A Lancashire Hare

O brown are the moors in the grey morning lying Where the west wind comes singing o'er wide sea and plain; O blithe on the hills when the autumn is dying The hound and the horn wake the echoes again. Here's to the hills bleak and bare: To the winds that give challenge to care! Here's to the sound of a Lancashire hound, And the speed of a Lancashire hare! O hark, and O hark, to the sound of the hollo, Afar on the hills, in the fall o' the year! O hark, and O hark, to the hounds that we follow, How their full-throated chorus swells tuneful and clear. Through the bent and the heather they revel and rally, - Their voices all chiming out gallant and gay A quest by the brookside, a view in the valley, Then over the hilltop and for'ard away! 0 gone are all burdens of sorrow and yearning, 0 fast fly the hours that were made for delight, Till red in the West like a torch dimly burning, The last gleam of day gives the hunter good-night. Here's to the hills bleak and bare, To the winds that give challenge to care! Here's to the sound of a Lancashire hound And the speed of a Lancashire hare!