HUNTING SONGS AND POEMS. COLLECTED BY JOHN CHAWORTH MUSTERS. NOTTINGHAM PUINTED BV R. ALI.EN ANU SON, LIMITED, CAXTON HOUSE. CONTENTS. PAGE The Badsworth Hunt . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 Song .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 5 An Ode .. .. .. .. .. .. .. Song .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 8 The Little Red Dog .. .. .. .. .. ..9 Song .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 11 March, 1851 .. .. 13 Cotmanhay Wood . . . . . . . . . . 17 Song .. .. .. .. .. .. ..20 Banks Wright's Lead from the Curate Gorse . . 21 John Tcel .. .. .. .. .. .. ..23 Hoe Hill .. .. .. .. .. .. 24 " Rouse, boys, rouse " .. .. .. .. 2G Lord Lonsdalc's Harriers . . . . . . . . . . 2S The South Notts. Hunt, 1833 .. .. .. .. ..30 Classification of the Talent of Melton in 1820 .- .. 34 Six Hills .. .. .. ... 35 The Woore Country .. .. .. .. .. 38 Kirby Gate . . . . . . . . .. . . ..41 Qusesitum Merit is .. .. .. 43 Old Oulton Lowe .. .. .. .. .. ..45 The Breeches, 1841 .. 40 The Spectre Stag The Galloping Squire The Fox and the Brambles A word ere we start . . . . . . . ^5 The Cheshire Hunt .. .. . . .. . . 56 Melton in 1830 . . . . A Meeting during the late Frost . . . . . . CO The Greatwood Run with the Badminton Hunting Song . . . . .. . . . . 74 How to send him along .- .. .. -. 75 Winslow . . . . . . . . . . . . 70 Hunting Song . . . . . . . . . . . . 78 Tom Moody . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 80 1\ The Coal-black Steed .. .. .. .. .. 81 A rum'un to follow a bad'un to beat . . . . . . 83 Charles Davis .. .. .. .. 85 The Berkshire . . . . . . - . . . 88 The Hounds of Old Raby . . . . . . . . . . 9:2 The Rufford Hunt .. .. .. ..105 Derby Vale .. .. 106 " In a quiet sort of way " .. .. .. 109 Lost and Saved " There is no lack about the Hounds" .. .. ..117 The Rufford Hounds .. .. .. .. 119 The Duty of Man .. ..122 The Fox's Lament .. '24 Cropwell Grove .. .. ..126 The Quarndon Foxhunters .. .. .. '29 A Birthday Ode to John Warde .. 131 Hunting Song .. .. 135 Mr. Warburton's Farewell to Tarporley, 1873 .. .. 137 An Unprovoked Wail from a Deserted Foxhuntci: .. .. 141 Down in the West . .. ..143 An Acknowledgment of a Haunch of Venison 144 An Afternoon Crawl during the late Frost .. ..145 A Loughborough Song . . . . . . . . M7 Hunting Song .. .. '^8 Eton Boating Song .. .. 15W The Yeoman's Greeting .. ""' Epitaph 'Ware Wheat! 'Ware Tares ! .. ..154 The Run from Hazelton . . . . . . '55 John O'Gaunt .. .. .. .. ..166 The Fox's Prophecy .. .- '69 Farewell ..179 The Lay of the Broken Carriage .. " . . 180 February 17th, 1864 .. Song .......... '89 A Poem by J. Oldknow, of Smalley . . - . . . 191 THE BADSWOBTH HUNT: DESCEIPTIVE OF AN EXCELLENT FOX-CHASE, AS PERFORMED BY THE HOUNDS OF MR. BRIGHT, OF BADSWORTH, IN THE TEAR 1730. " Hark ! what loud shouts re-echo thro' the groves He breaks away, shrill horns proclaim his flight ; Each straggling hound strains o'er the lawn to gain The distant pack 'tis triumph all and joy." SOJIERA'ILLE. Ye huntsmen, give ear to rny song, Who to Sussex steep hills do resort ; I sing of a fox chase so long That you must allow it good sport. It was in the time of the year When foxes could fly and were stout ; In Bads worth's gay hall did appear, Of hunters a jovial rout. Said the master, (1) o'er night, "It is ten; Call Slinger, (2) for I will to bed ; At five I will see you again ; Pray, Tom, (3) now remember your head." 1. John Bright, Esq., of Badsworth Hall, near Pontefract, was the master of the hounds. 2. Slinger was Mr. Bright's valet. 