Little Waxy

Wake, little Waxy! Hunting-time again,
The short days and goodly, the clean Autumn rain:
In the old North country, in the grey open weather,
Hounds upon the moorland chiming all together.

This year in dough and hollow the stream's song sounds the same:
On every windy hillside the grasses burn like flame:
Where the empty air is loud with the peewit's lonely crying
And the call o' the moorland gale to the bird's call replying.

Wake, little Waxy! Voices that you know
Set the upland ringing where the hill-breezes blow;
In the brave North country, in the grey open weather,
Up and Join the chorus, hound and horn together!

Ah, little Waxy! Hunting days are done,
Nevermore the brown field and the rain and the sun -
Only the memories left, o'er the Autumn fields that hover,
Of the brave runs ended, lass, the good days over!