Fox Hunting Is Banned In Britain
A so called sport of the upper class that inspired the bards to rhyme
Fox hunting is banned in Britain everything has it's time
For nothing last forever it had passed it's use by date
And in chasing down and killing a frightened creature what is to celebrate?
John Masefield's long poem 'Reynard the Fox' I readily can recall
One of the best on fox hunting if not the best of all
But that aside fox hunting was cruel or to me 'twould seem that way
For to be hunted down and mauled to death by dogs not what you'd call fair play.
I read in the Newspapers how those for fox hunting protested long and loud
But there was nothing in this so called sport of which they could feel proud
For to watch a creature torn to shreds could hardly be much fun
It seems a far more painful way to die than the quicker death by gun.
The day is near when all blood sports will be things of the past
For all things have their use by date and nothing seems to last
Some may see the fox as vermin but the fox warrants a fair go
And empathy for wild born creatures not too much to ask to show.
Fox hunting is banned in Britain such good news is good to hear
News well worth celebrating to that I'll drink a beer
To be torn to shreds by a pack of hounds seems an awful way to die
And to this very cruel blood sport good riddance and goodbye.
poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
The Forest Greeting
GOOD hunting! — aye, good hunting,
Wherever the forests call;
But ever a heart beats hot with fear,
And what of the birds that fall?
Good hunting! — aye, good hunting,
Wherever the north winds blow;
But what of the stag that calls for his mate?
And what of the wounded doe?
Good hunting! — aye, good hunting,
And ah! we are bold and strong;
But our triumph call through the forest hall
Is a brother's funeral song.
For we are brothers ever,
Panther and bird and bear;
Man and the weakest that fear his face,
Born to the nest or lair.
Yes, brothers, and who shall judge us?
Hunters and game are we;
But who gave the right for me to smite?
Who boasts when he smiteth me?
Good hunting! — aye, good hunting,
And dim is the forest track;
But the sportsman Death comes striding on:
Brothers, the way is black.
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Wild F*#$ing Manners
hunting a tiger
big sharp teeth
man-eater
these hunters
big egos, big guns
hunting for survival
need fur and meat to survive
hunting wild game
wild f*#$ing manners
saw lioness and her cubs
on f*#$ing youtube
wild animals is to game theory
as man is to war
primitive yet perfect in movements
stop hunting these majestic creatures
they echo the intelligence we lack
in a far away land called our sub-conscience
only to find our only way to organized life
we're just animals on a hunting ground
poem by Inner Projection
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Hunting High And Low
Typed by [email protected]
Hunting High and Low:
Here I am
And within the reach of my hand
She's sound asleep
And she's sweeter now
Than the wildest dream
Could have seen her
And I watch her slipping away
But I know I'll be
Hunting high and low
Ah there's no end
To the lengths I'll go to
Hunting high and low
Ah there's no end
To the lengths I'll go
To find her again
Upon this my dreams are depending
Through the dark
I sense the pounding of her heart
Next to mine
She's the sweetest love
I could find
So I guess I'll be
Hunting high and low
Ah, there's no end
To lengths I'll go to
High and low
Ah, do you know what it means
To love you
I'm hunting high and low
And now she's telling me
She's got to go away
I'll always be hunting high and low
Only for you (And now she's telling me)
Watch me tearing myself to pieces
Hunting high and low
Ah, there's no end
To lengths I'll go to
For you I'll be hunting high and low
song performed by by A-Ha
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Hunters Lullaby
Your fathers gone a-hunting
Hes deep in the forest so wild
And he cannot take his wife with him
He cannot take his child
Your fathers gone a-hunting
In the quicksand and the clay
And a woman cannot follow him
Although she knows the way
Your fathers gone a-hunting
Through the silver and the glass
Where only greed can enter
But spirit, spirit cannot pass
Your fathers gone a-hunting
For the beast well never cannot bind
And he leaves a baby sleeping
And his blessings all behind
Your fathers gone a-hunting
And hes lost his lucky charm
And hes lost the guardian heart
That keeps the hunter from the harm
Your fathers gone a-hunting
He asked me to say goodbye
And he warned me not to stop him
I wouldnt, I wouldnt even try
song performed by by Leonard Cohen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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If you Risk to fall for a Trap
Hunting Shadow
Leave me alone
I am free as a widow
Hunting Shadow
Find yourself
I am only a meadow
Hunting Shadow
Hurried passed by,
as Good-bye she heard, from the window…
(Aug.13 -2007)
poem by Florida Angel
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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John Masefield Was Much More Than A Poet Laureate
John Masefield was much more than a poet laureate he was indeed a verse maker supreme
His longer poems are surely masterpieces and will live for centuries or so it would seem
From his prolific pen the rhymes kept flowing he kept on penning till the day he died
No doubt about it born to be a wordsmith and greatness of him cannot be denied
John Masefield wrote the poetry of the masses and in his lifetime was famed Worldwide
His 'Reynard The Fox' the greatest hunting poem ever of the hunting people of the English countryside
His other famed longer poems 'The Daffodil Fields' and 'The Everlasting Mercy' and 'Dauber' the boy artsist who died at sea
As well as others are true masterpieces to rhyme to him seemed to come easily
His descriptive powers to say the least amazing it must be true that poets are born not made
For sixty years he was a major poet a literary icon of the wordsmith trade
John Masefield he was Ledbury's greatest poet one might say a manufacturer of rhyme
For many years he was Britain's Poet Laureate until he too lost out to father time
He truly was the poet of the people and poets of his stature as always are rare
He died an old man in his eighty ninth year with England's best he surely does compare.
poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Hunting High & Low
Here I am
And within the reach of my hands
Shes sound asleep and shes sweeter now
Than thewildest dream could have seen her
And I watch her slipping away
Though I know Ill be hunting high and low
High
Theres no end to the the lengths Ill go to
Hunting high and low
High
Theres no end to the the lengths Ill go to
To find her again
Upon this my dreams are depending
Through the dark
I sense the pounding of her heart
Next to mine
Shes the sweetest love I could find
So I guess Ill be hunting high and low
High
Theres no end to the lengths Ill go to
High and low
High
Do you know what it means to love you
Im hunting high and low
And now shes telling me shes got to go away
Ill always be hunting high and low
Hungry for you
Watch me tearing myself to pieces
Hunting high and low
High
Theres no end to the lengths Ill go to
Oh! for you Ill be hunting high and low
song performed by by A-Ha
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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There is no hunting like the hunting of man, and those who have hunted armed men long enough and liked it, never care for anything else thereafter.
quote by Ernest Hemingway
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Cape Hunting Dogs Of Africa
They run for hours on end each day through grasses gray and brown
Race antelope to a stand still and drag big zebra down
Outlast the speedy wildebeest their victims die in pain
Those amazing cape hunting dogs the hunters of the plain.
They have no sense of right or wrong they must hunt to survive
And their young in den some ten miles off without fresh meat won't thrive
The cape hunting dogs of Africa don't have sins to forgive
They risk their lives amidst flying hooves they kill so they
can live.
The cape hunting dogs of Africa are creatures i admire
They chase big game for miles and miles and never seem to tire
Their team work and companionship they live to serve the pack
They often kill ten miles from home and trot the ten miles back.
The cape hunting dogs of Africa live as true family
They chase big game for miles on end and work in harmony
They have no choice but kill to eat if they don't eat they die
And they risk their lives to serve the pack when hooves of hunted fly.
poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The hunt for love
By my nature
i am not a hunter.
hunting implies
that killing takes place.
the last thing
i want to do
is to kill something.
is hunting wrong?
not necessarily,
but i think hunting is wrong
for me.
besides, as far as i am concerned
motive makes all the difference.
for example,
i was a hunter once
and didn't even know it.
a certain innocence had taken me
into the snowy woods
one snowy evening.
i was hunting
for someone to love.
little did i know my nonchalance
would lead me to another hunter.
this hunter
was moving cautiously
through the same poetic snowy woods
binding snowflakes into winter dreams.
this hunter was careful
to avoid familiar mantraps
while also hunting for someone to love.
poem by Richard Ilnicki
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Hunting Humans (Lyrics)
Upon this threshold of disaster
The birth of the eleventh plague
The fires burn at night, I begin to doubt the smell of burning flesh
Will ever fade away
The touch of death is all around us
A thousand corpses block our way
A man-made germ makes almost everyone commit suicide
Just to rise and eat their dead
Night of the living Dead...
We're hunting humans
We're hunting humans
We're hunting humans
It's killing time every evening
I can't control this eerie feeling
An evil screaming in my head
I don't think I'll last the night
There is no cure
For this genocide
Or resurrection of the dead
Night of the living Dead...
We're hunting humans...
poem by Satan's Sibling
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Hunter's Lullaby
Your father's gone a-hunting
He's deep in the forest so wild
And he cannot take his wife with him
He cannot take his child.
Your father's gone a-hunting
In the quicksand and the clay
And a woman cannot follow him
Although she knows the way.
