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.