Hunting has been an activity enjoyed by humans for thousands of years, with the primary objective of procuring food.
However, for many people, hunting is more than just a means of obtaining sustenance; it is an opportunity to connect with nature and immerse oneself in the wild beauty of the world around us.
Hunting poems are a way to capture the essence of this connection, to celebrate the majesty of the natural world and the thrill of the hunt.
These poetries about hunting can be reflective, contemplative, or exhilarating, conveying the full range of emotions experienced by hunters as they navigate the wilderness.
Famous Hunting Poems
So, grab your hunting gear, and let’s embark on a journey through the pages of some of the most famous hunting poems ever written.
1. Home Is The Sailor
by A.E. Houseman
Home is the sailor, home from sea:
Her far-borne canvas furled
The ship pours shining on the quay
The plunder of the world.
Home is the hunter from the hill:
Fast in the boundless snare
All flesh lies taken at his will
And every fowl of air.
‘Tis evening on the moorland free,
The starlit wave is still:
Home is the sailor from the sea,
The hunter from the hill.
2. Alexander Hunter
by Mart Taylor
A. Hunter is my hero’s name,
And occupation too:
To hunt the country o’er for game
Is all he aims to do;
And yet A. Hunter comes to town
Quite often, through the year,
Upon no earthly business save
To meat the people here.
The epicures about the place
On rare-bits love to fare;
And with young rabbits Hunter can
Just suit them to a hare.
His venison, he says, is cheap—
It may be—but I fear
However much it tastes like sheep
We must admit ’tis deer.
When Hunter takes a deadly aim,
He’s never known to fail:
Though woodcocks are afraid of him,
He cannot make them “quail.”
When Hunter has his powder dry,
And rifle all in trim,
To charge upon a flock of geese,
They say is “ducks for him.”
Those well acquainted with the man
Upon their word declare
There’s mischief bruin when he gets
His eyes upon a bear;
And, strange although the fact may seem,
I’ve often heard it said
A. Hunter just from meat alone
Can make his daily bread.
At hunting, Hunter has success—
But wherein does it lie?
Well, I have heard some people guess
That it is “in his eye;”
Some lay it to his use of arms—
And others, as I’m born,
Urge that he “keeps his powder dry”—
While some say “in a horn.”
Now I have but a word to say—
Which is, that I have found
That all the game which Hunter kills
Receives a mortal wound.
Long may he live—and early win
A fortune and a fame;
And when his game of life is o’er,
May death find Hunter game.
3. Rocky Mountain Goat
On Rocky Mountain cliff and ridge,
Along the shelving Western slopes,
Or in green valleys at their base,
Where range the graceful antelopes,
The wild goat gallops o’er the space,
Cropping the juicy grass at will,
Or tasting the cold mountain rill.
So wild and wary, fleet of foot
Surpassing speed of hound or horse,
That scarce the skill and arms of man
Avail to check their headlong course.
Where the Columbia River turns
Its North Fork, near the water’s head,
Their gather’d numbers love to graze,
Far over the gray summits spread.
And ofttimes to that solitude
Come trapper and frontiersmen rude;
And then for days the cliffs resound
With gun-report and hunters’ cheer,
The baying of the eager hound,
The gallop down recesses drear.
There, then, o’er granite ridge and peak,
O’er gorge and gulch and mossy rock,
The hunters clamber, climb, and cling,
Pursuing the wild mountain flock,
And at the day-close, spent with toil,
Return o’erladen with the spoil.
4. The Wild Turkey
by Isaac McLellan
These noble birds that did abound
Innumerous over Northern ground―
Victims so oft to northern sport―
Now seek in southern realms resort;
In Mexico, in Texas State,
Their numbers are supremely great.
Where strutting, gobbling flocks are seen,
Most frequent in the forests green,
And there oft thunder-like are heard,
The flappings of the turkey bird.
Seek them where gloomy shadows fall
Beneath the woodland dim and tall;
In the dense alder-brakes, or where
The dark pines lift their spears in air,
Where slow or winding rivulet creeps,
Or swift thro’ bushy ravine sweeps.
Hid in tall grass that spreads around,
Your call deceptive, faintly sound,
And soon you hear each answering note,
From the embowering thickets float;
Soon will perceive the cautious game
Step forth―then steady be your aim.
A hunter, ere the dawning day,
Flushes with blaze the forest’s way,
Selects his ambush near a wood,
Where roosting, rest the noble brood.
‘Tis lovely morn of early spring,
That gilds the earth with blossoming;
The violets and daisies white,
Enamel earth with colorings bright,
The red-buds with their pinkish spray,
Entwine the trees with garlands gay;
The humid air holds odors still,
Of wild-plum blooms o’er plain and hill,
While snowy dogwood blossoms cling
To branch, the bridal-wreaths of Spring.
Then all the wood-bowers teem with life,
With wild-wood melodies, are rife,
Then sudden from a dense tree top,
On dashing wing the turkeys drop,
Skim in wide circles down the air,
Then sink to earth the feast to share,
While quick the fowler’s shot is heard
And bleeding, struggling dies the bird.
5. Man on Moon Mountain
by Kathryn Stewart McDonald
Also known as Kathryn Stewart McDonald
Crickets begin their raucous cacaphonic
announcements, night now, train in
the distance rounding a pass, whistles
reminding the brakeman to begin his task.
Man on moon mountain, at last
a scent of magnolia, out of place
amid the pines and conifers,
knowing the cave is nearer, cave
connected to metamorphic shelf
configured as a perfect shelter
Man returns to his place to rest.
Could have been anyone, aeons past
Crouching on the shelf with flint and
dry grass, developing a habitat.
This man has a pack, a Zippo, pipe,
Tobacco, jerky and the creek, sun dried
prunes, some soup, a pot and spoon, he eats.
In the darkness the moon shines bright, centering
the small and magnificent feat of a man
Who hunts and knows his land, who kills and cures his meat.
6. Hunters of Autumn
A brief shock wave passing through
Nature seems to hardly notice
Death is universal
Peaceful autumn under the trees
A beautiful world surrounds
A gentle melody persists
Sounds of nature flowing
The season changing, wind grows cold
The consequences deadly
Life flowing back into the Earth
The slow decay begins
Mounting pressure for survival
Bless predator and rifle
No tragedy in sacrifice
As nature brings new life
The eyes of death watch over all
Hidden in field and forest
The reapers whom we call hunters
Bringing in their harvest
Loved by nature, despised by some
Whether man or beast be named
By claw and fang or by the gun
May all the world be saved
7. Poem Lord Randall
“Oh where ha’e ye been, Lord Randall, my son!
And where ha’e ye been, my handsome young man!”
“I ha’e been to the wild wood: mother, make my bed soon,
For I’m wearied wi’hunting, and fain wald lie down.”
“An wha met ye there, Lord Randall, my son?
An wha met you there, my handsome young man?”
“I dined wi my true-love; mother, make my bed soon,
For I’m wearied wi hunting, and fain wad lie doon.”
“And what did she give you, Lord Randall, my son?
And what did she give you, my handsome young man?”
“Eels fried in broo; mother, make my bed soon,
For I’m wearied wi hunting, and fain wad lie doon.”
“And wha gat your leavins, Lord Randall, my son?
And wha gat your leavins, my handsome young man?”
“My hawks and my hounds; mother, make my bed soon,
For I’m wearied wi hunting, and fain wad lie doon.”
“What become a yer bloodhounds, Lord Randall, my son?
What become a yer bloodhounds, my handsome young man?”
“They swelled and they died; mother, make my bed soon,
For I’m weary wi huntin, and fain wad lie doon.”
“O I fear ye are poisoned, Lord Randall, my son!
I fear ye are poisoned, my handsome young man!”
“O yes, I am poisoned; mother, make my bed soon,
For I’m sick at m’heart, and I fain wad lie doon.”
8. The Hunter
by Fox Nekitsune
Dew wets the grass
I am the hunter
I walk a deadly path
I am hunting
Slipping through the trees
I am the hunter
I do it all with ease
I am hunting
There stood before me
Is the prey that I desire
A tremble running through me
Now I feel the hunters fire
I circle closer
Keeping her in sight
I circle closer
Don’t want to give her a fright
Now im behind her
So close now
I smell beautiful fur
So close now
Quickly I move
Tearing at her for what I want
Quickly I move
Now I will haunt her
I take my fill
I am the hunter
I leave her still
I have hunted
9. What of The Hunting, Hunter Bbold?
by Rudyard Kipling
What of the hunting, hunter bold?
Brother, the watch was long and cold.
What of the quarry ye went to kill?
Brother, he crops in the jungle still.
Where is the power that made your pride?
Brother, it ebbs from my flank and side.
Where is the haste that ye hurry by?
Brother, I go to my lair to die!
10. A Dying Tiger—Moaned for Drink
by Emily Dickinson
A Dying Tiger—moaned for Drink—
I hunted all the Sand—
I caught the Dripping of a Rock
And bore it in my Hand—
His Mighty Balls—in death were thick—
But searching—I could see
A Vision on the Retina
Of Water—and of me—
‘Twas not my blame—who sped too slow—
‘Twas not his blame—who died
While I was reaching him—
But ’twas—the fact that He was dead—
11. The Threshold
by Rudyard Kipling
In their deepest caverns of limestone
They pictured the Gods of Food–
The Horse, the Elk, and the Bison
That the hunting might be good;
With the Gods of Death and Terror–
The Mammoth, Tiger, and Bear.
And the pictures moved in the torchlight
To show that the Gods were there!
But that was before Ionia–
Any of the Mountains of Ionia,
Had bared their peaks to the air.
The close years packed behind them,
As the glaciers bite and grind,
Filling the new-gouged valleys
With Gods of every kind.
Gods of all-reaching power–
Gods of all-searching eyes–
But each to be wooed by worship
And won by sacrifice.
Till, after many winters, rose Ionia–
(Strange men brooding in Ionia)
Crystal-eyed Sages of Ionia
Who said, “These tales are lies.
“We dream one Breath in all things,
“That blows all things between.
“We dream one Matter in all things–
“Eternal, changeless, unseen.
“‘That the heart of the Matter is single
“Till the Breath shall bid it bring forth–
“By choosing or losing its neighbour–
“All things made upon Earth.”
But Earth was wiser than Ionia
(Babylon and Egypt than Ionia)
And they overlaid the teaching of Ionia
And the Truth was choked at birth.
It died at the Gate of Knowledge–
The Key to the Gate in its hand–
And the anxious priests and wizards
Re-blinded the wakening land;
For they showed, by answering echoes,
And chasing clouds as they rose,
How shadows should stand for bulwarks
Between mankind and its woes.
It was then that men bethought them of Ionia
(The few that had not allforgot Ionia)
Or the Word that was whispered in Ionia;
And they turned from the shadows and the shows.
