Hunting poetry . . .

Been a while since we've had a decent setter blog posting, and inspired by Josh's recent post . . . .

Here's an excerpt from "Field Sports," a poem by William Somerville, an English poet who specialized in poems of the chase:

When autumn smiles, all beauteous in decay,
And paints each chequered grove with various hues,
My setter ranges in the new shorn fields,
His nose in air erect; from ridge to ridge,
Panting, he bounds, his quartered ground divides
In equal intervals, nor careless leaves
One inch untried. At length the tainted gale
His nostrils wide inhale, quick joy elates
His beating heart, which, awed by discipline
Severe, he dares not own, but cautious creeps
Low-cowering, step by step; at last attains
His proper distance, there he stops at once,
And points with his instructive nose upon
The trembling prey. On wings of wind and upborne
The floating net unfolded flies; then drops,
And the poor fluttering captives rise in vain.

Don't you just love that? ahhhh.

My setter ranges in the new shorn fields