Here’s a traditional old hunting poem of unknown origin, probably often sung in the pub. I run across it every so often in the literature, and I don’t know why I never published it before in Foxhunting Life. I always enjoy it, especially the cocky, swagger of this tough old hound, as he describes himself to you.
I’m a lean old, mean old, sight in the street
With a foolish, ghoulish glare at a man,
And my kennel-mates look grand at a meet,
With a bloom on their Belvoir tan;
And the sneer when they gape on my colour and shape
And my veteran, villainous, bloodshot eye,
For the crowds that swarm round fashion and form
Pass over the old blue-pye.
But the huntsman knows what a hound can do,
And he knows that I know that he knows it, too:
He knows my voice on a fox is true,
And the blood of a fox my joy;
So I clear my way thro’ the thick of the pack
To where he sits on the bay mare’s back
With his, “Poor old Vagabond—Vagabond—Vagabond!
Poor old Vagabond, boy!”
I’m a hard old, scarred old, quarrelsome brute,
I’m a peevish, thievish bundle of bone,
But I’ll sing to a fox when the rest are mute
On a line as cold as stone.
Oh, the Belvoir blood is gallant and good
On a scent you could eat, when it hangs breast high,
But the casting vote on a doubtful note
Is left to the old blue-pye.
And the huntsman knows what a hound can do,
And he knows that I know that he knows it, too:
He knows my voice on a fox is true,
And the blood of a fox my joy;
So clear the way for the pick of the pack,
When he waves us in from the bay mare’s back
With his “‘Leu-‘leu, Vagabond—Vagabond—Vagabond!
‘Leu-‘leu, Vagabond, boy!”
I’m a slinking, blinking beast on a bench,
I’m a sulking, hulking bully at home,
But I’m king of the sport of kings as I wrench
Thro’ the woods where the red rogues roam;
And my fine sleek mates must bury their hates
And gather and gallop to get to the cry
When the brushwood rocks and the word is, “Fox!—
On the faith of the old blue-pye.
For the huntsman knows what a hound can do,
And he knows that I know that he knows it, too:
He knows my voice on a fox is true,
And the blood of a fox my joy;
So cleave your way to the pick of the pack,
When he wakes the woods from the bay mare’s back
With his “Huic to Vagabond!—Huic to Vagabond!
Yoo-ick, Vagabond, boy!”
I’m a creepy, sleepy slug in the straw,
But endure as sure as fate on a line,
And a fox must make the most of his law
When the set of his mask is mine;
And the riders troop to the shrill who-hoop
On staggering horses and steeds that sigh
As the word goes round that the fox was found
And killed by the old blue-pye.
For the huntsman knows what a hound can do,
And he knows that I know that he knows it, too:
He knows my voice on a fox is true,
And the blood of a fox my joy,
As he fights his way to the thick of the pack,
Where my jaws are crushing a wet red back,
With his “”Leave him, Vagabond!—Vagabond!—Vagabond!
Leave him, Vagabond, boy!”
Posted May 8, 2021
And here’s a version as it might have been sung.