Good-night! the horn's faint music
Through the twilight fades away:
The cold night mists come creeping -
O'er the fields we've ranged all day.
Now red o'er the hill-tops smoulders
The last of the wintry sun,
And here's a stave at parting
For the gallant day that's done!

A chill wind moans from the sunset:
There's a thresh of rain from the west,
And horse and hound and rider
Jog homeward now to rest, -
To rest and drowsy dreaming
Of many a long-past run,
And the wind on the well-loved moorland
And the gallant day that's done!