We drove to the top of the hill On a beautiful autumn day, Admiring the rich bronze hue Of the trees along the way. And there on the crest of the hill A fine cock pheasant stood Proudly surveying the scene Before stepping in to the road.
We stopped to let him cross, Respecting his leisurely pace, And then we saw his spouse In the hedgerow watching her mate. She followed him on to the road Trusting where he led. Regardless of her he strode, Never turning his head.
And then we saw a van Coming fast on the opposite side, Coming straight towards the hen As she followed the steps of her mate. The driver sped up the hill, Towards the bird he raced, It was clear he was out to kill For he never slackened his pace.
The cock-pheasant heard the engine, He stretched his wings and flew. The hen-pheasant paused to listen, Too late she heard it too. Instead of flying upwards She panicked and started to run, She flapped her wings and fluttered Right into the path of the van.
The force with which it hit her Lifted her up on high And in a flurry of feathers Tossed her aside to die. Then they were gone, both cock and van, And neither gave her a thought. Alone we were left on the brow of the hill To mourn a life cut short.