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<h2>WITH THE CHIDDINGFOLDS</h2>    The horse is bedded down       Where the straw lies deep.    The hound is in the kennel;       Let the poor hound sleep!    And the fox is in the spinney       By the run which he is haunting,    And I’ll lay an even guinea       That a goose or two is wanting When the farmer comes to count them in the morning.    The horse is up and saddled;       Girth the old horse tight!    The hounds are out and drawing       In the morning light.    p. 89Now it’s ‘Yoick!’ among the heather,       And it’s ‘Yoick!’ across the clover,    And it’s ‘To him, all together!’       ‘Hyke a Bertha!  Hyke a Rover!’ And the woodlands smell so sweetly in the morning.    ‘There’s Termagant a-whimpering;       She whimpers so.’    ‘There’s a young hound yapping!’       Let the young hound go!    But the old hound is cunning,       And it’s him we mean to follow,    ‘They are running!  They are running!       And it’s ‘Forrard to the hollo!’ For the scent is lying strongly in the morning.    ‘Who’s the fool that heads him?’       Hold hard, and let him pass!    p. 90He’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.    We’re up by the Coppice       And we’re down by the Mill,    We’re out upon the Common,       And the hounds are running still.    You must tighten on the leather,       For we blunder through the bracken;    Though you’re over hocks in heather       Still the pace must never slacken As we race through Thursley Common in the morning. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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