They found one Breath in all things,
That moves all things between.
They proved one Matter in all things–
Eternal, changeless, unseen;
That the heart of the Matter was single
Till the Breath should bid it bring forth–
Even as men whispered in Ionia,
(Resolute, unsatisfied Ionia)
Ere the Word was stifled in Ionia–
All things known upon earth!
12. Love Inthron’d
by Richard Lovelace
Introth, I do my self perswade,
That the wilde boy is grown a man,
And all his childishnesse off laid,
E’re since Lucasta did his fires fan;
H’ has left his apish jigs,
And whipping hearts like gigs:
For t’ other day I heard him swear,
That beauty should be crown’d in honours chair.
With what a true and heavenly state
He doth his glorious darts dispence,
Now cleans’d from falsehood, blood and hate,
And newly tipt with innocence!
Love Justice is become,
And doth the cruel doome;
Reversed is the old decree;
Behold! he sits inthron’d with majestie.
Inthroned in Lucasta’s eye,
He doth our faith and hearts survey;
Then measures them by sympathy,
And each to th’ others breast convey;
Whilst to his altars now
The frozen vestals bow,
And strickt Diana too doth go
A-hunting with his fear’d, exchanged bow.
Th’ imbracing seas and ambient air
Now in his holy fires burn;
Fish couple, birds and beasts in pair
Do their own sacrifices turn.
This is a miracle,
That might religion swell;
But she, that these and their god awes,
Her crowned self-submits to her own laws.
Funny Hunting Poems
Interesting hunting poems add a lighthearted twist to the often-serious business of hunting. With humorous anecdotes and witty observations, they are sure to entertain and delight readers.
1. His First Deer Hunt
by Martin Dejnicki
He got up bright and early
before the crack of dawn,
and waited in this tree stand
for a buck to come along.
His heart is beating rapidly,
he’s breathing hard and fast,
he knows he must calm himself down,
he gains control at last.
He listens very carefully
in hopes that he might hear,
a sound besides his pounding heart
beating in his ear.
He hears a sound and slowly turns,
and sees this pair of eyes,
then a little coyote scampers out
as if to say, “Surprise.”
It’s time to go back home for lunch,
his choice is pretty clear,
this time he’ll choose another stand
when he goes back for deer.
And that is just what Danny did,
he chose another stand,
knowing deer were there before,
he’d have the upper hand.
But things did not turn out just right,
the deer were there no more,
in fact they passed by that same stand,
that he was in before.
2. Hunting Season
Hunting season is coming up
and deer is your main prey
Wear bright colors, so you won’t get stuck
taking your life away
3. Fish is A Great Dish
I like fishing, fishing is fun
fishing underneath the rising sun
I like catching the fish and putting them in a net
Fish is a great dish when the table is set
4. After The Hunt
by Henry Kendall
AFTER THE HUNT
Underneath the windy mountain walls
Forth we rode, an eager band,
By the surges and the verges and the gorges,
Till the night was on the land?
On the hazy, mazy land!
Far away the bounding prey
Leapt across the ruts and logs,
But we galloped, galloped, galloped on,
Till we heard the yapping of the dogs?
The yapping and the yelping of the dogs.
Oh, it was a madly merry day
We shall not so soon forget,
And the edges and the ledges and the ridges
Haunt us with their echoes yet?
Echoes, echoes, echoes yet!
While the moon is on the hill
Gleaming through the streaming fogs,
Don, t you hear the yapping of the dogs?
The yapping and the yelping of the dogs?
I rush through the trees
I hear them hunting me
from them I flee
Is this the end of me?
I love to go fishing
I love to go fishing every day,
To the river or the lake.
Up in the morning without delay,
I go fishing soon as I wake.
Fishing in the moonlight or fishing in the sun;
Fishing for the big ones is fun, fun, fun.
Catching the small ones or none at all,
It’s a great sport to get on the ball.
6. Gone Poem
by Carl Sandburg
Everybody loved Chick Lorimer in our town.
Everybody loved her.
So we all love a wild girl keeping a hold
On a dream she wants.
Nobody knows now where Chick Lorimer went.
Nobody knows why she packed her trunk a few old things
And is gone,
Gone with her little chin
Thrust ahead of her
And her soft hair blowing careless
From under a wide hat,
Dancer, singer, a laughing passionate lover.
Were there ten men or a hundred hunting Chick?
Were there five men or fifty with aching hearts?
Everybody loved Chick Lorimer.
Nobody knows where she’s gone.
Short Hunting Poems
Short hunting poems pack a punch with their brevity, capturing the essence of the hunt in just a few lines. They are a quick and satisfying way to savor the thrill of the chase.
1. My Hunting Song
by Charles Kingsley
Forward! Hark forward’s the cry!
One more fence and we’re out on the open,
So to us at once, if you want to live near us!
Hark to them, ride to them, beauties! as on they go,
Leaping and sweeping away in the vale below!
Cowards and bunglers, whose heart or whose eye is slow,
Find themselves staring alone.
So the great cause flashes by;
Nearer and clearer its purposes open,
While louder and prouder the world-echoes cheer us:
Gentlemen sportsmen, you ought to live up to us,
Lead us, and lift us, and hallo our game to us-
We cannot call the hounds off, and no shame to us-
Don’t be left staring alone!
scavenged blow dart gun
held to pursed lips
poking through the ferns
in sweltering jungle
aiming for the monkey
trailing behind the troop,
Swining through treetops
to fall to forest floor
feast for family
waiting in the reeds
washing up the kill
only to hunt again
3. A Loaded Gun
My Life had stood—a Loaded Gun
In Corners—till a Day
The Owner passed—identified—
And carried Me away—
And now We roam in Sovereign Woods—
And now We hunt the Doe—
And every time I speak for Him—
The Mountains straight reply—
And do I smile, such cordial light
Upon the Valley glow—
It is as a Vesuvian face
Had let its pleasure through—
And when at Night—Our good Day done—
I guard My Master’s Head—
‘Tis better than the Eider-Duck’s
Deep Pillow—to have shared—
To foe of His—I’m deadly foe—
None stir the second time—
On whom I lay a Yellow Eye—
Or an emphatic Thumb—
Though I than He—may longer live
He longer must—than I—
For I have but the power to kill,
Without—the power to die—
4. Red Dog
by Rudyard Kipling
For our white and our excellent nights–for the nights of swift running,
Fair ranging, far seeing, good hunting, sure cunning!
For the smells of the dawning, untainted, ere dew has departed!
For the rush through the mist, and the quarry blind-started!
For the cry of our mates when the sambhur has wheeled and is standing at bay!
For the risk and the riot of night!
For the sleep at the lair-mouth by day!
It is met, and we go to the fight.
Bay! O bay!
5. Whoso List to Hunt, I Know Where is A Hind
bY SIR THOMAS WYATT
Whoso list to hunt, I know where is an hind,
But as for me, hélas, I may no more.
The vain travail hath wearied me so sore,
I am of them that farthest cometh behind.
Yet may I by no means my wearied mind
Draw from the deer, but as she fleeth afore
Fainting I follow. I leave off therefore,
Sithens in a net I seek to hold the wind.
Who list her hunt, I put him out of doubt,
As well as I may spend his time in vain.
And graven with diamonds in letters plain
There is written, her fair neck round about:
Noli me tangere, for Caesar’s I am,
And wild for to hold, though I seem tame.
6. Dear or Deer Hunting
by cecil hickman
Silently I walk inside the woods of wonder
Vigilant of signs that I seek of prey,
Blending with landscapes display,
Exploring networks without blunder,
Not placing anything into plunder.
Seek to win my prize in anyway.
Never to eradicate, for only play,
Whether mammal or animal sunder.
Both quarries I believe are cunning.
That I have hunted in my life.
Each target has sent me running.
Equally they have given me strife.
As well mutually they are stunning.
Whether my Dear, or Deer, so rife.
7. In The Forest
by Oscar Wilde
Out of the mid-wood’s twilight
Into the meadow’s dawn,
Ivory limbed and brown-eyed,
Flashes my Faun!
He skips through the copses singing,
And his shadow dances along,
And I know not which I should follow,
Shadow or song!
O Hunter, snare me his shadow!
O Nightingale, catch me his strain!
Else moonstruck with music and madness
I track him in vain!
by A. A Isaactamson
Sound’s hunting light
Light’s hunting darkness
Darkness’s hunting vacuum
Buth this life’s
9. Men And Hunting
by TAMMY REAMS
10. Head Hunting
by Gershon Wolf
Turtle, turtle, in your shell
Your backside is as hard as hell
Turtle, turtle, in your shell
Come on out, I’ve rung your bell
by Lewis Carroll
Lady Clara Vere de Vere
Was eight years old, she said:
Every ringlet, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden thread.
She took her little porringer:
Of me she shall not win renown:
For the baseness of its nature shall have strength to drag her down.
“Sisters and brothers, little Maid?
There stands the Inspector at thy door:
Like a dog, he hunts for boys who know not two and two are four.”
“Kind words are more than coronets,”
She said, and wondering looked at me:
“It is the dead unhappy night, and I must hurry home to tea.”
Long Hunting Poems
Long poetries about hunting offer a more expansive exploration of the hunting experience. With rich detail and evocative language, they immerse readers in the world of the hunt, from start to finish.
1. The Hunter of The Prairies
by William Cullen Bryant
AY, this is freedom!—these pure skies
Were never stained with village smoke:
The fragrant wind, that through them flies,
Is breathed from wastes by plough un-broke.
Here, with my rifle and my steed,
And her who left the world for me,
I plant me, where the red deer feed
In the green desert—and am free.
For here the fair savannas know
No barriers in the bloomy grass;
Wherever breeze of heaven may blow,
Or beam of heaven may glance, I pass.
In pastures, measureless as air,
The bison is my noble game;
The bounding elk, whose antlers tear
The branches, falls before my aim.
Mine are the river-fowl that scream
From the long stripe of waving sedge;
The bear, that marks my weapon’s gleam,
Hides vainly in the forest’s edge;
In vain the she-wolf stands at bay;
The brinded catamount, that lies
High in the boughs to watch his prey,
Even in the act of springing, dies.
With what free growth the elm and plane
Fling their huge arms across my way,
Gray, old, and cumbered with a train
Of vines, as huge, and old, and gray!
Free stray the lucid streams, and find
No taint in these fresh lawns and shades;
Free spring the flowers that scent the wind
Where never scythe has swept the glades.
Alone the Fire, when frostwinds sere
The heavy herbage of the ground,
Gathers his annual harvest here,
With roaring like the battle’s sound,
And hurrying flames that sweep the plain,
And smoke-streams gushing up the sky:
I meet the flames with flames again,
And at my door they cower and die.
