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.