The legend of King Arthur

Over boulders huge and gullies deep,   
Near, or far from home and sleep;.
The Bard has run with all his peers.
Both warm summer Mondays,         

And cold winter Sundays,

It’s getting on for thirty years.

Wet is all the vale untrodden,

Cloud and crag are grey and hodden.

On-on! the cry doth call us;

Green the hue of hills with checks is;           

Oh! Nothing found but lots of X’s,

Oh! Nothing found but bloody falses.

On they run: two score hash men,
Are they mad? No, just Cornishmen.
Swearing, they curse the flippin’ Hare,
Who reposes, 1750-vested;     
Upon a knoll, swollen chested;           
Strong and silent he remains there.

The Word; what a fool has written!
On we run, the Hare has bidden.
At the castle’s outer bounds;
Where in dreams of long gone chases,
Of clean-limbed, fast road races;
Run the pack of shiggyed hounds.

Oh! Is the Hash old and weary?
Breathless, legless, mirthless, dreary?
Racked with doubt, by discord torn?
No! L2H3 shall come, in youth immortal,
To the blessed On-down’s portal,
To sup the pint and blow the Horn.

On-on! shall be the call; up-leaping
Running, fullcry, we’ll rouse the sleeping;
FRB’s shall check and onward dash;
Forth shall sally the doughty shorts,
The old, the young we’re allsorts,
Yes, Knights, not yeomen, on the Hash.