'Hark ye, hark to the winding horn; <br />Sluggards, awake, and front the morn! <br />Hark ye, hark to the winding horn; <br />The sun's on meadow and mill. <br />Follow me, hearts that love the chase; <br />Follow me, feet that keep the pace: <br />Stirrup to stirrup we ride, we ride, <br />We ride by moor and hill.' <br /> <br />Huntsman, huntsman, whither away? <br />What is the quarry afoot to-day? <br />Huntsman, huntsman, whither away, <br />And what the game ye kill? <br />Is it the deer, that men may dine? <br />Is it the wolf that tears the kine? <br />What is the race ye ride, ye ride, <br />Ye ride by moor and hill? <br /> <br />'Ask not yet till the day be dead <br />What is the game that's forward fled, <br />Ask not yet till the day be dead <br />The game we follow still. <br />An echo it may be, floating past; <br />A shadow it may be, fading fast: <br />Shadow or echo, we ride, we ride, <br />We ride by moor and hill'<br /><br />Sir Henry Newbolt<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/hope-the-hornblower/