Here, from dim woods, the aged past
Speaks solemnly; and I behold
The boundless future in the vast
And lonely river, seaward rolled.
Who feeds its founts with rain and dew?
Who moves, I ask, its gliding mass,
And trains the bordering vines, whose blue
Bright clusters tempt me as I pass?
Broad are these streams—my steed obeys,
Plunges, and bears me through the tide.
Wide are these woods—I thread the maze
Of giant stems, nor ask a guide.
I hunt, till day’s last glimmer dies
O’er woody vale and grassy height;
And kind the voice and glad the eyes,
That welcome my return at night.
2. The Bear Hunt
by Abraham Lincoln
A wild-bear chace, didst never see?
Then hast thou lived in vain.
Thy richest bump of glorious glee,
Lies desert in thy brain.
When first my father settled here,
’Twas then the frontier line:
The panther’s scream, filled night with fear
And bears preyed on the swine.
But woe for Bruin’s short lived fun,
When rose the squealing cry;
Now man and horse, with dog and gun,
For vengeance, at him fly.
A sound of danger strikes his ear;
He gives the breeze a snuff;
Away he bounds, with little fear,
And seeks the tangled rough.
On press his foes, and reach the ground,
Where’s left his half munched meal;
The dogs, in circles, scent around,
And find his fresh made trail.
With instant cry, away they dash,
And men as fast pursue;
O’er logs they leap, through water splash,
And shout the brisk halloo.
Now to elude the eager pack,
Bear shuns the open ground;
Through matted vines, he shapes his track
And runs it, round and round.
The tall fleet cur, with deep-mouthed voice,
Now speeds him, as the wind;
While half-grown pup, and short-legged fice,
Are yelping far behind.
And fresh recruits are dropping in
To join the merry corps:
With yelp and yell,—a mingled din—
The woods are in a roar.
And round, and round the chace now goes,
The world’s alive with fun;
Nick Carter’s horse, his rider throws,
And more, Hill drops his gun.
Now sorely pressed, bear glances back,
And lolls his tired tongue;
When as, to force him from his track,
An ambush on him sprung.
Across the glade he sweeps for flight,
And fully is in view.
The dogs, new-fired, by the sight,
Their cry, and speed, renew.
The foremost ones, now reach his rear,
He turns, they dash away;
And circling now, the wrathful bear,
They have him full at bay.
At top of speed, the horse-men come,
All screaming in a row,
“Whoop! Take him Tiger. Seize him Drum.”
Bang,—bang—the rifles go.
And furious now, the dogs he tears,
And crushes in his ire,
Wheels right and left, and upward rears,
With eyes of burning fire.
But leaden death is at his heart,
Vain all the strength he plies.
And, spouting blood from every part,
He reels, and sinks, and dies.
And now a dinsome clamor rose,
’Bout who should have his skin;
Who first draws blood, each hunter knows,
This prize must always win.
But who did this, and how to trace
What’s true from what’s a lie,
Like lawyers, in a murder case
They stoutly argufy.
Aforesaid fice, of blustering mood,
Behind, and quite forgot,
Just now emerging from the wood,
Arrives upon the spot.
With grinning teeth, and up-turned hair—
Brim full of spunk and wrath,
He growls, and seizes on dead bear,
And shakes for life and death.
And swells as if his skin would tear,
And growls and shakes again;
And swears, as plain as dog can swear,
That he has won the skin.
Conceited whelp! we laugh at thee—
Nor mind, that now a few
Of pompous, two-legged dogs there be,
Conceited quite as you.
3. Canvas-Back And Red-Heads
by Isaac McLellan
In sharp November, from afar,
From Northern river, stream, and lake,
The flocks of noble canvas-back
Their migratory journeys make;
The frosty morning finds them spread
Along the flats of Barnegat,
Where grows the Valisneria root,
The duck-grass with its russet thread;
But chief where Chesapeake receives
From Susquehanna brackish tides.
By calm Potomac and the James,
Feeding at will from morn till eve,
‘Mid those aquatic pastures green,
The ribbon’d grass and bulbous root,
Where slant the reedy edges lean.
By thousands there the wild-fowl come
To taste the rich, delicious fare:
The red-head and the canvas-back,
The widgeon, with his plumage rare;
The ruddy duck, the buffel-head,
The broad-bill and Canadian goose,
Loving o’er placid shoal or cove
Their flapping pinions to unloose.
Through all the day, dispers’d around,
They swim and circle o’er the bay;
At eve, in congregated flocks,
To months of creeks they take their way;
While some a wakeful vigil keep,
Others at anchor float asleep.
When winter early sharp sets in,
And frozen is the river’s face,
To its salt confluence with the bay
The flocks seek out their feeding-place.
And where across the ice a pool
Of open water they discern,
The hungry flocks their flight suspend
And toward the friendly pasture turn;
And there the lurking gunner waits
(Amid the ice-blocks hid from sight),
With heavy gun and deadly aim
To thin the numbers that alight.
4. Hunting The Grizzly Bear
by Isaac McLellan
Ursus Horibilis―the grizzly bear
Hath range from Mexico to Canadian realm,
From Rocky Mountains to Pacific seas,
And ever will the mightiest foe o’erwhelm.
Whether in forest or on granite height
The conflict rages, the relentless fight,
In size, in strength, ferocity supreme,
It is the monarch of all animal life;
E’en man himself oft yieldeth to its sway,
Shrinks from encounter in the fearful strife.
Men claim the lion as the desert’s king,
Yet the great grizzly is the lion’s peer,
For grizzly, wounded, would its foe pursue,
But leo hurt would pause in its career.
He is the bear of mountain fastnesses,
As the black bear has home in wood and plain,
Yet oft the grizzly roams where food is found,
Whether on shrubby plain, or wood-domain.
‘Tis denizen of all States in farthest West,
It slays the bison by Montana’s founts,
Its muffled roar disturbs Nevada’s wilds,
Its sway prevails o’er the Wind-River mounts,
Its home is made ‘mid craggy cliffs and peaks,
Where Mountain-goat and Big-horn sheep abide,
And there in dark ravine and canyon grim
They prowl they ravage, with their mighty stride.
The eagle and the vulture wheel above,
But no life else their domains may invade,
Save when at times the daring hunter comes
With deadly rifle and the bowie-blade.
No fear of mortal art, or human power,
Hath this grand monster in his wild retreat,
For arm’d with fangs and claws like sabre keen,
He dreads no valorous assaults to meet.
Its taloned paw, its massive jaw will rend
The lordly bison at one trenchant blow;
And the swart Indian, with his shaft and spear,
Shrinks from the presence of such dangerous foe,
And yet no prouder trophy he may wear
Than necklace of the claws of grizzly bear.
In winter’s frozen time it hibernates,
Yet then, at times, he roams the waste for food,
Then wild with hunger, desperate in rage
‘Tis death to meet him in his savage mood;
For then with hoarse and drum-like roar he strides,
With voice like giants of a fairy tale
He makes the charge, and woe betide the man,
Save for escape some tall tree may avail;
For the grand brute, with courage so sublime,
May ne’er with clumsy limbs the branches climb!
5. The Canoe
by Isabella Valancy Crawford
My masters twain made me a bed
Of pine-boughs resinous, and cedar;
Of moss, a soft and gentle breeder
Of dreams of rest; and me they spread
With furry skins, and laughing said,
Now she shall lay her polish’d sides,
As queens do rest, or dainty brides,
Our slender lady of the tides!’
My masters twain their camp-soul lit,
Streamed incense from the hissing cones,
Large, crimson flashes grew and whirl’d
Thin, golden nerves of sly light curl’d
Round the dun camp, and rose faint zones,
Half way about each grim bole knit,
Like a shy child that would bedeck
With its soft clasp a Brave’s red neck;
Yet sees the rough shield on his breast,
The awful plumes shake on his crest,
And fearful drops his timid face,
Nor dares complete the sweet embrace.
Into the hollow hearts of brakes,
Yet warm from sides of does and stags,
Pass’d to the crisp dark river flags;
Sinuous, red as copper snakes,
Sharp-headed serpents, made of light,
Glided and hid themselves in night.
My masters twain, the slaughter’d deer
Hung on fork’d boughs?with thongs of leather.
Bound were his stiff, slim feet together?
His eyes like dead stars cold and drear;
The wand’ring firelight drew near
And laid its wide palm, red and anxious,
On the sharp splendor of his branches;
On the white foam grown hard and sere
On flank and shoulder.
Death hard as breast of granite boulder,
And under his lashes
Peer’d thro’ his eyes at his life’s gray ashes.
My masters twain sang songs that wove
As they burnish’d hunting blade and rifle)
A golden thread with a cobweb trifle?
Loud of the chase, and low of love.
O Love, art thou a silver fish?
Shy of the line and shy of gaffing,
Which we do follow, fierce, yet laughing,
Casting at thee the light-wing’d wish,
And at the last shall we bring thee up
From the crystal darkness under the cup
Of lily folden,
On broad leaves golden?
O Love! art thou a silver deer,
Swift thy starr’d feet as wing of swallow,
While we with rushing arrows follow;
And at the last shall we draw near,
And over thy velvet neck cast thongs?
Woven of roses, of stars, of songs?
New chains all molden
Of rare gems olden!’
They hung the slaughter’d fish like swords
On saplings slender?like scimitars
Bright, and ruddied from new-dead wars,
Blaz’d in the light–the scaly hordes.
hey pil’d up boughs beneath the trees,
Of cedar-web and green fir tassel;
Low did the pointed pine tops rustle,
The camp fire blush’d to the tender breeze.
The hounds laid dew-laps on the ground,
With needles of pine sweet, soft, and rusty?
Dream’d of the dead stag stout and lusty;
A bat by the red flames wove its round.
The darkness built its wigwam walls
Close round the camp, and at its curtain
Press’d shapes, thin woven and uncertain,
As white locks of tall waterfalls.
6. The Old Squire
by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
I LIKE the hunting of the hare
Better than that of the fox;
I like the joyous morning air,
And the crowing of the cocks.
I like the calm of the early fields,
The ducks asleep by the lake,
The quiet hour which Nature yields
Before mankind is awake.
I like the pheasants and feeding things
Of the unsuspicious morn;
I like the flap of the wood-pigeon?s wings
As she rises from the corn.
I like the blackbird?s shriek, and his rush
From the turnips as I pass by,
And the partridge hiding her head in a bush,
For her young ones cannot fly.
I like these things, and I like to ride,
When all the world is in bed,
To the top of the hill where the sky grows wide,
And where the sun grows red.
The beagles at my horse heels trot
In silence after me;
There Ruby, Roger, Diamond, Dot,
Old Slut and Margery,
A score of names well used, and dear,
The names my childhood knew;
The horn, with which I rouse their cheer,
Is the horn my father blew.