3. Mr. Bright's son. At five, then, the Master arose ; The rest, half asleep, left their beds, And hastily donn'd on their clothes, Tho' some of 'em felt heavy heads. To cover they walk a foot's pace, Where the company all does appear But Harvey, (-1) who lost all the chase By taking twice leave of his dear. It was just at the rise of the sun, To Barnsdale's great whin-bed they came So famous for many a run, So crowded for fox-hunters' game. " Hoix, Truelove," said Jarvise, "my hound ;" " Hey, Tumbler," Jack (5) quickly replied. " Egad," said Ben Tayler, " he is found ; Hark ! Duchess, who never yet lied." " Hallo ! then away the pack goes ; " Master "Wilson, come on, " says Tom Sayle : (6) Kit (7) answers, " I'll gather these sloes, And comb my nag's mane and tail." Over Smeaton's wide fallows he made To Brokendale Earth, full up wind ; His besom he toss'd but ne'er stay'd, As tho' he said, " kiss me behind." Over Stapleton Lees to Wake Wood, Down to Balne still up wind he doth fly ; But soon found, in spite of his blood, He must back again, else he must die. 4. Mr. Harvey, grandfather to the present Lord Hawke, then lived a Wormesley Park. 5. The hunter's name was A. Jarvise, and the whipper-in was called "Jack." 6. Thomas and Benjamin Sayle were brothers, and resided at Wentbridge. 7. Wilson then lived at Wakefield, and was generally styled " Kit Wilson of famous memory," as it is stated in the notes of the song published at the time. From Grove Wood and sheer to Went Hill, Where a huntress came up to the cry : Her voice was so sweet and so shrill, It must be Diana (8) or Di. From hence hied to Darrington Moor, Over Went and by Bads worth he goes ; Oh ! Eeynard, thy fate I deplore, For there lives the worst of thy foes. Then up to the Holliiis he ran, Where a ploughman he met in the face ; This lucky hit let in each man, Or few had been seen in at the chase. The Master came up in his chair, Saw Danger hit off the default, And said, " Had Ealph Elmsall (9) been there, Hey Danger, he'd quite split his throat." "Now, Rockwood, " "Now, Delver, " some cried; " Now, Rival, " " Now, Sempstress, " again ; Then HaU (10) his dog Rebel espied, And swore he led over the plain. " Zounds ! " says Kitchingham, " Hall is foreswore, But he'll swear any man of his nag ; See Tapster and six couples more ; He cannot blow wind in their bag. " Squire Thomas came up to the head, And swore they were every one blind ; " For see ! my dog Juggler does lead, And Tippler is not far behind. " 8. Diana Sayle, sister of Thomas and Benjamin Sayle. 9. Ralph Elmsall lived at Thornhill, near Wakefield. 10. Mr. Anthony Hall, of Wombwell. He then made for llampole high wood, But found it too hot for his stay ; Smith (11) saw him as watching he stood, And bid him make best of his way. To Brodsworth he cunningly stole, And then sheer'd away to the Marr, At the warren at JNIelton to hole ; But Dawsou (12) had put up a bar. Over Don (13) then he hastens away ; On Conisbrough Cliff he relies. O ! Kenny, in vain is thy play ; For mountains put up, and thou dies. The boatman was luckily by ; The horsemen, with heart and good-will, Got over, and presently spy The hounds dancing over the hill. Here Molly the lead she does take ; ! Roper, she does so behave Tippler's blood thy dead corpse should awake, And make thee jump out of thy grave ! For Edlington Wood then be flew : Ere Edlington Wood he could reach, They ran out of scent into view, And Diamond laid hold of his breech. " "Whoo, hoop ! " then Dick Sunderland cries ; Tom Atkinson (14) stood in amaze ; The company own'd, with surprise, Such a chase they ne'er saw in their days. 11. Smith lived at Brodsworth, and was the warrener. 12. Dawson was the earth-stopper. 13. " Over Don." This took place over the ferry at Sprotbro'. 14. Roper, Atkinson, and Sunderland, were noted hunters in the county of Sussex. Now, pray, my good people attend : The chase it was thoroughly run ; "-Tom Bright was at Ilampole Wood end When the hounds they were crossing the Don." " And why need you marvel at that, " Says the Captain of Shelbroke Hall ; (*) " Perhaps he is watching a cat A coney or nothing at all " Hence, Warms worth, shall thy haughty spire Our fame to posterity bear, While Childers and Newby admire, And Draper (f) with envy shall hear. Now to Badsworth's roast beef let us hie, Where we'll finish the day with delight ; We'll drink to fox-hunters and Di, And fuddle our noses