"Seathwaite-Fever"

I must down to the pub again, to the lovely beer and the pie,
And all I ask is a short r*n and some flour to check her by,
And the Septics’ car and the horn’s song and the white chalk’s marking,
And a grey mist on the hill’s face, and a grey night falling.

I must down to the pub again, for the call of the running hash
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a sunny day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung flour and the blown horn, and the hashers crying.

I must down to the pub again, to the vagrant hasher life,
To the Duddon way and the Turner’s site where the wind's like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-hasher
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the down-downs over.

With apologies to John Masefield

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