We hunt the foxes up and down
From Camberwell to Kentish Town.
On steeds of steel in coats of red
We follow Reynard to his bed.
No close or alley we don’t know
From Peckham Rye to Pimlico
Where Reynard dares to lie and hide.
We chase him like a scarlet tide;
He twists and turns with might and main
Through Marble Arch and back again.
Then, frantic at the huntsmans blast
He sees a haven safe at last
With bursting lungs and shivering skin
He dives beneath a compost bin.
He begs no mercy unaware
That safety may be close by there:
A saint, with coffee table tomes
Of bunnies, pussies and of gnomes;
A wild life lover to the core -
She’d give him shelter, that’s for sure.
Hearing the horns she ventures out
And sees the fox’s pointed snout.
“Ah, view halloo!” Your fox is here!”
She shouts with voice both loud and clear.
Alas for Reynard! She can’t give a fig.
Last night he stole her guinea pig.
And now the hunt is at an end
The fox is lost without a friend.
The hounds are on him, rip out his throat.
The hunstman winds one final note
And far away, in Fetter Lane,
The vixen waits him, all in vain.
The cubs are anxious, they whine and fret
And ask if it is tea-time yet.