Hark to the high wind's hunting horn!
The hounds of the night run mute and fast,
You may hear a branch from the beech-tree torn
As the Field goes tramping past ;
Where the moonlit miles lie silver white,
Luck to your hunting, wind of the night!
Wide is the rippling river spread
(Up and over and on and away!)
Somewhere the pack is running ahead
Into the woodland strips of Day.
For'ard on to the morning light!
Luck to your hunting, wind of the night!
What are they running? The scented drag
Of the shy dark's rustling feet
The rosy trail of the sunset stag,
Or the dawn fox grey and fleet
Blow them on, for they 're running right !
Luck to your hunting, wind of the night!
