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 Steve is 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 Steve’s grinning, ear to ear …