There are those who will tell you that nought can surpass
A line over Leicestershire's galloping grass,
And the only straight jumps that are worth a man's while
Are the five-bar and bull-finch, the ditch and the stile.

But there's lots of good fun where the thorn hedges end
And the browns of the cloud with the brown heather blend,
Where a horse must jump clean if the coping he 'd clear
And be neither too far nor a fraction too near.

For there with no yielding soft hedge-top he deals
To be brushed with the forearm or rapped with the heels,
Where the take-off is deep from the rain-sodden wold
And the ragged stone tops are a call to the bold.

All I ask is a fox on the hills that he knows
And a heart-stirring holloa and " Yonder he goes! "
The pack in full cry and the moor lying wide
And Woodpecker taking the walls in his stride.