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 spurnecks the size of my thumb.
This highborn 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.
O high-born Hunting Girl, I'm just a normal low born so and so.

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