The rain-sodden grass in the ditches is dying, The berries are red to the crest of the thorn ; Coronet-deep where the beech leaves are lying The hunters stand tense to the twang of the horn ; Where rides are re-filled with the green of the mosses, All foam-flecked and fretful their long line is strung, You can see the white gleam as a starred forehead tosses, You can hear the low chink as a bit-bar is flung. The world's full of music. Hounds rustle the rover Through brushwood and fern to a glad 'Gone away!' With a 'Come along, Pilot! '-one spur-touch and over- The huntsman is clear on his galloping grey; Before him the pack's running straight on the stubble- Toot-toot-too-too-too-oot ! ,_, Tow-row-ow-ow-ow ! ' The leaders are clambering up through the double And glittering away on the brown of the plough. The front rank, hands down, have the big fence's measure; The faint hearts are craning to left and to right; The Master goes through with a crash on The Treasure, The grey takes the lot like a gull in his flight. There's a brown crumpled up, lying still as a dead one. There 's a roan mare refusing, as stubborn as sin, While the breaker flogs up on a green underbred one And smashes the far-away rail with a grin. The chase carries on over hilltop and hollow, The life of Old England, the pluck and the fun; And who would ask more than a stiff line to follow With hounds running hard in the Opening Run?