I know my quarries every one,
The meuse where she sits low;
The road she chose to-day
A hundred years ago.
The lags, the gills, the forest ways,
The hedgerows one and all,
These are the kingdoms of
And bounded by my wall;
Nor has the world a better thing,
Though one should search it round,
Than thus to live ones
own sole king,
Upon ones own sole ground.
I like the hunting of the hare;
It brings me, day by day,
The memory of old days as fair,
dead men past away.
To these, as homeward still I ply
And pass the churchyard gate
Where all are laid as I must
I stop and raise my hat.
I like the humting of the hare;
New sports I hold in scorn.
I like to be as my fathers were,
the days eer I was born.
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