I like the hunting of the hare
Better than that of the fox;
The new world still is all less fair
Than the old world it mocks.
I covet not a wider range
Than these dear manors give;
I take my pleasures without change,
And as I lived I live.
I leave my neighbors to their thought;
My choice it is, and pride,
On my own lands to find my sport,
In my own fields to ride.
The hare herself no better loves
The field where she was bred,
Than I the habit of these groves,
My own inherited.
I know my quarries every one,
The meuse where she sits low;
The road she chose to-day was run
A hundred years ago.
The lags, the gills, the forest ways,
The hedgerows one and all,
These are the kingdoms of my chase,
And bounded by my wall;
Nor has the world a better thing,
Though one should search it round,
Than thus to live one?s own sole king,
Upon one?s own sole ground.
I like the hunting of the hare;
It brings me, day by day,
The memory of old days as fair,
With dead men passed away.
To these, as homeward still I ply
And pass the churchyard gate,
Where all are laid as I must lie,
I stop and raise my hat.
I like the hunting of the hare;
New sports I hold in scorn.
I like to be as my fathers were,
In the days e?er I was born.
by Gilbert Keith Chesterton
White founts falling in the Courts of the sun,
And the Soldan of Byzantium is smiling as they run;
There is laughter like the fountains in that face of all men feared,
It stirs the forest darkness, the darkness of his beard;
It curls the blood-red crescent, the crescent of his lips;
For the inmost sea of all the earth is shaken with his ships.
They have dared the white republics up the capes of Italy,
They have dashed the Adriatic round the Lion of the Sea,
And the Pope has cast his arms abroad for agony and loss,
And called the kings of Christendom for swords about the Cross.
The cold queen of England is looking in the glass;
The shadow of the Valois is yawning at the Mass;
From evening isles fantastical rings faint the Spanish gun,
And the Lord upon the Golden Horn is laughing in the sun.
Dim drums throbbing, in the hills half heard,
Where only on a nameless throne a crownless prince has stirred,
Where, risen from a doubtful seat and half attainted stall,
The last knight of Europe takes weapons from the wall,
The last and lingering troubadour to whom the bird has sung,
That once went singing southward when all the world was young.
In that enormous silence, tiny and unafraid,
Comes up along a winding road the noise of the Crusade.
Strong gongs groaning as the guns boom far,
Don John of Austria is going to the war,
Stiff flags straining in the night-blasts cold
In the gloom black-purple, in the glint old-gold,
Torchlight crimson on the copper kettle-drums,
Then the tuckets, then the trumpets, then the cannon, and he comes.
Don John laughing in the brave beard curled,
Spurning of his stirrups like the thrones of all the world,
Holding his head up for a flag of all the free.
Love-light of Spain–hurrah!
Death-light of Africa!
Don John of Austria
Is riding to the sea.
Mahound is in his paradise above the evening star,
He moves a mighty turban on the timeless houri’s knees,
His turban that is woven of the sunsets and the seas.
He shakes the peacock gardens as he rises from his ease,
And he strides among the tree-tops and is taller than the trees;
And his voice through all the garden is a thunder sent to bring
Black Azrael and Ariel and Ammon on the wing.
Giants and the Genii,
Multiplex of wing and eye,
Whose strong obedience broke the sky
When Solomon was king.
They rush in red and purple from the red clouds of the morn,
From the temples where the yellow gods shut up their eyes in scorn;
They rise in green robes roaring from the green hells of the sea
Where fallen skies and evil hues and eyeless creatures be,
On them the sea-valves cluster and the grey sea-forests curl,
Splashed with a splendid sickness, the sickness of the pearl;
They swell in sapphire smoke out of the blue cracks of the ground,–
They gather and they wonder and give worship to Mahound.
And he saith, “Break up the mountains where the hermit-folk can hide,
And sift the red and silver sands lest bone of saint abide,
And chase the Giaours flying night and day, not giving rest,
For that which was our trouble comes again out of the west.
We have set the seal of Solomon on all things under sun,
Of knowledge and of sorrow and endurance of things done.
But a noise is in the mountains, in the mountains, and I know
The voice that shook our palaces–four hundred years ago:
It is he that saith not ‘Kismet’; it is he that knows not Fate;
It is Richard, it is Raymond, it is Godfrey at the gate!
It is he whose loss is laughter when he counts the wager worth,
Put down your feet upon him, that our peace be on the earth.”
For he heard drums groaning and he heard guns jar,
Sudden and still–hurrah!
Bolt from Iberia!
Don John of Austria
Is gone by Alcalar.
St. Michaels on his Mountain in the sea-roads of the north
Where the grey seas glitter and the sharp tides shift
And the sea-folk labour and the red sails lift.
He shakes his lance of iron and he claps his wings of stone;
The noise is gone through Normandy; the noise is gone alone;
The North is full of tangled things and texts and aching eyes,
And dead is all the innocence of anger and surprise,
And Christian killeth Christian in a narrow dusty room,
And Christian dreadeth Christ that hath a newer face of doom,
And Christian hateth Mary that God kissed in Galilee,–
But Don John of Austria is riding to the sea.
Don John calling through the blast and the eclipse
Crying with the trumpet, with the trumpet of his lips,
Trumpet that sayeth ha
8. A Light Woman
by Robert Browning
So far as our story approaches the end,
Which do you pity the most of us three?
My friend, or the mistress of my friend
With her wanton eyes, or me?
My friend was already too good to lose,
And seemed in the way of improvement yet,
When she crossed his path with her hunting-noose
And over him drew her net.
When I saw him tangled in her toils,
A shame, said I, if she adds just him
To her nine-and-ninety other spoils,
The hundredth for a whim!
And before my friend be wholly hers,
How easy to prove to him, I said,
An eagle’s the game her pride prefers,
Though she snaps at a wren instead!
So, I gave her eyes my own eyes to take,
My hand sought hers as in earnest need,
And round she turned for my noble sake,
And gave me herself indeed.
The eagle am I, with my fame in the world,
The wren is he, with his maiden face.
You look away and your lip is curled?
Patience, a moment’s space!
For see, my friend goes shaling and white;
He eyes me as the basilisk:
I have turned, it appears, his day to night,
Eclipsing his sun’s disk.
And I did it, he thinks, as a very thief:
“Though I love her—that, he comprehends—
“One should master one’s passions, (love, in chief)
“And be loyal to one’s friends!”
And she,—she lies in my hand as tame
As a pear late basking over a wall;
Just a touch to try and off it came;
‘Tis mine,—can I let it fall?
With no mind to eat it, that’s the worst!
Were it thrown in the road, would the case assist?
‘Twas quenching a dozen blue-flies’ thirst
When I gave its stalk a twist.
And I,—what I seem to my friend, you see:
What I soon shall seem to his love, you guess:
What I seem to myself, do you ask of me?
No hero, I confess.
‘Tis an awkward thing to play with souls,
And matter enough to save one’s own:
Yet think of my friend, and the burning coals
He played with for bits of stone!
One likes to show the truth for the truth;
That the woman was light is very true:
But suppose she says,—Never mind that youth!
What wrong have I done to you?
Well, any how, here the story stays,
So far at least as I understand;
And, Robert Browning, you writer of plays,
Here’s a subject made to your hand!
9. A Tale of The Sea
by Max Plowman
A pathetic tale of the sea I will unfold,
Enough to make one’s blood run cold;
Concerning four fishermen cast adrift in a dory.
As I’ve been told I’ll relate the story.
T’was on the 8th April on the afternoon of that day
That the village of Louisburg was thrown into a wild state or dismay,
And the villagers flew to the beach in a state of wild uproar
And in a dory they found four men were cast ashore.
Then the villagers, in surprise assembled about the dory,
And they found that the bottom of the boat was gory;
Then their hearts were seized with sudden dread,
when they discovered that two of the men were dead.
And the two survivors were exhausted from exposure, hunger, and cold,
Which used the spectators to shudder when them they did behold;
And with hunger the poor men couldn’t stand on their feet,
They felt so weakly on their legs for want of meat.
They were carried to a boarding-house without delay,
But those that were looking on were stricken with dismay,
When the remains of James and Angus McDonald were found in the boat,
Likewise three pieces or flesh in a pool or blood afloat.
Angus McDonald’s right arm was missing from the elbow,
and the throat was cut in a sickening manner which filled the villagers hearts with woe,
Especially when they saw two pieces of flesh had been cut from each thigh,
‘Twas then the kind-hearted villagers did murmur and sigh.
Angus McDonald must have felt the pangs of hunger before he did try
to cut two pieces of fiesh from James McDonald’s thigh,
But, Oh heaven! the pangs of hunger are very hard to thole,
And anything that’s eatable is precious unto an hungry soul.
Alas it is most pitiful and horrible to think
That with hunger christians will each other’s blood drink
And eat each other’s flesh to save themselves from starvation;
But the pangs or hunger makes them mad, and drives them to desperation.
An old American soldier that had passed through the Civil War,
Declared the scene surpassed anything he’s seen by far,
And at the sight, the crowd in horror turned away,
which no doubt they will remember for many a day.
Colin Chisholm, one of the survivors was looking very pale,
Stretched on a sofa at the boarding-house, making his wail:
Poor fellow! his feet was greatly swollen, and with a melancholy air,
He gave the following account of the distressing affair:
We belonged to the American fishing schooner named “Cicely”,
And our captain was a brave man, called McKenzie;
And the vessel had fourteen hands altogether
And during the passage we had favourable weather.
‘Twas on March the 17th we sailed from Gloucester on the Wednesday
And all our hearts felt buoyant and gay;
And we arrived on the Western banks on the succeeding Tuesday,
While the time unto us seemed to pass merrily away.
About eight O’clock in the morning, we left the vessel in a dory,
And I hope all kind christians will take heed to my story;
Well, while we were at our work, the sky began to frown,
And with a dense fog we were suddenly shut down
Then we hunted and shouted, and every nerve did strain,
Thinking to find our schooner but, alas! it was all in vain:
Because the thick fog hid the vessel from our view,
And to keep ourselves warm we closely to each other drew.
We had not one drop of water , nor provisions of any kind,
Which, alas soon began to tell on our mind;
Especially upon James McDonald who was very thinly clad,
And with the cold and hunger he felt almost mad.
And looking from the stern where he was lying,
he said Good bye, mates, Oh! I am dying!
Poor fellow we kept his body thinking the rest of us would be saved,
Then, with hunger, Angus McDonald began to cry and madly raved.
And he cried, Oh, God! send us some kind of meat,
Because I’m resolved to have something to eat;
Oh! do not let us starve on the briny flood
Or else I will drink of poor Jim’s blood.
Then he suddenly seized his knife and cut off poor Jim’s arm,
Not thinking in his madness he’d done any harm;
Then poor Jim’s blood he did drink and his flesh did eat,
Declaring that the blood tasted like cream, and was a treat.
