’Midst her thickets of “Bullfinch” and pasturage green;
’Twas not the sweet music o’er fence, brook, and hill,
Oh! no, it was something more heart-stirring still.
’Twas that those we had long known were oftentimes near,
Who could make our pursuits and amusements more dear;
And who felt how the true joys of hunting improve,
When riding with friends and to hounds that we love.
Sweet vale of the Evenlode! ne’er may I rest
Deposed in thy blue mud, but on with the best
May I ride, till our pastime with daylight shall cease,