a1b2c3
Well-Known Member
Little Foxes
I dreamed, and lo! In this my dream the cranks had had their way,
Fox-hunting was forbid by law for ever and a day;
No more across the English grass might English sportsmen ride,
No more the scarlet coats be seen at winter covert-side.
But what of Master Reynard whom this law was passed to save
From the death that so befits him as a brigand wild and brave?
Alas! I saw quite clearly what must now become his fate
With none to stand between him and the chicken farmers hate.
The shot at dusk, the shot at dawn, the snatched uncertain aim,
The wounds that only slowly kill, the wounds that only maim,
The bitter gripe of poison and the burning rending pain,
The broken teeth and bleeding jaws that bite the trap in vain.
The roly cubs in summer dawns that scrapped and played amain
Are dying now by inches, for their dam comes not again;
She is lying at a dyke back with a gin upon her pad,
A broken bleeding sacrifice to sentiment run mad.
I woke and new it but a dream; for yet old Reynard ran
As he did before the wolf-pack ere ever there was man;
I woke, and breathed a little prayer for fear of what impends;
God pity Britains foxes and save them from their friends.
Phil Stevenson, 1929
I put this poem in my dissertation on the politics behind the ban, i liked it so thought some of you might too
