Where snowdrops pushed at the first thaw. The farms, the moist earth-smelling cover,

Where scent would hang like breath on glass).

Those flashing brooks (in good sound grass, He loved the Seven Springs water-courses, So here are three extracts from the poem: the first from the prologue, a portrayal of Tom Dansey, the hunt whip the second from mid-hunt when the fox is still fresh and has hopes of going to earth the third from towards the end. And whatever one thinks of fox-hunting, the poem is very even-handed in its treatment: those who feel that there is something not quite right about taking pleasure in pursuing a small animal to exhaustion then watching it being torn to pieces by dogs can find some consolation in the fact that the actual hunt is written very much from the point of view of the fox, while those who see hunting as a fine old tradition inextricably woven into the fabric of British country life can enjoy the long Chaucerian prologue with its basically sympathetic description of the various human characters involved, and the loving celebration of the English countryside that forms its backdrop. I have had an affection for the poem ever since, and while the more cerebral fashions that followed may have seemed to sweep Masefield’s verse away, I think that at its best it had a vigour and clarity that was and remains admirable. The lion, to Reynard, who has been accused of various misdeeds.Another piece that my primary school headmistress, God rest her formidable but caring soul, read to us in those far off Literature lessons (see week 419) was extracts from John Masefield’s long narrative poem ‘Reynard The Fox’, in which she, or someone of her acquaintance, had cleverly substituted names from our local Hertfordshire countryside for many of place-names in the poem, such that we small children could follow the great hunt in our minds by woods and fields that we ourelves roamed over. A French version, Le roman de Renart, dates from Reynard the Fox, wily protagonist of the medieval verse cycles knownĪs the beast epics. I give to you, Sir Monaghan, my whips, spurs and capįor you jumped hedge and ditches and they look so ragged.' 'Oh to you, Mr Casey, I leave my whole estateĪnd to you, Mr Johnson, my money and my plate He sent for pen and paper and ink to write his willĪnd what he made mention of, we found it no thankįor he gave us a cheque on the National Bank. When Reynard was captured his wishes to fulfill If the rocks do not stop him he will cross Killaloe' The gentlemen cried 'Watch him, watch him, what will he do? Where none but the footmen and hounds they could follow When Reynard was started he faced to the hollow

Of the sweet smell of horses and the sweet cry of hounds We kept his brush in view every yard of the wayĪnd it's straight he made his course for the street of Rosstradeįor Reynard, sly Reynard lay hid there that nightĪnd we swore we would watch him until the daylight When Reynard was started he faced TullamoreĪnd Arklow and Wicklow along the sea shore Tally-ho, hark away me boys away, hark away The King's County gentlemen o'er hills, dales and rocks On the first day of March in the year of ninety-three There are several 'versions'of this old poem Not a lot to go on i know but i'm sure someone out there will know. I think it may have been called Reynards Last run but I'm not sure. Reynards last run? Reynards last run? : LUSENET : Poetry : One ThreadĬan anyone plese help? Can anyone remember a poem about a fox that is being hunted across the english countryside.

Reynard fox poem