THE FOX.
The birds see him first, jay and blackbird and thrush;
They shriek at his coming and curse him, each one;
With the clay of the vale on his pads and his brush,
It's the Fallowfield fox and he's pretty near done;
It's a couple of hours since a whip tally-ho'd him;
Now the rookery's stooping to mob and to goad him;
There's an earth on the hill, but he's cooked past believing,
And his tongue's hanging out and his wet ribs are heaving.
Here he comes up the field at a woebegone trot;
He's stiff as a poker, he's done all he knows;
Now the ploughmen'll view him as likely as not;
There—they run to the paling and yell as he goes:
Here's an end, if we live to be two minutes older;
See, he turns a glazed eye o'er a mud-spattered shoulder;
There's a hound through the hedgerow....
Game's up, and he's beaten,
And he faces about with a snarl to be eaten.
