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.

We are breaking from the tangle
We are out upon the green,
There's a bank and a hurdle
With a quickset between.
You must steady him and try it,
You are over with a scramble.
Here's a wattle! You must fly it,
And you land among the bramble,
For it's roughish, toughish going in the morning.

'Ware the bog by the Grove
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!
You must dip and swerve from under