Date : 08/11/16
Hare : Waldorf
Scribe : Rocky Road
Hounds : 37     Dogs : 0
Recorded distance : 8.95 km
Recorded time : 83.27 min
Uphillness : 576.70 ft

By Maggie Burrows

The wind was damply-dancing among the autumn trees,
The moon was a curly-crescent hidden in cloudy skies,
The trail was a mucky-mire over the muddy-moor,
And the hashwaymen came driving-driving-driving-
The hashwaymen came driving, up to the Full-Moon door.

As they gathered there the hare did say, tis flat with just one 'ill,
A truthful hare is very rare, the pack stood very still,
A welcome to two virgins, who came to give it a try,
Then the hashwaymen went running-running-running-
The hashwaymen went running, under the starry-sky.

With headlights on their foreheads, and beards upon their chin,
And fleece of scarlet velvet, and breeches of black and green;
That fitted with ne'er a wrinkle: their boots with mud up to t' thigh!
And the hashwaymen went running-running-running-
The hashwaymen went running, under the starry-sky.

Into the shiggy they stumbled, on into the dark-dark wood,
Ghostly sounds, echoed all around, they ran as fast as they could.
The owls did hoot but with 'heads' and 'roots' the hashers passed them by,
Their torches were a-twinkle- a-twinkle-a-twinkle-
Their torches were a-twinkle, under the starlit-sky.

The gossip was good as they ran through the wood and talked of washing up,
They passed some goats looking for oats or were they chasing a pup?
The hare kept them on, over stiles, hill and dale,
His eyes they were a-glowing, a-glowing, a-glowing,
His eyes they were a-glowing, desperate for some ale.

Over the fields they dithered and dashed into the dark, dark-ness,
They found the flour and cried ON-ON, But the way was often a mess,
With badger holes and concrete lumps
They ran with a yell of On On-On-On, On-On-
They ran with a yell of On-On, trying to avoid the stumps.

And back to the old pub yard, the hashwaymen returned,
And into the bar they trod, for a drink that really was well-earned.
Their eyes were shining brightly, as chips galore emerged,
And the hashwaymen were drinking, Drinking-drinking
The Hashwaymen were drinking 'til the GM's voice was heard.

Listen up me hearties, I've got a prize to-night,
To present a new Magneto, before the morning light,
Yet, if you press me sharply, and harry me as you do,
(The hashwaymen kept munching, Munching-munching)
I'll keep it for another week and bring my helmet too.

Still on a Tuesday night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
And the moon is a ghostly globe, hidden in cloudy skies,
When the trail is a mucky-mire over the muddy moor,
A hashwaymen come running-running-running-
A hashwaymen come running, up to the NEXT pub-door.