Now the last meet is over, the last hunt is done,
And the last farewell spoken at set of the sun,
And the ghost of a voice in the waft of a cry
Seems to ring far away 'twixt the fields and the sky:

'For'ard on!'

Hey, Bugler, hey, Bever, and hounds one and all,
That sped at his bidding and came to his call,
Nevermore shall you hark to the voice you knew well,
When he cheered on the pack, e'en the hour that he fell,

'For'ard on!'

0 well for the huntsman, the cheery, the true,
At the close of the day in the good fields he knew!
Even so, not a doubt, he'd have chosen to die
Within sight of the hounds, to the sound of the cry,

'For'ard on!'

In the wind and the rain, ere we leave him to rest,
Once again sound the horn in the call he loved best:
From the days that are over, the good years gone by,
Half fancy there answers the ghost of a cry:

'For'ard on!'