By Ribble's gleaming river
The morning mists are grey,
Where the dew-drowned copses quiver
With the deepening green of May.
And it's hey to be there, and hieing
Where the hound and the horn are crying
And the echoes loud replying
At the dawning of the day.

0 the scent of the dewy grasses
In the daybreak calm and cool,
Where the skimming swallow passes
From pool to darkling pool,
And the startled birds go winging
Through the wakened woods a-ringing
With the pack its challenge flinging
At the dawning of the day.

Too soon, we know, will fly us
These hours of morning's gleam,
And the years of our strength drift by us
Like leaves on an autumn stream:
And the din of cheery noises
Which now our hearts rejoices
Grow faint as ghostly voices
Heard once in an olden dream.

Yet when, in a dark December,
The frosty woods are grey,
By whiles we shall still remember
What years steal ne'er away, -
This golden hour undying
When the hound and the horn are crying,
And the echoes loud replying
At the dawning of the day.