The wood echoed to that eerie sound
the hunting cry of a single hound
Bru! Bru! come back
my wee hound, in the morning.

He never owned a horse or hound
or lorded acres of hunting ground
Yet few are richer, I'll be bound
than Tom on a hunting morning.

Over the gate they take to the field
He goes on foot, won't lose his view
Be it Williams, Higgens or Pat O'Brien
with their tally-ho in the morning.

Much better off than men of big money
Living in Fethard one hears there are many!
Goes hunting and fishing when he please's
with Bru in the boot in the morning.

And there's not a man, be he high or low
In the parts down here, or wherever you go
that doesn't know, Tom Sayers or Bru
as ye travel to the meet in the morning.