Hunting north of the border

The green swards of Scotland
A fox in full flight
Through the wire fence
He’s out of sight
In the low brush
Back into the light
And here comes the cavalry
A grey and a white
And here comes the hounds
Yelping away
Skittish and daft in their so called
Hound way
Stretched out and running
The fox out a head
Over a metal fence
Its has seen red
The league against cruel sports
Gave us this stuff
All the fear and suspense
We have all seen enough

A lone male
Chased hither
Flushing To guns
But no guns around
There just the son of sons
And uncle tom cobley
Hunting the law
Thats what they do
No wonder we are sore

There are laws up here to
But hunters believe
They make and break laws
Thats how they achieve
Once you wear crimson
And speak like a toff
Thats when you can just pull
Anything off
The coppers won’t
see you
They tend to look away
Get on with the process
With nothing to say
The fox many run like the clappers away
But some get a hiding get bloodied and pay