Always our fathers were hunters, lords of the pitiless spear, <br />Chasing in English woodlands the wild white ox and the deer, <br />Feeling the edge of their knife-blades, trying the pull of their bows, <br />At a sudden foot in the forest thrilling to ' Yonder he goes ! ' <br />Safe for the space of a summer the cubs may tumble and play, <br />Boldly from April to August the dog-fox chooses his way; <br />But soon as the beech leaf reddens, soon as the chill wind blows, <br />He must steal, cat-foot, listening, ready for' Yonder he goes ! ' <br />The sound of a horn in the bracken, the sound of a cheer in the ride; <br />Fourteen couple running for blood as though to the I brush of him tied! <br />Fourteen couple screaming for blood, and every hound of them knows <br />This is his right from the ages - the heart-stirring ‘ Yonder he goes!' <br />Not for the lust of killing, not for the places of pride, <br />Not for the hate of the hunted we English saddle and ride, <br />But because in the gift of our fathers the blood in our veins that flows <br />Must answer for ever and ever the challenge of ‘Yonder he goes !’<br /><br />William Henry Ogilvie<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/yonder-he-goes/
