The huntsman is clear on his galloping grey;
Before him the pack's running straight on the stubble—
"Toot-toot-too-too-too-oot!" "Tow-row-ow-ow-ow!"
The leaders are clambering up through the double
And glittering away on the brown of the plough.
The front rank, hands down, have the big fence's measure;
The faint-hearts are craning to left and to right;
The Master goes through with a crash on "The Treasure;"
The grey takes the lot like a gull in his flight;
There's a brown crumpled up, lying still as a dead one;