Beautiful - but be warned

[JanetGeorge]

The poem below is (IMHO) incredibly beautiful but the first time I tried read it, I broke up in tears (and I thought I was a tough old bird.) So just in case you feel the same, don't read it in front of visitors who might be unduly surprised.

I don't have a title or the author - but I DID find it on Facebook so I THINK the likelihood of anyone copying & pasting it elsewhere is relatively safe from an action against copyright breaches.





Who mourns the soul of a hound when he dies
Who even knows that he’s gone,
The master, the huntsman, they miss him perhaps,
And the farm where his walking was done.

But when once again on the opening day
The seasons first music rings clear,
Which of us misses the voice that is gone,
Or spare him a sorrowful tear.

They try for us, cry for us, gallop and fly for us-
Gad how the beauties can move?
In the whole of the shires not a pack to touch ours,
But it’s hounds, not the hound, that we love.

There’s few of us see in the course of the day,
How Harmony worked out the line;
How Destiny’s Dabster takes after his dam,
Or the work of that new bitch, Divine.

Each has temperament, each has his tricks,
The joy of them few of us know;
Few of us worry, and few of us care-
We still have the pack when they go.

Only the master, who growls out to Tom,
In a voice gone surprisingly gruff-
”Sexton must go, Tom, he’s getting damn slow”,
God knows we shall miss him enough.

But if he goes lonely, unwept and unsung,
That hound forgotten too soon,
I like to think that the pack sing his dirge,
In the night when they sing to the moon.

 

[The Fuzzy Furry]

So full of meaning, really made me feel x

 

[Meandering_About]

Like

 

[Dave the dog]

Nice poem. Not being flippant just cheering
Sleep little puppy dog
Sleeping soundly as a log
Better wake him for his dinner
Else he'll sleep much thinner

Milligan

 

[{51248}]

You hunters cry for your hounds, and cry for your horses. Who cries for the fox?

 

[Doormouse]

You hunters cry for your hounds, and cry for your horses. Who cries for the fox?

In answer to that, well

My 3 year daughter wept buckets for her chickens, all killed by the fox but bodies left - she simply asked why if he was hungry did he not kill just one and eat it
The ewe mourns her lamb who has been killed by the fox
The rabbit mourns the death of her babies killed by the fox
The cubs of the vixen shot by the farmer or keeper to control the numbers at all times of the year mew piteously as they die of starvation in their earth

The hunters salute the bold, brave, fit fox who has through cunning and guile given everyone a run for their money and lives to fight another day
The hunters raise a glass to the old, tired fox who slinks through gardens and dustbins to feed himself now he is too lame to hunt for live prey, as he passes on over the rainbow bridge where he becomes young, bold and brave once more.

Livestock and deadstock, nature's survival of the fittest, however you wish to describe it. It has been the way since time began, everything is born, everything dies, someone always mourns.

 

[Christmas Crumpet]

Being a puppy walker myself, I absolutely love this.

 

[ExmoorHunter]

Well said Doormouse, completely agree. I wanted to add that I found this poem when I lost my old mare a few months ago. I still can't read it without crying - it says it all. All of you who've had and lost a beloved hunter will understand.

Hark! Old horse.
Please meet me at the gate.
Hounds are leaving kennels soon,
And we will not be late.

Step up. Old horse.
Carry me to the meet.
Our years together count for much,
Though you're no longer fleet.

Trot on. Old horse.
I know you hear the horn.
The hounds are in the valley now,
The fox is in the corn!

Kick on. Old horse,
My soulmate and my friend.
Our years together hunting are
The best that's ever been.

Leap up. Old horse.
Take the bit and fly!
I still trust you like a brother,
Even though the fence is high.

Walk on. Old horse.
We’ll soon be hacking in.
Your nicker rests beside my heart.
Our souls entwine within.

Hark! Old horse.
The years reveal our fate.
If we should part before we wish.
Please meet me at the gate

 

[Doormouse]

Well said Doormouse, completely agree. I wanted to add that I found this poem when I lost my old mare a few months ago. I still can't read it without crying - it says it all. All of you who've had and lost a beloved hunter will understand.

Hark! Old horse.
Please meet me at the gate.
Hounds are leaving kennels soon,
And we will not be late.

Step up. Old horse.
Carry me to the meet.
Our years together count for much,
Though you're no longer fleet.

Trot on. Old horse.
I know you hear the horn.
The hounds are in the valley now,
The fox is in the corn!

Kick on. Old horse,
My soulmate and my friend.
Our years together hunting are
The best that's ever been.