Then he asked me to taste it, saying It was good without doubt,
Then I tasted it, but in disgust I instantly spat it out;
Saying, if I was to die within an hour on the briny flood,
I would neither eat the flesh nor drink the blood.
Then in the afternoon again he turned to me,
Saying, I’m going to cut Jim’s throat for more blood d’ye see;
Then I begged of him, for God’s sake not to cut the throat of poor Jim,
But he cried, Ha! ha! to save my own life I consider it no sin.
I tried to prevent him but he struck me without dismay
And cut poor Jim’s throat in defiance of me, or all I could say,
10. Hunting The Nephilim
by David Welch
Cormack Langton paced down the long tunnel,
tired from the job he’d just completed,
hunting a Nephilim abomination,
a task that he had often repeated.
He had the scars of several dozen fights,
the price he paid for doing what’s right.
And it was important that it got done,
such great damage could the Nephilim do,
murderous dictators, serial killers,
were often fallen angel spawn, though few knew.
They claimed the sin practiced by their parents,
to unknown graves many souls had they sent.
Cormack himself knew the pain they could bring,
her mother married one, his stepfather,
and he had come home to see his fell work,
the half-fallen scum murdered his mother.
Cormack sought his revenge, and nearly died,
would have if a hunter hadn’t arrived.
But that had been fifteen long years ago,
he had trained to be a hunter since then,
and had taken down thirty Nephilim
disguising themselves as just normal men,
monsters that had done the most awful deeds,
the kinds of evil that shock when you read.
The tunnel ended in a big steel door,
he typed in the code and then walked inside,
this was the North American HQ,
and dozens of folks at work you would find,
tracking down people who might be Nephilim,
the support staff that helped people like him.
He waved to some friends, and they walked into
the big office of the three patriarchs,
one from each of the Abrahamic faiths,
their greatest cooperation so far.
Though in the mid east they might come to blows
here Jews, Christian, and Muslims fought hellish foes.
Yusef sat center, Sayed to his left,
and to the right, Paul declared, “Welcome back!
We heard you killed that rapist in LA,
we’d feared that you’d been thrown off his track.”
“He was a tough one, the chase was long, “
said Cormack.”But he’s paid for all his wrongs.”
Sayed smiled, said, “Good work as always,
we all think that you’ve earned a few weeks off.”
“Yes, “said Yusef, “Take some time for yourself.
I think that you have done more than enough.”
Cormack nodded, and said, “Sounds good to me.”
He could spend more time with his love, Christie.
He’d been out hunting so much these past weeks
that he had barely seen his fiancé,
he hated that, but it was part of the job,
he often had to spend long stretches away.
When he reached his townhouse he saw her there,
idly working, twirling her curled hair.
He walked up and kissed her head so softly,
then said, “Good news, I’m off for the next few weeks.”
She said, “Mmm…and I’m betting that you’re are
thinking of all that you will do to me.”
He smirked, and said, “Well it has crossed my mind.”
She said, “I must work, but we will make the time…”
And they did enjoy that time together,
they went to dinner, took walks, and made love,
Cormack so enjoyed these little reprieves
from his chosen life, so brutal and rough.
Some days he thought it very hard to beat
lazing on the couch and rubbing her feet.
But good times are good because they can’t last,
eventually a new call did come in,
he told Christie he had to go away
for a sales trip, he shared no details grim.
She said, “It’s fine, I must travel as well,
to visit my brother, who’s going through hell.”
They said their goodbyes, Cormack went to work,
the patriarch’s gave him a new target,
a serial killer near Topeka,
“We’re not sure, but we think he’s a good bet.”
They told him as they slipped him a file,
he frowned, thinking this might take a while.
The drive took two days, but Cormack got there,
in a rented house he set up his gear,
see Nephilim left some strange energy
at any location where they appeared.
An electric charge from their angel kin,
unique to their kind, so Cormack did begin.
This was the boring part of the hunting,
walking the streets with a heavy backpack,
inside a device reading the energy,
hoping to pick up residual tracks.
He started near the sites of the fell crimes,
traces of a Nephilim he soon did find.
For days he looked for patterns in the readings,
using the data to triangulate,
narrowed it down to a three block circle,
armed himself and went to investigate.
The device went wild as he drew near,
he wondered if two Nephilim were here.
He heard a commotion from a warehouse,
not uncommon in a bad part of town,
he heard an angel voice and painful moan,
and knew something awful was going down.
He slipped inside and heard a voice proclaim,
“When the hunter shows up, you’ll get the blame! “
Cormack stepped out and lifted his pistol,
he said, “Or I’ll just kill you both here and now.”
The bigger man jolted as he appeared,
then his eyes glowed, and he bellowed out loud.
He then then himself into a mad charge,
but Cormack’s gun spoke before he got far.
The Nephilim fell, and he stocked forwards
to the other one lying on the floor,
the man there gave him a much resigned look,
then came the echo of a banging door.
Cormack heard a shrill, familiar voice cry:
“Get away from him, or you’re gonna die! “
He turned quick and his face went pale from shock,
his Christie stood there, her face ghost-white too,
but she kept her gun pointed right at him,
though this was a fear that Cormack well knew.
He said, “Christie…what are you doing here? “
She scowled at him with a face severe.
“I came here to protect my poor brother, “
she said, motioning to the injured man.
“I heard a hunter had come to town,
the type who thinks he is hunting the damned.
But now I see, it all makes so much sense,
why you travel so much, you are one of them.”
He said, “…your brother, that means your Nephilim,
just like the monster that killed my mother.”
Christie said, “I’ve never hurt anyone,
and neither had my kind younger brother.
Heck, he’s a preacher with a congregation,
he spends his days preaching against damnation! “
Said Cormack, “He wouldn’t be the first one
that I found hiding within a sheep’s clothes.”
So she said, “And me?Do you think I’m evil?
Is that the woman that you love and know?
Have you ever heard me raising my voice?
Do you think that God would deny us free choice?
“Since when does He make kids pay for the sins
that came from choices other people made?
Does He hold you to the sins of your parents?
And if He did, would you bother to pray?
It’s true that some of us learned the Fallen’s hate,
but so many more chose to avoid that fate.
“Do your patriarchs even realize
how many of us actually exist?
For each on you kill there’s at least ten more,
who live normal lives, peacefully persist.
We’re not all Stalins, or damn Genghis Khans,
please, Cormack, you must see that this is wrong.”
He pointed the gun, but hesitated
as she helped her brother limp to the door,
part of Cormack saw the woman he loved,
part of him saw the foe that he abhorred.
He said, “Why shouldn’t I think that you’re lying? “
She said, “If you think so, then shoot that thing.”
But Cormack knew, as well as Christie did,
that he’d never pull a trigger on her,
she made he way out with her brother in tow,
leaving him and his old world in a blur.
All his adult life he had done this task,
now all certainty in his life had passed.
He didn’t return to the patriarchs,
he just e-mailed them a resignation,
they gave their regrets, but they understood,
fifteen years was tough in this occupation.
He bought a small place outside Rapid City,
out in the broad prairie, for tranquility.
The words she had told him did make thin think,
how many ‘good’ Nephilim were out there?
He still had the energy detector,
one day he loaded it in his pack with care,
Went to the city and wandered the roads,
were these folks out there?He just had to know.
It took a few hours, but he found one,
bagging groceries at a supermarket,
a teenage boy, awkward with customers,
Cormack knew evil, and this wasn’t it.
Then a mother, a lawyer, and a cabbie,
those were good people…well, two-out-of-three.
It all left things spinning within his own mind,
how did he make sense of what he had learned?
When three great religions all did proclaim
they were abhorrent, and destined to burn.
Did he betray mother, laying down his gun?
For long months he pondered, and it was not fun.
Perhaps Cormack would have just stayed this way,
living quietly on what he had saved,
but one night Christine showed up on his door,
she’d changed her hair, had it done up in waves.
Her face seemed paler, and her eyes were sad,
he didn’t know if to feel worried or glad.
“What are you doing here? “he asked simply.
She shrugged.”Can’t a girl visit an old friend? “
He said, “We didn’t end on happy terms,
and I have been through too much to pretend.”
She said, “I’m sorry I left things amiss, “
then suddenly launched herself into a kiss.
It was hours before the two settled down,
lying sweaty in Cormack’s comfy bed,
she was half asleep when she heard him ask,
“You still haven’t replied to what I said.
Fun as this was, it seems to come too late,
you made it quite clear, my kind you must hate.”
She said, “It’s been hard to just forget you,
I did love you, and maybe I still do.
And given your mother, I can understand,
the evil Nephilim were all you knew.
And you stopped hunting when the truth became clear,
maybe, that fact, is why I came here.
“Maybe that’s the tragedy of this all,
I am doomed to love a man I should not.
Your old friends must be keeping an eye out,
if I keep coming back, I will get caught.”
He smiled and said, “The chances are slim,
they do not know that you are Nephilim.”
She perked up in his arms when she heard the words,
said, “You mean you didn’t tell them the truth? “
He said, “I couldn’t shoot, how could I betray?
Even attempting it would be no use.
Despite all my shock, I recalled one thing:
the fact that I gave you an engagement ring.”
She reached for her jeans beside the bed
and dug out the same ring from a pant’s pocket,
slipped it on her finger so he could see,
the moonlight sparkled brilliantly off it.
He sighed, “I guess you will need a new white dress,
but before I agree, I have one request.”
She looked at him, curious, in the dim light,
he said, “Do that thing where you make your eyes shine.”
She grinned and focused her angelic side,
until her eyes glowed with a light divine.
It faded quickly, and he said, “You know
that’s the first time I’ve seen that up close.
She chuckled at the light tone of his words,
she was still struggling to catch her breath.
“My fallen angel dad could go for hours,
a few seconds is my personal best.”
He chuckled and wrapped her tighter in his arms,
11. Hunting of The Snark
by Lewis Carroll
“Just the place for a Snark!” the Bellman cried,
As he landed his crew with care;
Supporting each man on the top of the tide
By a finger entwined in his hair.
“Just the place for a Snark! I have said it twice:
That alone should encourage the crew.
Just the place for a Snark! I have said it thrice:
What I tell you three times is true.”
The crew was complete: it included a Boots–
A maker of Bonnets and Hoods–
A Barrister, brought to arrange their disputes–
And a Broker, to value their goods.
A Billiard-marker, whose skill was immense,
Might perhaps have won more than his share–
But a Banker, engaged at enormous expense,
Had the whole of their cash in his care.
There was also a Beaver, that paced on the deck,
Or would sit making lace in the bow:
And had often (the Bellman said) saved them from wreck
Though none of the sailors knew how.
There was one who was famed for the number of things
He forgot when he entered the ship:
His umbrella, his watch, all his jewels and rings,
And the clothes he had bought for the trip.
