THE CHASE OF THE BLACK FOX.
Reading edition
This ballad, communicated by Mr. Wm. Grainge,[209] of Minskip, has never been printed, and is little known. The tradition on which it is founded is yet related by old people in the midland parts of Yorkshire, and the incidents recited in the narrative are very nearly those related by the tongue of "hoary eld."
Listen, Yorkshire gentlemen, Unto the tale I tell, 'Tis of a strange adventure That once a lord befel, Who took his way with horse and hound, With huntsman and with horn, To chase the wily fox I ween, One autumn's merry morn. Long did they seek the cunning one, And roamed with labour vain, Through many a thorny thicket, O'er many a woody plain; No traces of sly reynard, Their closest search can find, There is no track upon the ground, No scent upon the wind. The hunters are impatient all, The huntsman swears, "In vain We've beaten round, we've beaten square, No fox is on the plain. "We might as well call off the hounds And come another day, Old N—k must have been hunting here And driven them away." "If we had caught him in the act," The angry lord replies, "We would have chased him home again, And made his brush our prize: "Or if he would but come to day, We'd give him such a run, As he ne'er had in all his life, O, 'twould be noble fun!" So spake the lord and huntsman, When to their great surprise, A noble fox unkenelled Before their wondering eyes, As black as any raven, As glossy and as bright, Save that his brush—no hunter's prize, Is tipp'd with shining white. The huntsman wakes from wonder, And gives a cheering blast, The hounds reply in thunder, The hunters follow fast. Away they go a gallant band, Ye would have thought they flew; Their horses were the fleetest That Yorkshire ever knew. O'er many a lofty fence they pass, O'er many a gate and stile, The sable one is leading them Many a dreary mile. And always full before their eyes, Nor far before the hound, But all their speed to catch him Is ever fruitless found. The hunters now are tiring, Or lagging far behind, But yet the fox is running As merrily as the wind. The staunchest hounds are wearied With the fruitless chase, The angry lord and huntsman Alone maintain the race. When at the sinking of the day They gain'd a river's side, Without a moment's stop or stay The fox takes to the tide. Here stop the lord and huntsman, Their courage is no more, They dare not trust their horses Amidst the waves of Yore. Both hound, and horse, and hunters, Are fairly tired and done, For since the game was started, Full three score miles they'd run. While light as cork on water The fox was floating on, You could not tell by seeing him, A furlong he had run. He swam into the middle, Then turned him round about, And by the hunters on the bank Was heard to laugh and shout. "Ho! ho! ye gallant hunters! When must I come again? For never shall ye want a fox, To chase along the plain. "And when your need is greatest, But call upon my name, And I will come—and you shall have The best of sport and game."