A HUNTING MORNING

by: Arthur Conan Doyle (1859-1930)

UT the saddle on the mare,

For the wet winds blow;

There's winter in the air,

And autumn all below.

For the red leaves are flying

And the red bracken dying,

And the red fox lying

Where the oziers grow.

 

Put the bridle on the mare,

For my blood runs chill;

And my heart, it is there,

On the heather-tufted hill,

With the gray skies o'er us,

And the long-drawn chorus

Of a running pack before us

From the find to the kill.

 

Then lead round the mare,

For it's time that we began,

And away with thought and care,

Save to live and be a man,

While the keen air is blowing,

And the huntsman holloing,

And the black mare going

As the black mare can.

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