Twas the day after Christmas, when all through the land

only hashers were stirring, not a sensible band;

We met at The Priory in Scorton we were,

In hopes that St Nicholas soon would be there. (and he was!)

The hashers were gathered, all in good cheer

With sips of whiskey, mince pies and beer;

The hares in their wisdom! and us standing round

Had just settled our brains for a long winter's pound,

When from midst of Scorton the horn sounded loud

and the hashers set off along the trail which was found;

Away down the road, along lanes, fields too,

by canal, over ice and snow the hashers flew;

The sun, on the breast of the old-fallen snow,

Gave the luster of midday to hashers running fro;

When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,

but a mirage of three wandering folk in good cheer,

With a little old hasher were two new recruits

Slower than most but taking photos along route;

Back at The Priory the hashers all came

And were counted, and welcomed and sinners called by name:

Now, Major Twit! now, Baldbrick! now, visitors Cat and Lil!

On, Lurch! on, Upperskirt! On Inn, out of chill!

But I heard them exclaim as they went out of sight:

Happy New Year to all and On On, good night!