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The Kielder Hunt Hark hark I hear Lang Will's clear voice sound through the Kielder Glen, Where the raven flaps her glossy wing and the fell fox has his den, There the shepherds they are gathering up wi' monie a guid yauld grew, An' wiry terrier game an' keen an' fox-hound fleet and true. cho: Hark away! Hark away! O'er the bonnie hills o' Kielder, hark away. There's Moudy frae Emmethaugh an' Royal frae Bakethinn, There's hounds frae Reed an' Kielderhead, an' Ruby by the Linn, An' hounds of fame frae Irthingside, they try baith moss an' crag, Hark! Hark! that's Moudy's loud clear note, he has bold Reynard's drag. Away an' away o'er hill and dale an' up by yonder stell, The music o' the gallant pack resounds o'er muir and dell; See yon herd callant waves his plaid, list yon loud tally-ho, The fox is up an' breaks away o'er the edge o' Hawkhope Flowe. Hak forrit! hark! ye gallant hounds, hark onwart, hark away. He kens the hauds on Tosson hills, he kens the holes at Rae; There's no a den roun' the Kail stane but he kens weel I trow, An' a' the holes on Lariston he kens them thro' and thro'. There's Wanny's Crags an' Sewingshields, and Christenbury too, Or if he win to Hareshaw Linn ye may bid him adieu; The Key-Heugh an' the Cloven-Crags, the Cove, an' Darna ha', Chatlehope-Spout an' the Wily-holes, auld foxy kens them a'. Away an' away o'er bank and brae they drive the wily game, Where Moudy, Ruby, Royal still uphaud their glorious fame; An' see the lish yald shepherd lads how Monkside heights they climb, They're the pride o' a' the Borders wide for wind and wiry limb. Thro' yon wild glen they view him now right for the Yearning Linn, By cairn an' crag, o'er moss and hagg, sae glorious was the din; Weel dune, hurrah! they've run him doun, yon's Moudy twirls him now, The hunt is done, his brush is won, I hear the death halloo. Then here's to Will o' Emmethaugh, for he's a sportsman true, Here's to Robie o' Bakethinn, an Rob o' Kielder too; At the Hopes, Bewshaugh, an' Kersie Cleuch, Skaup, Riggend, an' the Law, In Tyne, an' Reed, and Irvinghead, they're gallant sportsmen a'. These are the words as published in ""The Scottish Folksinger"". From the singing of Willie Scott and the School of Scottish Studies. A Northumbrian now established on both sides of the Border. Written by James Armstrong of Redesdale in the nineteenth century. AC AC OCT98
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