He had forty-two boxes, all carefully packed,
With his name painted clearly on each:
But, since he omitted to mention the fact,
They were all left behind on the beach.
The loss of his clothes hardly mattered, because
He had seven coats on when he came,
With three pair of boots–but the worst of is was,
He had wholly forgotten his name.
He would answer to “Hi!” or to any loud cry,
Such as “Fry me!” or “Fritter my wig!”
To “What-you-may-call-um!” or “What-was-his-name!”
But especially “Thing-um-a-jig!”
While, for those who preferred a more forcible word,
He had different names from these:
His intimate friends called him “Candle-ends”,
And his enemies “Toasted-cheese”
“His form is ungainly–his intellect small–“
(So the Bellman would often remark)–
“But his courage is perfect! And that, after all,
Is the thing that one needs with a Snark.”
He would joke with hyaenas, returning their stare
With an impudent wag of the head:
And he once went a walk, paw-in-paw, with a bear,
“Just to keep up its spirits,” he said.
He came as a Baker: but owned, when too late–
And it drove the poor Bellman half-mad–
He could only bake Bridecake–for which, I may state,
No materials were to be had.
The last of the crew needs especial remark,
Though he looked an incredible dunce:
He had just one idea–but, that one being “Snark”,
The good Bellman engaged him at once.
He came as a Butcher: but gravely declared,
When the ship had been sailing a week,
He could only kill Beavers. The Bellman looked scared,
And was almost too frightened to speak:
But at length he explained, in a tremulous tone,
There was only one Beaver on board;
And that was a tame one he had of his own,
Whose death would be deeply deplored.
The Beaver, who happened to hear the remark,
Protested, with tears in its eyes,
That not even the rapture of hunting the Snark
Could atone for that dismal surprise!
It strongly advised that the Butcher should be
Conveyed in a separate ship:
But the Bellman declared that would never agree
With the plans he had made for the trip:
Navigation was always a difficult art,
Though with only one ship and one bell:
And he feared he must really decline, for his part,
Undertaking another as well.
The Beaver’s best course was, no doubt, to procure
A second-hand dagger-proof coat–
So the baker advised it–and next, to insure
Its life in some Office of note:
This the Baker suggested, and offered for hire
(On moderate terms), or for sale,
Two excellent Policies, one Against Fire
And one Against Damage From Hail.
Yet still, ever after that sorrowful day,
Whenever the Butcher was by,
The Beaver kept looking the opposite way,
And appeared unaccountably shy.
13. The Story of Ung
by Rudyard Kipling
Once, on a glittering ice-field, ages and ages ago,
Ung, a maker of pictures, fashioned an image of snow.
Fashioned the form of a tribesman — gaily he whistled and sung,
Working the snow with his fingers. ~Read ye the Story of Ung!~
Pleased was his tribe with that image — came in their hundreds to scan —
Handled it, smelt it, and grunted: “Verily, this is a man!
Thus do we carry our lances — thus is a war-belt slung.
Lo! it is even as we are. Glory and honour to Ung!”
Later he pictured an aurochs — later he pictured a bear —
Pictured the sabre-tooth tiger dragging a man to his lair —
Pictured the mountainous mammoth, hairy, abhorrent, alone —
Out of the love that he bore them, scribing them clearly on bone.
Swift came the tribe to behold them, peering and pushing and still —
Men of the berg-battered beaches, men of the boulder-hatched hill —
Hunters and fishers and trappers, presently whispering low:
“Yea, they are like — and it may be — But how does the Picture-man know?”
“Ung — hath he slept with the Aurochs — watched where the Mastodon roam?
Spoke on the ice with the Bow-head — followed the Sabre-tooth home?
Nay! These are toys of his fancy! If he have cheated us so,
How is there truth in his image — the man that he fashioned of snow?”
Wroth was that maker of pictures — hotly he answered the call:
“Hunters and fishers and trappers, children and fools are ye all!
Look at the beasts when ye hunt them!” Swift from the tumult he broke,
Ran to the cave of his father and told him the shame that they spoke.
And the father of Ung gave answer, that was old and wise in the craft,
Maker of pictures aforetime, he leaned on his lance and laughed:
“If they could see as thou seest they would do what thou hast done,
And each man would make him a picture, and — what would become of my son?
“There would be no pelts of the reindeer, flung down at thy cave for a gift,
Nor dole of the oily timber that comes on the Baltic drift;
No store of well-drilled needles, nor ouches of amber pale;
No new-cut tongues of the bison, nor meat of the stranded whale.
“~Thou~ hast not toiled at the fishing when the sodden trammels freeze,
Nor worked the war-boats outward through the rush of the rock-staked seas,
Yet they bring thee fish and plunder — full meal and an easy bed —
And all for the sake of thy pictures.” And Ung held down his head.
“~Thou~ hast not stood to the Aurochs when the red snow reeks of the fight;
Men have no time at the houghing to count his curls aright.
And the heart of the hairy Mammoth, thou sayest, they do not see,
Yet they save it whole from the beaches and broil the best for thee.
“And now do they press to thy pictures, with opened mouth and eye,
And a little gift in the doorway, and the praise no gift can buy:
But — sure they have doubted thy pictures, and that is a grievous stain —
Son that can see so clearly, return them their gifts again!”
And Ung looked down at his deerskins — their broad shell-tasselled bands —
And Ung drew downward his mitten and looked at his naked hands;
And he gloved himself and departed, and he heard his father, behind:
“Son that can see so clearly, rejoice that thy tribe is blind!”
Straight on the glittering ice-field, by the caves of the lost Dordogne,
Ung, a maker of pictures, fell to his scribing on bone
Even to mammoth editions. Gaily he whistled and sung,
Blessing his tribe for their blindness. ~Heed ye the Story of Ung!~
Hunting Poems That Rhyme
Poems about hunting with rhyme add a musical quality to the already lyrical world of hunting. Their clever use of sound and rhythm makes them both playful and memorable.
by Richard Hovey
Oh, who would stay indoor, indoor,
When the horn is on the hill?
With the crisp air stinging, and the huntsmen singing,
And a ten-tined buck to kill!
Before the sun goes down, goes down,
We shall slay the buck of ten;
And the priest shall say benison, and we shall ha’e venison,
When we come home again.
Let him that loves his ease, his ease,
Keep close and house him fair;
He’ll still be a stranger to the merry thrill of danger
And the joy of the open air.
But he that loves the hills, the hills,
Let him come out to-day!
For the horses are neighing, and the hounds are baying,
And the hunt’s up, and away!
2. A Hunters Prayer
by S Elliott
We pray our sights be straight and our aim be true
We pray for no pain to the game we pursue
We thank you, Lord for this land
We thank you for the sights from our stands
We pray for safety one and all
We pray we may return in the fall.”
3. Hunting Poem
by Sir Walter Scott
Waken, lords and ladies gay,
On the mountain dawns the day;
All the jolly chase is here
With hawk and horse and hunting-spear;
Hounds are in their couples yelling,
Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling,
Merrily merrily mingle they,
‘Waken, lords and ladies gay.’
Waken, lords and ladies gay,
The mist has left the mountain gray,
Springlets in the dawn are steaming,
Diamonds on the brake are gleaming;
And foresters have busy been
To track the buck in thicket green;
Now we come to chant our lay
‘Waken, lords and ladies gay.’
‘Waken, lords and ladies gay,
To the greenwood haste away;
We can show you where he lies,
Fleet of foot and tall of size;
We can show the marks he made
When ’gainst the oak his antlers fray’d;
You shall see him brought to bay;
‘Waken, lords and ladies gay.’
Louder, louder chant the lay,
Waken, lords and ladies gay!
Tell them youth and mirth and glee
Run a course as well as we;
Time, stern huntsman! who can baulk,
Stanch as hound and fleet as hawk;
Think of this, and rise with day
Gentle lords and ladies gay!
4. The Delicate Doe
by RUKIYE HENDERSON
Crouched behind a bush,
The twigs scratch at my fair skin,
But I dare not move,
I await a sign of movement,
One that could appear right now, or now
Whenever it chooses to appear,
I will wait, be right here.
Then, some sticks crack
And I snap up my head, straighten my back.
Out walks a doe, into the clearing
And I notice the color of her felt, as she is nearing.
The spots on her back, trace a pattern
Much like the rings of Saturn,
Separating her from the others,
She walks alone, without the family smothers
My gun is at the ready,
My arm light and steady,
As I quietly bring the eyepiece to my face
I fix the doe in my view, not wanting a chase
Then I see,
What this doe really wants to be,
Without her herd,
She no longer needs to be obscured.
She dances in the sun,
Talks with the birds, sings to the trees,
Whatever she really wants to be
Then she freezes,
And her soft, white tail seizes
She quietly walks over to my bush
And looks at me
Just stands there and stares,
At my camouflaged face beneath the tree
The marvel in her eyes
Like she’s never seen anything
Like me before
We stay like that,
Forever it seems
Nothing this spectacular has ever happened
To me, not even in my dreams
Then she leaves, and to this day,
I hope that she is ok.
5. Bronwyn Steart
The wind blows fast and ever so strong
When I walk by the birds sing me a song
The sun set looks shiny but dull
A plain passes by just like a seagull
I hear a squirrel barking at me
the little feller is in a far away tree
during the day the sun is so bright
but when it goes down it gives me a fright.
6. From One to Another
by BRONWYN STEWART
Please don’t hurt me,
please don’t kill me,
please don’t harm me,
for what did I do?
I am sorry,
I don’t know what I did wrong,
but surly you wouldn’t be killing my kind,
I’ve seen you all,
so what would be gained,
by killing me?
all are dead.
went up in this unforgiving slaughter.
Would you still kill me,
if I looked you in the eyes and pleaded,
if I look at your blue eyes,
with my own blood shot yellow?
There’s so little of my kind,
we’re trying everything,
to make you see,
what true pain and despair we’re in.
The wolves are dying,
and you’re the ones killing,
even our foods are not filling.
I hope you aren’t like those others,
that tack our pelts to their doors,
and keep our heads on the wall,
I hope you can help us.
From one pleading mammal to another,
your begging friend,
the dying wolf pack.
7. Come to The Banquet
by Anne Bronte
Come to the banquet — triumph in your songs!
Strike up the chords — and sing of Victory!
The oppressed have risen to redress their wrongs;
The Tyrants are o’erthrown; the Land is free!
The Land is free! Aye, shout it forth once more;
Is she not red with her oppressors’ gore?
We are her champions — shall we not rejoice?
Are not the tyrants’ broad domains our own?
Then wherefore triumph with a faltering voice;
And talk of freedom in a doubtful tone?
Have we not longed through life the reign to see
Of Justice, linked with Glorious Liberty?
