 | The Irish Poems of Alfred Perceval Graves |  |
121
THE KILLARNEY HUNT
The hunt is up! and hound and pup
Are tunin' round Killarney;
The hunt is out! O there's a shout!
You'd hear it down to Blarney.
There goes the stag along the crag,
A Royal now, I warrant,
See how he sails across the rails
And flies the foaming torrent.
Are tunin' round Killarney;
The hunt is out! O there's a shout!
You'd hear it down to Blarney.
There goes the stag along the crag,
A Royal now, I warrant,
See how he sails across the rails
And flies the foaming torrent.
Away to Tork they wind and work,
Among the whorts and heather.
The scent's in doubt, now all are out,
Now, hark! they're all together.
For old Jack Keogh he marked him go
And waved 'em with his wattle.
A full George crown they've thrown him down,
With that he'll moist his throttle.
Among the whorts and heather.
The scent's in doubt, now all are out,
Now, hark! they're all together.
For old Jack Keogh he marked him go
And waved 'em with his wattle.
A full George crown they've thrown him down,
With that he'll moist his throttle.
A fine view spot up here we've got,
A fine mixed lot within it.
Like ould No'hs Ark, above the Park
We're packed this blessed minute.
The Parson's pasted to the Priest,
The farmer to the flunkey,
Between the fool upon his mule,
The cripple on his donkey.
A fine mixed lot within it.
Like ould No'hs Ark, above the Park
We're packed this blessed minute.
The Parson's pasted to the Priest,
The farmer to the flunkey,
Between the fool upon his mule,
The cripple on his donkey.
122
Yoicks! tally ho! now off they go!
See, there the stag is skimmin'!
He's through the brake, he's in the lake,
And after him they're swimmin'.
Their floatin' ranks are on his flanks,
They're closin' now behind him;
He feels the land! he's up the strand!
Now mind him! oh, now mind him!
See, there the stag is skimmin'!
He's through the brake, he's in the lake,
And after him they're swimmin'.
Their floatin' ranks are on his flanks,
They're closin' now behind him;
He feels the land! he's up the strand!
Now mind him! oh, now mind him!
Hul-hullahoo! they flash in view
Along the shinin' shingle,
In lengthenin' row they streamin' go,
Now with the shades they mingle;
While underneath the evening star
A phantom hunt seems flyin',
Now swelling near, now falling far,
Now down the darkness dyin'.
Along the shinin' shingle,
In lengthenin' row they streamin' go,
Now with the shades they mingle;
While underneath the evening star
A phantom hunt seems flyin',
Now swelling near, now falling far,
Now down the darkness dyin'.
| The Irish Poems of Alfred Perceval Graves | |