fanfare the

day,

Thundering rills chatter, galloping

through meadows that create the

whey;

Sullen landscapes lie beneath a

scowling sky,

Nature’s tortured scream shouts

out-

Why!…?

 

 

Peter Morriss  03.01.03

 

Click on the thumbnails for larger image.

 

More hunting poems coming soon.