Snow ghosts wafted across the field;The grape vines offered little shield.Towards the river they were bound,Chased by a lost hunting hound. It gave the geese a terrible fright,And as if together they took flight. But then the ghosts took to ground And the hound made a circle round. It headed west straight away As if it had finally found its way Back to the field from which it came,A little slower and a little lame. The sun is setting scarlet for sureAs I give ol' Jack a light prick of spur.I hope to get back to the stable all right Before the early onset of night.
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