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.