*

The fox burst out with a flair of cunning,
He ran like mad and he went on running;
He made his point for the Heroes' Pleasance,
By Hang Bill Copse, where he roused the pheasants.
They rose with a whirr and kuk, kuk, kukkered;
The fox ran on with a mask unpuckered
By Boshale Stump and Uttermost Penny,
Where the grass was short and the tracks were many.
He tried the clay and he tried the marl,
A workman's whippet began to snarl;
Into the Dodder a splash he went;
All that he cared was to change the scent,
And half of the pack from the line he shook
By paddling about in the Beaver Brook.

* * * * *

He swerved to the left at Maynard Keynes,
With an eye to sheep and an eye to drains;
By Old Cole Smiley and Clere St. Thomas,
Without any stops and without any commas;
At Addison's Cots he went so quick,
He startled a bricklayer laying a brick;
He ran over oats and he ran over barleys,
By Moss Cow Puddle and Rushen Parleys;
By Lympne Sassoon and Limpet Farm
He scattered the geese in wild alarm;
He ran with a pain growing under his pinny
Till he heard the sound of a war-horse whinny,
And tried for an earth in the Tory Holts.

* * * * *

The earth was stopped. It was barred with bolts.

* * * * *

He turned again and he passed Spen Valley,
By Paisley Shawls and Leamington Raleigh;
His flanks were wet, he was mire-beslobbered
By Hatfield Yew and by Hatfield Robert;
He tried a hen-coop, he tried a tub,
He tried the National Liberal Club--
A terrier barked and turned him out.

* * * * *

He tried the end of an old drain-spout.

* * * * *

It was much too small. With a bursting heart
He thought of the home where he made his start;
His flanks were heaving, his soul despairing,
He flaired again--he was always flairing
To find the best way of escape and nab it,
He couldn't get out of this flairing habit;
He felt at his back the fiery breath
Of the Kill Gorge pack that had vowed his death;
He turned once more for the shelter good
Of the Wan Tun Waste and the dark yew wood,
The deep yew fastness of Cowall Itchen
And the scuts and heads of hens in his kitchen.
The hounds grew weak and The Mail was blowing;
Rother said, "Alf, this is bad going!"