To the fox in his earth and the hound on his bench;
Unheard is the pack and unheeded the horn,
So loud and so near are the bugles of French.
The lines of blood hunters are gone from the stalls
And a host of good men to the millions that meet,
For grim is the Huntsman, in thunder he calls,
And continents roar with the galloping feet;
There's a country to cross where the fences are steel,
And, though many must fall and the finish is far,
There is none shall outride them, with heart, hand and heel,