all night. SONG. When Bibo went down to the regions below, Where Lethe and Styx round Eternity flow, He roared and he bellowed he would be rowed back, For his soul it was thirsty and wanted some sack. " You were drunk when you died," old Charon replied, " And you know not the pains that to death are allied." " Take me back," replied Bibo ; " if I know not the pain, Take me back, for it's fit I should die once again." * The name of the "Captain of Shelbroke" was Brown. + Childers, Newhy, and Draper, were all noted hunters. " Forget," replied Charon, " those regions of strife ; Drink of Lethe divine, 'tis the fountain of life ; Where the past is forgot, and all gone like a dream, E'en the gods themselves drink of the care-drowning stream." " Let the gods," he cried, " still drink water that will The maxim of mortals I'll always fulfil ; Prate, prate not to me of your Lethe divine, The Lethe on earth is a bumper of wine." At length grim old Cerberus gave a loud roar, And the crazy old bark struck the Stygian shore, When Bibo awoke, and he staggered to land, And jostled the ghosts as they stood on the strand. Says Charon, " I tell, 'tis in vain to rebel, You are banished from earth, and now are in hell. " That's true," replied Bibo, " I know by this sign It's a hell upon earth to be wanting in wine." AN ODE. ADDBESSED TO CAPTAIN BENNY BY TWO BBOTHEB SPORTSMEN. Adieu to Richael and its damp smoky lodge, Where you live on grouse soup, roast grouse, and hodge podge; Where it rains all day long in a merciless way, And you've nothing to do but smoke, drink, and play ; Where the beds are so hard that all your limbs ache, And the rooms are so damp that you shiver and shake ; Where the air you inhale is fraught with peat-smoke, So that trying to speak you are certain to choke ; Where the Landlady sells at a premium her whiskey, Which makes Kenny's grey pony quite fiery and frisky ; Where your lungs are affected with rating the dogs, And your calves are diminished by trotting the bogs ; Where the prospect's so glum that you grow melancholy, And repent at your ease of your rashness and folly ; Where each sallies forth in great coats and umbrellas, Looking more like drowned rats than " illegant fellers ;" Where Musters goes forth in his bright Tartan Plaid, And the Lassies cry out, what a bonny fine lad ; Captain Kenny comes next, with his jacket so ample, That Hawker himself cites his for a sample. Well equipped and quite spruce comes Lindley Hall's squire, Whose soul and cigar are alike both on fire ; At whose heels follow quickly Don Carlo and Swap, But the best of the set can scarce muster a hop. See Coesvelt comes next with Fan, Bottle, and Nell, Crying down go to heel your tricks I know well ; But the dog he most vaunted and counted upon Was the sheep-chasing, grouse-eating cur yclep'd Don. Lastly comes Harcourt, for fishing turned out, Telling very long stories of very large trout ; But when he comes home, and is put to the pinch, He produces but one which just measures an inch. Composed by H. Or. Coesvelt and J. G. Musters, Richael Lodge, near Dalnacardoch, Blair Athol, 30th August, 1829. SONG. Oh Judy, thou pride of the kitchen, And cause of this amorous smart ; Thy person's so tight and bewitching, I find I'm not right at the heart. Love rankles quite through to my marrow ; The torment I cannot endure ; Oh Judy, I'm struck with an arrow, An arrow as keen as a skewer. I melt like a ladle of dripping Whenever I gaze on thine eye ; Love's poison I eagerly sip in, And with passion I inwardly fry. Whsn for comfort I fly to strong liquor, Pair Judy is ever my toast ; The wine makes my blood boil the quicker, And Judy again rules the roast. Say the wits, all your grief is but folly, In Bath we have beauties enow ; But my heart, like a cullender holey, Lets all but my Judy slip through. Like the sound of a kettle, advice is No more than if spoken to air ; For Judy's sweet person so nice is, I'm wholly devoted to her. Might I of the gods claim a blessing, Fair Judy should