Farewell to the scarlet coats thundering through woods
Farewell to the sharp stink of fear
Farewell to the Foxhunt, and I'm saying "Good!"
And I'm raising my voice in a cheer!
Farewell to tradition, if that's what it is
Though it's feeling quite feudal from here
Farewell to the blood from a foxhound's sharp kiss
And I'm raising my voice in a cheer!
Farewell to the mornings when mist cools your face
An England of cricket, warm beer
And folks in big flat caps who all know their place
And I'm raising my voice in a cheer!
You're chasing the past, chaps, not chasing a fox
You're chasing a country that's gone
They've altered the windows and changed all the locks
You're riding a land that's moved on!
And I didn't see the hunters at the head of the crowd
When they closed down the factories and mines
I didn't hear the hunting horn blaring out loud
At the head of the picket lines…
Democracy's spoken, the pack's caught you up
And let down the tyres on your sport
So please don't be whining like a whipped hunting pup
'cos it's farewell to you and your sort.
Farewell to the stirrup cup, farewell the thrill
Of tearing a fox like a shredder shreds bills
And look, there's a fox, and he's standing quite still
No: he's raising two fingers from the top of that hill!
Farewell to the scarlet coats thundering through woods
Farewell to the sharp stink of fear
Farewell to the foxhunt, and I'm saying "Good!"
And I'm raising my voice in a cheer!
© Ian McMillan
