Liberty & Livelihood

I love some of the old hunting poetry and a friend sent me this gem.

The Old Blue Pye.

I'm a lean old, mean old sight in a street
With a foolish, ghoulish glare at a man,
And my kennel mates look grand at a meet
With a bloom on the Belvoir tan.
And they sneer and gape at my colour and shape
And my veteran, villainous bloodshot eye,
For the crowds that swarm round fashion and form
Pass over the old Blue Pye.

CHORUS:
But the huntsman knows what a hound can do,
And he knows that I know that he knows it, too.
He knows my voice on a fox is true,
And the blood of a fox my joy -
So I clear my way through the thick of the pack,
To where he sits on the bay mare's back,
With his 'Poor old Vagabond, Vagabond, Vagabond,
Poor old Vagabond boy'

I'm a hard old, scarred old, quarrelsome brute,
I'm a peevish, thievish, bundle of bone,
But I'll speak to a fox when the rest are mute
On a line as cold as stone.
Oh, the Belvoir blood is gallant and true
On a scent you could eat when it hangs breast high,
But the casting vote on a doubtful note
Is left to the old Blue pye

CHORUS: And the huntsman knows what a hound can do,
And he knows that I know that he knows it, too.
He knows my voice on a fox is true
And the blood of a fox my joy -
So clear the way for the pick of the pack
When he waves us in from the bay mare's back,
With his 'Leu Leu Vagabond, Vagabond, Vagabond,
Leu Leu Vagabond boy'

I'm a stinking, blinking beast on a bench,
I'm a sulking, hulking bully at home,
But I'm king of the sport of kings as I wrench Thro' the woods where the red rogues roam,
And my fine sleek mates must bury their hates
And gather and gallop to get to the cry
When the brushwood rocks and the word is fox,
On the faith of the old Blue pye.

CHORUS:
For the huntsman knows what a hound can do,
And he knows that I know that he knows it, too,
He knows my voice on a fox true,
And the blood of a fox my joy - So clear your way to the pick of the pack
When he wakes the woods from the bay mare's back
With his 'Huick to Vagabond, Huick to Vagabond,
Oh, huick to Vagabond boy!'

I'm a creepy, sleepy slug in the straw,
But endure as sure as fate on the line
And a fox must make the most of his law
When the set of his mask is mine.
And the riders troop to the shrill 'Who-whoop!'
On staggering horses, and steeds that sigh
As word goes round that a fox was found
And killed by the old Blue Pye.

CHORUS:
For the huntsman know what a hound can do,
And he knows that I know that he knows it, too,
He knows my voice on a fox is true,
And the blood of a fox my joy -
As he fights his way to the thick of the pack
Where my jaws are crushing a wet red back,
With his 'Leave him Vagabond, Vagabond, Vagabond
Leave him Vagabond boy'