fall to my lot ; Unless I'm indulged in possessing, I surely shall soon go to pot. Now my face is as long as a carrot, Which once \vas a turnip as round ; Erst I chattered as fast as a parrot, But now I'm quite mute and profound. Bound and quick as a jack my brain turneth ; Like a pulley I shriek out my moan ; Like a stove my fond heart always burneth I soon shall be dead as a stone. Then ye swains who lament me with weeping, Take heed how fair Judy you view ; She'll make you pay sauce for your peeping I die, my companions, adieu ! THE LITTLE BED DOG. The crow had just shaken the dew from his throat, The lark had just awakened the morn with his note, When the squire, spur'd and booted, stood by my bedside, And loudly he swore I a hunting should ride. Fal-de-ral-lal. I awoke, rubb'd my eyes, and reluctantly rose, And out of my bed-clothes popped into my clothes ; In less than ten minutes I followed him down, Tho' for one little nap I'd have given half-a-crown. Fal-de-ral-lal. 10 But, when I came down, what a beautiful sight ! Nap, night-cap, and all, I forgot with delight ; There was roast beef and boiled, which made me to sing Oh this hunting, kind sir, is a monstrous fine thing. Fal-de-ral-lal. Then I mounted my pony, which stood at the door, And I followed the squire as he gallop'd before ; ] Ie never pulled up till he came to a wood O this hunting, said I, sir, is not quite so good. Fal-de-ral-lal. Then the dogs they came up, there was howling and barking ; Some cracking their whips, and some crying, hark in ! They frightened the life out of blackbird and thrush ; Till a little red dog, sir, jump'd out of a bush. Fal-de-ral-lal. " Tally ho," cries the squire, with the deuce of a shout : " Tally ho," cries myself, and I looked all about ; But who's " tally ho " 'tis myself little knows He's calling his huntsman or groom, I suppose. Fal-de-ral-lal. Toiks ! yoiks ! cried the squire, with a devil of a roar Did you e'er in your life hear such music before ? But the dogs kept such howling, each straining his throat, That of all his fine music I heard not a note. Fal-de-ral-lal. 11 Now this little red dog, sir they called him a, fox Scamper' d off like a devil 'midst mountains and rocks, And the dogs follow'd after, but 'twasn't well done : Sure it wasn't fair play to set/or^ on one. Fal-de-ral-lal. Now my pony lov'd hunting as well as the squire ; He caper'd and pranced like a pea in the fire ; I pulled him and haul'd him to make him be quiet, But for all I could do he would join in the riot. Fal-de-ral-lal. So he followed the squire over bog, ditch, and moor, Till he leap'd a great ditch, and threw me on before ; And when he had landed me safe on the shelf, He set off like a devil to go hunting himself. Fal-de-ral-lal. I laid there quite still until all the folks pass'd "Tis the first time I've hunted, says I, and the last ; So home straight I budged it, and saddled my muse, And I'm come, do you see, just to tell you the news. Fal-de-ral-lal. SONG. At Quorndon old kennels in fair Leicestershire, A pack of fox hounds for hunting kept there ; And when hunting bold reynard they make the woods ring They are fit for to hunt before Lord, Duke, or King. Tally ho ! tally ho ! tally ho ! Hark ! forward, hark ! forward, away Tally ho ! 12 No wonder we wander right out of our bounds When we follow the track of these favourite hounds ; And their noble owner, so generous is he Success to Squire Musters, likewise his Lady. Tally ho ! etc. Not long since the meet was at Wymeswold they say, And to Willoughby Gorse then they all hied away ; When reynard was quickly aroused from his lair, Whilst a rattling " view hollow " was rending the air. Tally ho ! etc. The huntsmen and hounds were soon on his track, The squire blew his horn, and the gents their whips crack ; Some fell in the ditch, and in the mud stuck, But luckily none of them fell in the brook. Tally ho ! etc. This run was a clipper, as I have been told, By Widmerpool woods and by Normanton wold ; Although run so