The Fox's prophecy...Updated
These verses are thought to have been written by a Mr D.W.Nash around 1870. His predictions on the future of the British countryside are terrifyingly accurate...
Made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up
Tom Hill was in the saddle
One bright November morn
The echoing glades of Guilding Wood
Were ringing with his horn
The diamonds of the hoar frost
Were sparkling in the sun
Upon the fallen leaves the drops
Were shining one by one
The hare lay on the fallow
The robin carolled free
The linnet and the yellow finch
Twittered from tree to tree
In stately march the sable rook
Followed the clanking plough
Apart their watchful sentinel
Cawed from the toppermost bough
Peeped from her hole the fieldmouse
Amid the fallen leaves
From twig to twig the spider
Her filmy cable weaves
The waving of the pine boughs
The squirrels form disclose
And through the purple beech-tops
The whirring pheasant rose
The startled rabbit scuttled
Across the grassy ride
High in mid air the hovering hawk
Wheeled round in circles wide
The freshest wind was blowing
O'er groves of beech and oak
And through the boughs of larch and pine
The struggling sunbeam broke
The varied tints of Autumn
Still lingered on the wood
And on the leaves the morning sun
Poured out a golden flood
Soft, fleecy clouds were sailing
Across the vault of blue
A fairer hunting morning
No huntsman ever knew
All nature seemed rejoicing
That glorious morn to see
All seemed to breathe a fresher life
Beast, insect, bird and tree
But sound and sight of beauty
Fell dull on eye and ear
The huntsman's heart was heavy
His brow oppressed with care
High in his stirrips raised he stood
And long he gazed around
And breathlessly and anxiously
He listened for a sound
But nought he heard save song of bird
Or Jay's discordant cry
Or when among the treetops
The wind went murmuring by
No voice of hounds, nor sound of horn
The woods around were mute
As though the earth had swallowed up
His comrades man and brute
He thought, "I must essay to find
My hounds at any cost
A huntsman who has lost his hounds
Is but a huntsman lost"
Then round he turned his horse's head
And shook his bridle free
When he was struck by an aged fox
That sat beneath a tree
He raised his eyes in glad suprise
That huntsman keen and bold
But there was in that fox's look
That made his blood run cold
He raised his hand to touch his horn
And shout a "Tally-Ho"
But, mastered by that fox's eye
His lips refused to blow
For he was grim and gaunt of limb
With age all silvered o'er
He might have been an artic fox
Escaped from Greenlands shore
But age his vigour had not tamed
Nor dimmed his sparkling eye
Which shone with an unearthly fire
A fire could never die
And thus the huntsman he addressed
In tones distinct and clear
Who heard as they who in a dream
The fairies must hear
"Huntsman" he said a sudden thrill
Through all the listener ran
To hear a creature of the wood
Speak like a Christian man
Last of my race to me 'tis given
The future to unfold
To speak the words which never yet
Spake fox of mortal mould
Then print my words upon your heart
And stamp them on your brain
That you to others may impart
My prophecy again
Strong life is yours in manhood's prime
Your cheek with heat is red
Time has not laid his finger yet
In earnest on your head
But when your limbs are bent with age
And when your looks are grey
The sport that you have loved so well
Shall long have passed away
In vain shall generous Colmore
Your hunt consent to keep
In vain the Rendcombe baronet
With gold your store shall heap
In vain Sir Alexander
And Watson keen in vain
O'er the pleasant Cotswold hills
The joyous sport maintain
Vain all their efforts, spite of all
Draws nigh the fatal morn
When the last Cotswold fox shall hear
The latest huntsmans horn
Yet think not huntsman I rejoice
To see the end so near
Nor think the sound of horn and hound
To me a sound of fear
In my strong youth which numbers now
Full many a winter back
How scornfully I shook my brush
Before the Berkeley pack
How oft from Painswick hill I've seen
The morning mist uncurl
When Harry Airls blew the horn
Before the Wrathful Earl
How oft I've heard the Cotswold's cry
As Turner cheered the pack
And laughed to see his baffled hounds
Hang vainly on my track
Then think not that I speak in fear
Or prophecy in hate
Too well I know the doom reserved
For all my tribe by fate
Too well I know by wisdom taught
The existence of my race
O'er all wide England's green domain
Is bound up with the chase
Better in early youth and strength
The race for life to run
Than poisened like the noxious rat
Or slain by felon gun
Better by wily slight and turn
The eager hound to foil
Than slaughtered by each baser churl
Who yet shall till the soil
For not these hills alone
The doom of sport shall fall
O'er the broad face of England creeps
The shadow on the wall
The years roll on old manners change
Old customs lose their sway
New fashions rule the grandsire's garb
Moves ridicule today
The woodlands where my race has bred
Unto the axe shall yield
Hedgerow and copse shall cease to shade
The ever widening field
The manly sports of England
Shall vanish one by one
The manly blood of England
In weaker veins shall run
to be continued....