Classic Poem

For you, who whirled with horse and hound,
Have left the Cat so far behind,
Would I could wind great Nimrod's horn
Which giants burst themselves to wind.

Would I could sing, as when of old,
High riders heard the Hunting-Song,
My tones would be sublime and swift,
My terms would be entirely wrong.

Mine were a most misleading map
To trace the Run o'er slope and valley
Measured by Meets that will not meet,
And Tally-ho's that do not tally.

But if old hunting-tales be true
And Reynard bore the name of Puss,
Turn at that word a backward glance,
And throw a kindly thought to us.

Who sit beside an ancient fire
And watch grey ghosts of pussies pass,
Whom fortune beckons far afield,
But not to Beaconsfield alas . . .

With one old dog who hunts for Cats,
As all your dogs can hunt for foxes. . . .
Stoop from the saddle — take this old
Most infantile of Christmas Boxes.