Death had beckoned with grisly hand <br />To the finest Whip in hunting-land. <br />‘ My time is short,’ Tom Moody said, <br />‘ Master, when I am done and dead, <br />Lay me at Barrow beneath the yew <br />In the dear old shire we have hunted through. <br />Let six earth-stoppers carry me there <br />With slow step and heads bare. <br />Bring the old horse that I used to ride, <br />With my whip and boots to his saddle tied. <br />Fasten the brush in his forehead-band <br />Of the last dog-fox we brought to hand. <br />And let a couple of old hounds come, <br />Fitting mourners to follow me home. <br />Then, when you've laid me safe down there, <br />Give three view-holloas will shake the air, <br />And you'll know, if I do not lift my head, <br />There is no mistake-Tom Moody's dead!'<br /><br />William Henry Ogilvie<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/tom-moody/