Your father's gone a-hunting
Through the silver and the glass
Where only greed can enter
But spirit
song performed by by Leonard Cohen from Various Positions
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Biography, like big game hunting, is one of the recognized forms of sport, and it is as unfair as only sport can be.
quote by Philip Guedalla
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Hunting peace
The arrow of time slowly creeps
The archer of inferno with raised brows,
Awaits - the mortal legion, armed for a combat.
Stabbed incessantly I writhe, with open scars that bleed,
I shut my eyes to this world of deceit in reflex
But I can't escape the myth of reality.
God inflicts angst on me.
I cry. I mourn. I shiver. I wail.
I am lost, never to return.
It's a defeated Me.
A Me quite not Myself.
This I - a lone self.
I am Orion, waiting for my place amidst the constellation.
If I could die, in death I would,
Inscribe my inncocence and my endless pain.
My senses lost, my soul entrapped.
I am left cold and numb.
In search of - a warm hand to hold on...
Am ashamed and embarrased of my state,
Never thought it would be so,
The cosmic forces crush me with their might and force.
Life and death, wedded in my mind -
Am living in death,
Am dying to live.
There is a hunting in my head -
There is a hunting in my soul -
There is a hunting in my heart -
Am hunting peace,
Am hunting me,
Am hunting you to rescue me.
poem by Gargi Chakravarty
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Hunting is not a sport. In a sport, both sides should know they're in the game.
quote by Paul Rodriguez
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I think of football as a sport the way ducks think of hunting as a sport.
quote by Bill Watterson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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No sound.
Come flow the willow
come beckon the call.
The owl is hunting
no sound at all.
The fox is hunting
out on the fen.
Long before day break
he be a sleep in his den.
Come herald the day break
the horn and the hounds.
The fox is dead
the owl makes
no sound.
poem by Roy Storey
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Otter Hunting In Ribblesdale
Through yon little planting, by yonder streamside,
Where Ribble's sweet waters flow softly and wide,
While the dew's on the meadows it's up and away,
A-hunting the otter at break o' the day.
0 hear the glad music of horn and of hound;
0 hear how they welcome in day with the sound:
0 hear how the valley is loud with the strain
And the woodlands give answer with echo again.
Come rise up full soon, come rise up and go,
The mist's on the hill and the river runs low:
While the dew's on the meadows it's up and away
A-hunting the otter at break o' the day.
Now Ribble, sun-chequered, slides joyfully down
Which late thro' the bridges roared foaming and brown:
Now hot lies the scent, and the morning is still, &mdash
Hark for'ard, good hounds, to a view and a kill!
A health to good fellowship fill we now high,
You true-hearted sportsmen afar and anigh,
Here's many a good chase when the morning is grey,
A-hunting the otter at break o' the day.
poem by Cicely Fox Smith
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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SS-3
Ancient crown placed on your head
The hangman of Prague
Seven keys to the chamber
Surrendered to the God
Hunting
Fighting
Killing whore
Wade through blood and spill some more
Hunting
Fighting
Killing whore
Wade through blood and bleed some more
Golden door submits secrets
As this nation falls
Atmosphere of deadly terror
Subservient to all
Hunting
Fighting
Killing whore
Wade through blood and spill some more
Hunting
Fighting
Killing whore
Wade through blood and bleed some more
Burning sense of mission
Assassination
Symbol of oppression
Crusade from exile
Obliteration
Sabotaged campaign
Check resistance from afar
Planning the death of one
When the plot is executed
There will be nowhere to run
Ramafications will be high
A price paid in torment
The end justifies the means
To hell you will be sent
The wolf leader now is the stalked
Expansion state of horror
Guns echo over the grave
A thousand fates are sealed
Murderous power brought to an end
Only to rise again
Cold and ruthless and iron will
Protectorate of the dead
A thorough sweep
Prelude to death
Secrets kept
But no one left
Firing squad
Begins their work
Harsh reprisal
For what you took
Retribution selective terror
The stench of death is everywhere
A severed head
A floating mass
Will give me the answers to what I ask
song performed by by Slayer from Divine Intervention
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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How Boomer Ruined Our Hunting Trips
For years we have gone hunting.
I've loved sitting next to him in his deer blind
or sitting quietly in my own.
Now that Boomer came into our lives
I see all living animals as having feelings
and I can't stand the thought of hunting.
Boomer is our bassett hound.
He thinks he is human.
I sometimes think so too.
The way he has shown me
that he feels things like we do
has changed me forever.
Now, all I can think of is that
if a dog can feel emotions like we do...
can a deer?
Are they afraid?
Do they know why we are sitting there?
Do they hate me?
I have to explain this to my husband
and pray he understands why
our hunting days together are over.