Coon hunting with hounds

Close to the Fire Place the Old Hound Lay

Written by Pat Sullivan

Close to the fire place the old hound lay
Dreaming of the coons he’d treed in his day.
A tattered ear twitched as he recalled the sound
Of the sweet wild music of a pack of bayed hounds.
Hot on the trail of a wily old coon
With him leading the pack and calling the tune.
Half blinded eyes blinked as he peered through the gloom
At the trophies he’d won which crowded the room.
Though his eyesight was failing he could conjure a whim
Visions of tall trees with coons on each limb.
His arthritic old legs now stiff and not limber
Once carried with speed up creeks and through timber.
But that was in the past and now days he chose
to lay by the fire place to dream and to doze.
As boots scraped the door mat he whined in pure pleasure
For he knew those footsteps in which he did treasure.
An arrival of a visit his tail thumped in delight
There stood his master silhouetted in moonlight.
Standing tall and familiar in his old hunting gear
He called here old friend I’m glad you’re still here
But you’re no longer able to keep up and fight
And besides it’s cold out so cold out tonight.
Stooping to caress his scared noble head
His touch oh so gentle his soothing voice said.
Now rest old timer I’ve had you since birth
You’re a legend in three states I know what you’re worth

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