Foxhunters and foxhounds in Cumbria have been hunting the fox from time immemorial in the magnificent Lake District on the English-Scottish border. It is a hard and dangerous place for hounds and humans alike—climbing borrans (stone piles), crags (cliffs), and crossing the scree beds (fallen stone from the crags). It’s country that would ruin a horse the first time out, and so the hunting is on foot. Dangerous and exhausting enough to fill the Cumbrians with pride and feelings of purity for their special brand of hunting.
We don’t turn out in scarlet,
We are more at home in tweeds;
We have no aristocratic hounds
Or blood three figure steeds:
Our home is in the up-lands
Where the Great Creator spills
His richest browns and purples
On our everlasting hills
Our pack’s no beauty chorus
Bred to win in show-ring class
And we mostly meet on Sundays
After Chapel, Church or Mass,
The Parish Priest and Parson
Don’t discourage us of course,
For they know that while we’re hunting,
Well…we might be doing worse!
We haven’t any kennels
Every sportsman keeps a hound
And we’ve no transport problems
When we want to move around
To other hunting districts
For an Invitation Meet,
If we can’t procure a lorry
Then we travel on our feet.
We’ve no envy for the city,
We were bred ‘mong hills and rocks;
So we’d never barter freedom
For the servitude of clocks!
Our marrow-bones were bred to love
The Chase, with all its thrills.
We are kings, content to rule the
Ageless grandeur of THE HILLS!
Posted July 18, 2019