Kerry Beagles (And The Men That Don’t Fit In)

Most Internet sites that act as reference sources for native dog breeds mention the Kerry Beagle as one of Irelands nine native breeds, but other sites dispute that bit of information, and some even question if the dog is: a) now extinct, and b) an actual breed.  We don’t dispute it because if the Irish Kennel Club considers the Kerry Beagle to be a “native son,” that’s good enough for us.  Not just that, but the Kerry Beagle is alive and well, thank you very much, and the Scarteen Hound pack proves it.

The famous “Black and Tans” of the Scarteen pack, hunted by the Ryan family since the 1700s, are said to be the fastest pack around, bar none. If you love all things Irish, like hounds, and are intrigued by the hunt culture, be sure to watch this video of glorious Kerry Beagles in an Irish hunt (it’s safe to watch, no fox was harmed). The segment was part of the TV series, “Hanging with Hector” which was broadcast on RTE One in January 2013.

As an aside, these hounds are not Beagles, but dogs thought to have descended from the “old southern hound). From the Irish Kennel Club: “The name Beagle curiously enough is thought to be derived from the Irish word “beag” (meaning small) and certainly the Beagle is a small hound used to hunt small game like hares, whereas the Kerry Beagle was often used to hunt stag. The present day word for the Beagle in Irish is “Pocadan” which refers to its use as a hunting dog rather than its size.”

The pack is still going strong. Below is a video of the Scarteen Opening Meet in 2018:

For anyone wondering about our subject line, at the time this post was written, we shared a video from an Irish pub in which a poem written by Robert W. Service was recited. The video has since been taken off the Internet, but because it’s a fine poem, we’ve chosen to replace it with a different video:

 

The words to: “The Men That Don’t Fit In:”

There’s a race of men that don’t fit in,
    A race that can’t stay still;
So they break the hearts of kith and kin,
    And they roam the world at will.
They range the field and they rove the flood,
    And they climb the mountain’s crest;
Theirs is the curse of the gypsy blood,
    And they don’t know how to rest.
If they just went straight they might go far;
    They are strong and brave and true;
But they’re always tired of the things that are,
    And they want the strange and new.
They say: “Could I find my proper groove,
    What a deep mark I would make!”
So they chop and change, and each fresh move
    Is only a fresh mistake.
And each forgets, as he strips and runs
    With a brilliant, fitful pace,
It’s the steady, quiet, plodding ones
    Who win in the lifelong race.
And each forgets that his youth has fled,
    Forgets that his prime is past,
Till he stands one day, with a hope that’s dead,
    In the glare of the truth at last.
He has failed, he has failed; he has missed his chance;
    He has just done things by half.
Life’s been a jolly good joke on him,
    And now is the time to laugh.
Ha, ha! He is one of the Legion Lost;
    He was never meant to win;
He’s a rolling stone, and it’s bred in the bone;
    He’s a man who won’t fit in.
Image: Scarteen Hunt Hounds from the 1930s by Cardiff Potter – Scarteen Hounds 002, CC BY 2.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=54167966

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