Green upon the River Doe shone the after-storm-wet-sky

Quick the struggling hashers cried out 'more rain', why oh why?

And the hare set trail over Ingleton, wonderfully far and high.

The hounds made off from Thornton, Cold Cotes? Skirwith? who shall say?

Smoothly practising a plain course, caverned out the passing day

As their melancholy chatter flooded up and ebbed away.

Then all the Craven Fault was round me and No More Cum pressed on

High above the houses 'till the beer stop came along

By the road that leads to Ribblehead, as Sir Tom Tom beckoned us on.

And an undersong to Twisted, saving sheep from inevitable fate

Then once again around Ingleton, the streets to negotiate

We returned to the On Inn at Thornton, albeit a little late.

On-On, Bitter. (deputising for Twisted, sorry, too busy to scribe).