One day I walked the road and crossed a field to go by where the hounds ran

hard.

And on the master raced: behind the hunters chased to where the path was

barred.

One fine young lady's horse refused the fence to clear.

I unlocked the gate but she did wait until the pack had disappeared.



Crop-handle carved in bone; sat high upon a throne of finest English

leather.

The Queen of all the Pack: this joker raised his hat and talked about the

weather.

All should be warned about this high-born Hunting Girl.

She took this simple man's downfall in hand; I raised the flag that she

unfurled.



Boot leather flashing and spur-necks the size of my thumb.

This high-born hunter had tastes as strange as they come.



Unbridled passion: I took the bit in my teeth.

Her standing over: me on my knees underneath.



My lady, be discrete. I must get to my feet and go back to the farm.

Whilst I appreciate you are no deviate, I might come to some harm.

I'm not inclined to acts refined, if that's how it goes.

Oh, high-born Hunting Girl, I'm just a normal low-born so-and-so.