Autumn

Where the partridge sweetly cries,

and the pheasant quietly lies;
there the sloe, and blackberry too,
are hid amongst the hedgerow’s Autumn hue.

The copse that sits atop the hill,
is quiet now, and very still;
below, the guns are making ready,
and the dogs are told: ‘Sit! Steady!’

The new-ploughed fields, deep and brown,
stretch to the road that leads to the town;
along that road I will not travel,
but keep to where fallen leaves a-crackle.

Where the stream drops through the hollows,
a dog fox sniffs the air and follows;
the rabbits are playing down in the whins,
and he sits on his tail to watch, and grins.

And through the mist this early morn,
I heard the geese in the grey predawn;
winter’s outriders drawing near,
bringing, soon, the end of the year.

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