Leap up. Old horse.
Take the bit and fly!
I still trust you like a brother,
Even though the fence is high.

Walk on. Old horse.
We’ll soon be hacking in.
Your nicker rests beside my heart.
Our souls entwine within.

Hark! Old horse.
The years reveal our fate.
If we should part before we wish.
Please meet me at the gate

Both the poems made me cry.

 

[Alec Swan]

You hunters cry for your hounds, and cry for your horses. Who cries for the fox?

It would seem a contradiction to those who have no understanding, I agree, just as it would for some when they consider those who have a passion for the machines of war which kill innocents.

Accepting that we don't understand is the better way, when we can manage it!

Alec.

 

[Alec Swan]

Both the poems made me cry.

Neither poem made me cry, but what they did was transport my thoughts to the halcyon days of my youth.

Our memories, if we will allow them, can become a hammock for our thoughts.

Alec.

 

[Alec Swan]

Every year I used to go to Kingairloch stalking. Beside the lodge where I stayed was a paddock in which Mary the Garron lived. Every morning at 08:00 she'd be standing at the gate waiting to be brought in for the deer saddle to be put in place, and preparatory to going to the Hill. Quad bikes had been bought, and every morning those on their way for a day of stalking, youthful men, would ride past her without giving her a glance. After a while, I suppose that she gave up on waiting and went back to her picking at the grass. As soon as autumn arrived, she was waiting for her work, and every autumn, she was disappointed.

When I journeyed up to my stalking grounds, I always took a bag of apples and with the right number for the number of days. When I returned in the evening, I'd take her an apple and share it with her whilst telling her of our success or failure. Poor Mary, how she would have preferred the burden of a stag, rather than the burden of loneliness. Over the years I became rather attached to Mary, and as the years have gone by, wondered if I might have asked for the additional work rather than the convenience.

Alec.

 

[mirage]

Oh Alec,that is so sad.

 

[springtime1331]

So beautifully put Alec, I loved the very bones of the wise highland ponies we had in my youth.

 

[flirtygerty]

It would seem a contradiction to those who have no understanding, I agree, just as it would for some when they consider those who have a passion for the machines of war which kill innocents.

Accepting that we don't understand is the better way, when we can manage it!

Alec.

well said Alec

 

[Fun Times]

Every year I used to go to Kingairloch stalking. Beside the lodge where I stayed was a paddock in which Mary the Garron lived. Every morning at 08:00 she'd be standing at the gate waiting to be brought in for the deer saddle to be put in place, and preparatory to going to the Hill. Quad bikes had been bought, and every morning those on their way for a day of stalking, youthful men, would ride past her without giving her a glance. After a while, I suppose that she gave up on waiting and went back to her picking at the grass. As soon as autumn arrived, she was waiting for her work, and every autumn, she was disappointed.

When I journeyed up to my stalking grounds, I always took a bag of apples and with the right number for the number of days. When I returned in the evening, I'd take her an apple and share it with her whilst telling her of our success or failure. Poor Mary, how she would have preferred the burden of a stag, rather than the burden of loneliness. Over the years I became rather attached to Mary, and as the years have gone by, wondered if I might have asked for the additional work rather than the convenience.

Alec.

Jesus Alec. Between that and the last verse of the Old Horse poem I am feeling a bit unstable. Think its time to wander off and find a thread about which colour numnah would best suit a chestnut horse, or similar....

 

[Alec Swan]

Fun Times,

I apologise if I've upset you, it wasn't by intent. If it's any consolation, the memory of the lovely Mary still touches a chord with me too. She was such a trusting and kindly soul.

Alec.

 

[Meredith]

Well said Doormouse, completely agree. I wanted to add that I found this poem when I lost my old mare a few months ago. I still can't read it without crying - it says it all. All of you who've had and lost a beloved hunter will understand.

Hark! Old horse.
Please meet me at the gate.
Hounds are leaving kennels soon,
And we will not be late.

Step up. Old horse.
Carry me to the meet.
Our years together count for much,
Though you're no longer fleet.

Trot on. Old horse.
I know you hear the horn.
The hounds are in the valley now,
The fox is in the corn!

Kick on. Old horse,
My soulmate and my friend.
Our years together hunting are
The best that's ever been.

Leap up. Old horse.
Take the bit and fly!
I still trust you like a brother,
Even though the fence is high.

Walk on. Old horse.
We’ll soon be hacking in.
Your nicker rests beside my heart.
Our souls entwine within.

Hark! Old horse.
The years reveal our fate.
If we should part before we wish.
Please meet me at the gate

Oh, yes, completely.