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 [bad word] 

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 [bad word] 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.