Shout you that will, and you that can rejoice
To revel in the riches of your foes.
In praise of deadly vengeance lift you voice,
Gloat o’er your tyrants’ blood, you victims’ woes.
I’d rather listen to the skylarks’ songs,
And think on Gondal’s, and my Father’s wrongs.
It may be pleasant, to recall the death
Of those beneath whose sheltering roof you lie;
But I would rather press the mountain heath,
With naught to shield me from the starry sky,
And dream of yet untasted victory —
A distant hope — and feel that I am free!
O happy life! To range the mountains wild,
The waving woods — or Ocean’s heaving breast,
With limbs unfettered, conscience undefiled,
And choosing where to wander, where to rest!
Hunted, oppressed, but ever strong to cope —
With toils, and perils — ever full of hope!
‘Our flower is budding’ — When that word was heard
On desert shore, or breezy mountain’s brow,
Wherever said — what glorious thoughts it stirred!
‘Twas budding then — Say has it blossomed now?
Is this the end we struggled to obtain?
O for the wandering Outlaw’s life again!
8. Poem Verses on A Butterfly
by Joseph Warton
Fair Child of Sun and summer! We behold
With eager eyes thy wings bedropp’d with gold;
The purple spots that o’er thy mantle spread,
The sapphire’s lively blue, the ruby’s red,
Ten thousand various blended tints surprise,
Beyond the rainbow’s hues or peacock’s eyes:
Not Judah’s king in eastern pomp array’d,
Whose charms allur’d from far the Sheban maid,
High on his glitt’ring throne, like you could shine
(Nature’s completest miniature divine):
For thee the rose her balmy buds renews,
And silver lillies fill their cups with dews;
Flora for thee the laughing fields perfumes,
For thee Pomona sheds her choicest blooms,
Soft Zephyr wafts thee on his gentlest gales
O’er Hackwood’s sunny hill and verdant vales;
For thee, gay queen of insects! do we rove
From walk to walk, from beauteous grove to grove;
And let the critics know, whose pedant pride
And awkward jests our sprightly sport deride:
That all who honours, fame, or wealth pursue,
Change but the name of things–they hunt for you.
by Anne Bronte
We know where deepest lies the snow,
And where the frost-winds keenest blow,
O’er every mountain’s brow,
We long have known and learnt to bear
The wandering outlaw’s toil and care,
But where we late were hunted, there
Our foes are hunted now.
We have their princely homes, and they
To our wild haunts are chased away,
Dark woods, and desert caves.
And we can range from hill to hill,
And chase our vanquished victors still;
Small respite will they find until
They slumber in their graves.
But I would rather be the hare,
That crouching in its sheltered lair
Must start at every sound;
That forced from cornfields waving wide
Is driven to seek the bare hillside,
Or in the tangled copse to hide,
Than be the hunter’s hound.
10. Hunting Song
by Henry Van Dyke
Out of the garden of playtime, out of the bower of rest,
Fain would I follow at daytime, music that calls to a quest.
Hark, how the galloping measure
Quickens the pulses of pleasure;
Gaily saluting the morn
With the long clear note of the hunting-horn
Echoing up from the valley,
Over the mountain side,–
Rally, you hunters, rally,
Rally, and ride!
by Henry Van Dyke
Daughter of Psyche, pledge of that last night
When, pierced with pain and bitter-sweet delight,
She knew her Love and saw her Lord depart,
Then breathed her wonder and her woe forlorn
Into a single cry, and thou wast born?
Thou flower of rapture and you fruit of grief;
Invisible enchantress of the heart;
Mistress of charms that bring relief
To sorrow, and to joy impart
A heavenly tone that keeps it undefiled,–
Thou art the child
Of Amor, and by right divine
A throne of love is thine,
Thou flower-folded, golden-girdled, star-crowned Queen,
Whose bridal beauty mortal eyes have never seen!
Drink of the magical potion music has mixed with her wine,
Full of the madness of motion,
Deer Hunting Poems
The hunter and the deer poems are a subgenre of hunting poetry that focuses specifically on the pursuit of deer. With their majestic antlers and fleet-footed grace, deer have long been a favorite game animal of hunters, inspiring countless poems of reverence and admiration.
1. Deer Hunting Time Is Here Again
by Kathleen West
Deer hunting time is here again
And many hunters take to the woods
After months of planning with family and friends
They gather in common brotherhood
It’s a freedom that fills the soul of a man
With the peace of God’s nature all around
Lessons that have been taught since time began
And lifelong memories and friendships are found
Hunting is taught by tradition still yet
Knowledge passed on from man to man
And you’ll learn things that you’ll never forget
And respect nature more, our wildlife, and our land
So all you hunters enjoy this time
May you be skilled and have lots of luck
2. A Wounded Deer Leaps Highest
by Emily Dickinson
A wounded deer leaps highest,
I’ve heard the hunter tell;
‘T is but the ecstasy of death,
And then the brake is still.
The smitten rock that gushes,
The trampled steel that springs;
A cheek is always redder
Just where the hectic stings!
Mirth is the mail of anguish,
In which it cautions arm,
Lest anybody spy the blood
And “You’re hurt” exclaim!
3. Deer Hunting
by Randy Johnson
When my friend and I went deer hunting, I accidentally shot a doe.
If you’re wondering if I got away with it, the answer is no.
It was a bad day for me to lose my glasses.
The game warden saw us and he kicked our.
We got the crap beat out of us even though it was two against one.
After beating us to a bloody pulp, he put a second hole in our butts with my gun.
We had to sleep on our stomachs for weeks, it was terrible to go through.
We went through all of that misery and we didn’t even get some damn venison stew.
4. Why Deer Hunting is Special to Me
It seems like we thrive from the adrenaline flow
While hunting the morning of the very first snow.
For all the mornings that we practically froze
When we can’t feel our fingers, or the tips of our toes.
Yet, we still hunt day after day
In anticipation of the moment we can finally say’
I GOT A DEER’ with a cheerful shout.
As we jump up and down and run all about.
We think it’s skill, but it’s mostly luck
That feeling we get when we get our first buck.
When we talk about the hunt, or the antler size No one
knows the real truth, ’cause everyone lies.
It’s remembering our first hunt, as a girl or a boy
When we felt the excitement with a heart full of joy.
It’s the fun that we have with our family and friends.
It’s the sharing and experience that we hope never ends.
So, go deer hunting…just do it someday?
Then you might understand what I’m trying to say.
Hunting deer is special to me
So, try it sometime and you’ll find out and see.
5. The Killed Deer
by Hulda Fetzer
The deer in a woods a-bounding went;
The hunter a bullet quickly spent;
The deer fell dead,
And the hunter said,
“That bullet went straight as it was meant.”
There’s a lot in this if you’ll think it o’er,
And the more you think it, the more and more;
Had the bullet missed,
And behind it hissed,
The deer would be bounding as before.
6. The White Footed Deer
by William Cullen Bryant
It was a hundred years ago,
When, by the woodland ways,
The traveller saw the wild deer drink,
Or crop the birchen sprays.
Beneath a hill, whose rocky side
O’erbrowed a grassy mead,
And fenced a cottage from the wind,
A deer was wont to feed.
She only came when on the cliffs
The evening moonlight lay,
And no man knew the secret haunts
In which she walked by day.
White were her feet, her forehead showed
A spot of silvery white,
That seemed to glimmer like a star
In autumn’s hazy night.
And here, when sang the whippoorwill,
She cropped the sprouting leaves,
And here her rustling steps were heard
On still October eves.
But when the broad midsummer moon
Rose o’er that grassy lawn,
Beside the silver-footed deer
There grazed a spotted fawn.
The cottage dame forbade her son
To aim the rifle here;
‘It were a sin,’ she said, ‘to harm
Or fright that friendly deer.
‘This spot has been my pleasant home
Ten peaceful years and more;
And ever, when the moonlight shines,
She feeds before our door.
‘The red men say that here she walked
A thousand moons ago;
They never raise the war-whoop here,
And never twang the bow.
‘I love to watch her as she feeds,
And think that all is well
While such a gentle creature haunts
The place in which we dwell.’
The youth obeyed, and sought for game
In forests far away,
Where, deep in silence and in moss,
The ancient woodland lay.
But once, in autumn’s golden time,
He ranged the wild in vain,
Nor roused the pheasant nor the deer,
And wandered home again.
The crescent moon and crimson eve
Shone with a mingling light;
The deer, upon the grassy mead,
Was feeding full in sight.
He raised the rifle to his eye,
And from the cliffs around
A sudden echo, shrill and sharp,
Gave back its deadly sound.
Away into the neighbouring wood
The startled creature flew,
And crimson drops at morning lay
Amid the glimmering dew.
Next evening shone the waxing moon
As sweetly as before;
The deer upon the grassy mead
Was seen again no more.
But ere that crescent moon was old,
By night the red men came,
And burnt the cottage to the ground,
And slew the youth and dame.
Now woods have overgrown the mead,
And hid the cliffs from sight;
There shrieks the hovering hawk at noon,
And prowls the fox at night.
7. The Deer Don’t Care
by Lamar Cole
Garnell loved to go deer hunting.
But he did not like to take baths.
His buddies told him that he stank.
When they went hunting.
Garnell told them that the deer wouldn’t care.
So much for consideration for his buddies.
There was none.
8. The Great Suburban Cowboy
by David Welch
I live in suburban Pittsburg,
But my heart yearns for western climes,
Undoubtedly from watching films
That dressed up and romanticized
The sweep of the tall-grass prairie,
Desert cactus and red-baked stone,
Endless pines in northern forest,
Earth’s tall, Rocky Mountain bones.
Where a man could breathe the air,
And hookers had those hearts of gold,
When land was cheap and any one
Could be rancher proud and bold.
Maybe all this is illusion,
But there’s value in more than facts,
I’m the Great Suburban Cowboy,
And I’m comfortable with that.
My riding was learned by lessons,
Ranching tricks I do not know,
I’m prone to taking trail rides,
I have never thrown a lasso.
There’s a Winchester in my case,
Gets me comments down at the range,
Tried Deer-hunting with it last fall,
But saw nothing out there but rain.
And I have a big hat and boots,
Bull-hide with a walking heel,
Occasionally, with a lady,
They have helped me seal the deal.
Went twenty seconds, my record,
On a large, mechanical bull,
I’m a Great Suburban Cowboy, a
nd I must live my life in full.
9. Fire on The Hills
by Robinson Jeffers
The deer were bounding like blown leaves
Under the smoke in front the roaring wave of the brush-fire;
I thought of the smaller lives that were caught.
