When the last of my hunts is over and done,
And I go to my rest with the sinking sun,
And horse and hound are forsaken,
Will all we loved be vanished and vain,
And the years of our life be as nought again
In that land where at last we waken?

I think that sure, tho' the teachers tell
That the joys of heaven and the pangs of hell
Are as things that are veiled and hidden,
We shall not forego the joys of the spoil,
Nor the good glad fields, not the smell of the soil
On the plains where we oft have ridden.

The Lord he shall bridle us steeds of might;
We shall ride great rides in the Lord God's sight
From the morn till the fall of even;
We shall hear the echoes our hoof-beats rouse,
We shall feel the cool keen wind on our brows
Blow fresh from the fields of heaven.

To the end of the earth we shall hunt the wrong;
Nor weary at all tho' the chase be long:
We shall joy in the speed and striving:
We shall sweep foul things from the face of the ground
With whip and spur and with horse and hound,
In panic before us driving.

And when all the hunting is over and done,
And the last wild course is ended and run,
We shall rest, and be weary never,
And tell old tales of the earth and sky,
And mighty hunting in days gone by,
And the horse and the hound for ever.