In his mind's eye the Midlands go rolling away
In fair ridge and furrow, when steeple and tree
Are blurred in the mists of a mild winter's day;
He'll mark the gnarled pollards by Whissendine's brook,
The far meads of Ashwell, dim, peaceful and still,
Where the big grazing bullocks lift heads up to look
When the Cottesmore come streaming from Ranksborough Hill.
Well, dreamer or no, may his fortune be good;
May he find him delight in a hound and a horse
Kin to what he has found in a Leicestershire wood,