Beauty is not always lovely; the fire was beautiful, the terror
Of the deer was beautiful; and when I returned
Down the back slopes after the fire had gone by, an eagle
Was perched on the jag of a burnt pine,
Insolent and gorged, cloaked in the folded storms of his shoulders
He had come from far off for the good hunting
With fire for his beater to drive the game; the sky was merciless
Blue, and the hills merciless black,
The sombre-feathered great bird sleepily merciless between them.
I thought, painfully, but the whole mind,
The destruction that brings an eagle from heaven is better than men.
Fox Hunting Poems
Fox hunting poems are a unique subset of hunting poetry that celebrates the excitement and tradition of this storied pursuit. With their themes of camaraderie, strategy, and the thrill of the chase, they evoke the centuries-old tradition of mounted foxhunting.
1. The Fox Hunters.
by George W. Doneghy
With fleet-limbed steeds and baying pack
They follow close on Reynard’s track,
And wake the slumbering echoes round
With music of the horn and hound;
Through wood and field, o’er hill and dale,
They course him in the moonlight pale,
And sport they find which brings delight–
These reckless riders of the night!
The game is up! away, away!
Nor hedge nor fence their course can stay;
They clear them at a single leap,
And like the wind they onward sweep!
O’er fallen trunk and hidden ditch
The fearless horsemen plunge and pitch,
And heedless all they follow on
With ringing shout and winding horn!
Thy wondrous ride, oh Tam O’Shanter,
To speed like theirs was but a canter;
Had you bestrode that night instead
Of gray mare Meg a thoroughbred
(Such as Kentuckians only breed–
To Scotia then an unknown steed),
No carline could have caught his rump
And left your brute with scarce a stump!
His foaming horse with throbbing sides
Unslackened yet his pace he rides,
Till in among the yelping hounds
The foremost huntsman proudly bounds,
And sees the leaders of the chase
(Two matchless dogs that set the pace)
O’ertake the game and win the race!
And then dismounts and feels the flush
Of victory as he takes the brush!
O royal sport, befitting kings!
It bids the demon Care take wings,
And the rose’s hue to the cheek it brings!
And sweeter music none can hear
Than that which greets the list’ning ear–
By distance mellowed to a key
That breathes divinest harmony–
And wakes the slumbering echoes round–
The winding horn and baying hound!
2. The Fox Hunt
by Henry Brooke
True man, whom for sagacious nose we hail
The chief, first touched the scarce-distinguished gale;
His tongue was doubtful, and no hound replies:
‘Haux!—wind him!—haux!’ the tuneful huntsman cries.
At once the listening pack asunder spread,
With tail erect, and with inquiring head:
With busy nostrils they foretaste their prey,
And snuff the lawn-impearling dews away.
Now here, now there, they chop upon the scent,
Their tongues in undulating ether spent:
More joyous now, and louder by degrees,
Warm and more warm they catch the coming breeze.
Now with full symphony they jointly hail
The welcome tidings of a surer gale;
Along the vale they pour the swelling note,
Their ears and dewlaps on the morning float.
How vainly art aspires by rival sounds
To match the native melody of hounds!
Now lightly o’er opposing walls we bound,
Clear the broad trench, and top the rising mound:
No stop, no time for respite or recess—
On, and still on, fox, dogs, and horses press.
But Reynard, hotly pushed, and close pursued,
Yet fruitful in expedients to elude,
When to the bourn’s refreshing bank he came
Had plunged all reeking in the friendly stream.
The chop fallen hounds meantime are heard no more,
But silent range along the winding shore.
Hopeless alike the hunters lag behind,
And give all thoughts of Reynard to the wind,
All, save one wily rival of his art,
Who vows unpitying vengeance ere they part.
Along the coast his watchful course he bent,
Careful to catch and wind the thwarting scent
And last, to make his boastful promise good,
Entered the precincts of the fatal wood.
There through the gloom he leads one hopeless train,
And cheers the long-desponding pack in vain;
Till Ringwood first the faint effluvia caught,
And with loud tongue reformed their old default.
Here had the felon earthed: with many a hound
And many a horse we gird his hold around:
The hounds ‘fore Heav’n their accusation spread,
And cry for justice on his caitiff head.
3. Fox-Hunting; A Song,
by LEONARD HOWARD
Come rise, lads, and mount, the brisk fox-hunters cry,
We’ve got a strong scent and a favouring sky;
The horn’s sprightly notes and the lark’s early song,
With their music expose you for sleeping so long.
Bright Phœbus has shown you a glimpse of his face,
Peeps in at your windows, and calls to the chase;
He soon will be up, for his dawn wears away,
And he’ll make the field blush for your idle delay.
Sweet Molly may tease you again to lie down,
And if you should leave her, perhaps she will frown;
But tell her soft love must to hunting give place,
For as well as her charms there are charms in a chase.
Then we’ll over the hedges nor stop at the gate,
Nor mind fearful riders of danger who prate:
Neck or nothing, my boys, is the fox-hunter’s cry,
And Elysium’s our field if in this we should die.
Look yonder! Look yonder! Old Renard I see,
Sweet Flora and Chanter at his brush soon will be:
Hark forward, they’ve snapt him, look, his eye-balls they roll,
Let’s be in at the death then go home to our bowl.
There the chase we’ll renew, fill a glass to the king;
From a bumper fresh sport and fresh duty will spring.
To great George peace and glory may heaven dispense,
And fox-hunting flourish a thousand years hence.
4. Fox Hunting
by Joanna Garrido
A horn breaks silence
as protesters fight.
Tally ho, the gentry
ride behind hound pack,
Circle of life
for a fox family.
5. Autumn Morn
by Fay Bohlayer
Here’s to the dawn of an autumn morn!
The cry of the hounds and the sound of the horn…
Down in the river bottom mist
Before the rising sun has kissed
Away the dew on the pasture rise,
There, before our very eyes:
The halt! the wait—a flick of his brush
And the russet prey departs, as the rush
Of hunting hounds with clamorous voice
Finds the scent and ends the choice:
To amble home or sit in the sun.
Discovered, now he has to run!
Now out of the woods and along the banks
of the river, gathering, closing ranks
The hounds stream on; their chorus swells.
A whip beyond, in his irons, tells
With his cap aloft what the lead hounds say:
“Tally Ho!” and “Gone Away!”
Then over the coop, horn in hand,
The scarlet figure of a man
Born to hunt and born to ride,
(Gathering speed with every stride)
Urging his hounds to hunt ’im hard,
His horse at a gallop with no regard
For fence or ditch or trappy ground,
His horn supports the flying hounds.
A gleam in his eye and a rebel yell!
As he passes even I can tell
It’s a good first day of this hunting year,
And Michael’s grinning ear to ear!
Yes, here’s to the dawn of a hunting morn!
The cry of the hounds and the sound of the horn!
The woods and fields are silent now.
It makes you wonder if, and how
You’ll hunt again with hounds and horn
On some other autumn morn…
But one thing for sure I know
Before there is a hint of snow
Hounds will run and horn will blow…
For they are running…north of here…
And Michael’s grinning, ear to ear…
6. Fox Hunting
by Kath Bee
She turns tail to snake through the dust,
Parting orderly heads of corn,
Breathing heat and eating dark
On her way to escape—she hopes—
From the fox chasing her (a rabbit).
She knows this place and can’t be lost in place;
Once she lost a little cottontail in the dust
To a hungry raptor who liked rabbits to munch on
Like popcorn kernels;
One hopes they didn’t feel much before the dark- ness hit.
She doesn’t like dark skies or dark nights,
It’s easy to lose your wits even when you hope
You know where you are in the clouds of dust smelling of dry
Leaves and foxtails in the cornrows but how much do I know?
She is only a rabbit.
There’s nothing like a rabbit’s foot to hold for
Luck in the dark as you sneak into the farmer’s corn with
Your beau and get lost with each other in the damp dust,
As you talk about wanting to get out of this little town, one day, you hope.
And you and the rabbit have the same hope
For a cozy den and a little family of leverets,
Except you must avoid the sharp teeth and biting dust
In the dreary enclosing stifling dark that
Closes around you and keeps you hemmed in,
Lost in the ever-present fields of corn that surround you,
In this state full of nothing but corn around the highways that all look the same.
You hope to get out but everything is gray and you’re losing your steam,
Like the rabbit being overtaken in the dark,
Overturned, toppled, attacked in the dusty field of corn.
The fox loves a mouthful of rabbit to end his day.
He has a family to feed too, after all.
He hopes they won’t mind the dark layer of dust that coats the rabbit’s fur.
When death begets life, is life still lost?
7. The Fox Hunt
by Zoe Coade
All horses and hounds alert,
When the horn blows!
The chase is on, where to?
Nobody bloody knows!
Illegal is the sport,
Everybody is on edge.
A fox runs for it is life,
As a horse is whipped over a hedge.
The law stated clearly
That live fox hunts were banned!
They ignored it because animal rights
In their mind do not stand.
Their other way around it
Was to capture the red fiend.
Then instead release him later,
Claiming he had not just been freed.
‘He was simply in the way’ they say,
‘The dogs picked up the scent!’
‘Can’t tell em to stop you see,
They will not listen or relent!’
Drag hunts are an option,
But of course this will not do.
Blood-lust is their poison,
As is destroying the land they run through.
8. Mom’s Tree House Apartment
by Mom’s Tree House Apartment
On the entryway wall, President Kennedy signed a condolence letter from 1962, addressed to my Grandma, thanking her for Grandpa’s service in WW1.
Below, perched on an old credenza, the Milk Glass Chicken still delights her grandchildren with a treat hidden in the Baby Chick alongside!
Glancing to the right, Dad’s Rosary collection (much used) hangs majestically, a reminder of long-gone family members from cloistered communities, Mom and Dad revered.
In the living room, above the expansive soft couch that always finds a family member
Dozing peacefully after a long-journey home, a massive burl wood frame cradles a fox -hunting lodge scene, with participants positioned around a blazing hearth, regaling the hunt, while enjoying a pint.
Consuming Dad’s last days, I joined him for countless hours deciphering every person
In the painting, assigning rank and position to each, with intense minor details, joyously discovered, as if for the first time! A memory Dad possessed from his youth,
Fox-hunting with his Dad.
In her bedroom, along the wall, Dad’s English saddle, gallantly laden with his favorite
Things, settles the atmosphere.
I pick up his favorite red hoody, and still inhale his courage.
In conclusion, hunting poems offer a window into the timeless allure of the hunt.
Whether serious or lighthearted, short or long, these poems capture the exhilaration, beauty, and challenges of pursuing animals in the wild.
From deer hunting to fox hunting, the unique traditions and experiences of different hunting practices are celebrated in verse.
These poems for hunting also serve as a tribute to the natural world, recognizing the majesty and fragility of the ecosystems we are privileged to explore.
As we continue to evolve as a society, hunting poems remain a testament to our connection to the land, and to the primal urges and instincts that drive us to seek out adventure and meaning in the wilderness.