Arthur Conan Doyle

“ For the scent is lying strongly in the morning.
'Who's the fool that heads him?'
Hold hard, and let him pass!
He's out among the oziers
He's clear upon the grass.
You grip his flanks and settle,
For the horse is stretched and straining,
Here's a game to test your mettle,
And a sport to try your training,
When the Chiddingfolds are running in the morning. ”

“ As you pound through the slush.
See the whip! See the huntsman!
We are close upon his brush.
'Ware the root that lies before you!
It will trip you if you blunder.
'Ware the branch that's drooping o'er you! ”