strait, bold ren would not yield, And he gave them the slip, down in Edwalton field. Tally ho ! etc. This run was a good one, and caused great delight, And who could regret being out in the night? To my thinking, the Sportsman was never yet born Who tried, then regretted, "A day with the Quorn." Tally ho ! etc. Then success to Gillard, that huntsman so true, And likewise the whips, be there many or few; In fox-hunting circles may this the toast be, Long life to Squire Musters, likewise his Lady. Tally ho ! etc. 13 MAKCH, 1851, Oil THE MIGRATION OF THE SPUING CAPTAINS INTO LEICESTERSHIRE. In merry March, when east winds blow, And suns are hot and glaring, And everybody's nose is cold, And visage flushed and staring ; Spring captains, who in provinces Have hunted at their ease, To Melton, or to Leicester town, Drop down by twos and threes, On horses long, lean, lank, and screwed, With martingale and snaffle on, Which not a man on earth would buy, And very few would raffle on. They come from Cheltenham's healthful spring, From Leamington's hotels, From garrison and watering place, From York and Tunbridge Wells : From where old Thames flows proudly by Victoria's stately bowers, Or Severn rolls her mournful wave By Berkeley's feudal towers ; From where Brighthelmstone, near the sea, Extends her long parade; From London's Crystal Palace, And the Burlington Arcade. They come from Wiltshire's breezy downs, From Dorset's grassy vales ; From wolds, whence Beaufort's Duke looks forth O'er his own hills of Wales ; From combs and valleys clustering fair Hound Devon's steep hill side ; From where the Trent, through many a shire, Conducts his silver tide ; From heaths and pastures scattered wide, Over our pleasant land ; From forests, not as yet profaned By Seymour's ruthless hand. E'en Scotland sends her gallant sons, And at a pinch none harder ; And Erin's exports, full of fun, And military ardour, With horses they would race all ours, And beat them in a jiffy, too, But something always interferes, Because there is an " if " or two : If the fences were but all stone walls, And were not wide but high ones, For at ditches they are but novices, And at a brook but shy ones. Then how these gallant heroes ride, The clamour and confusion, The fuss they make, the rush they make, Oh dear ! how they amuse one ; How they press on each other's backs, .And crowd the gaps and gateways, 15 And ride in circles round the fields, And anyways but straightways ; And how they let their horses loose, And call to folks to catch them Their own legs being stiff, because, Horse soldiers never stretch them. And then the falls they get and give, The way they balk and press one, And cross one at one's fences, And in other ways distress one ; How glad they'll be, and so shall we, Their hunting tour being over, When April ends their miseries, And lays them up in clover ; Then how they'll bet in Croxton Park, And if their luck won't pull them through, They'll sell " Quid Pat" and " Limerick Lass, " And so contrive to pay their due. Then o'er the strong mess claret, Or the frothy inn Champagne, When they get to country quarters, They'll sit and talk amain ; How, charging at Lord Wilton's side, They gained of pace a notion, And where Lord Granby led the way, They seconded his motion ; How, e'en Lord Forester admired, And Gilmour did not scout them, And how their judgment helped the hounds, Which could not hunt without them. 1C But they will not mention where the brook Runs 'neath the covert's side, How one of theirs had in the mud Their scarlet jacket dy d ; They will not say how Whichcote's gray, When once he had made sale on him, On hill and valley made such way, They could not see the tail of him ; How one was by the stile deposed, And how the rail had floored one, Both taken coolly in their stride By Geary, Grant, and Gordon. They will not say how, when distress And trouble overtook them, And nobody was by to note, And in his memory book them ; As like will gather still to like Shrewd and sagacious planners, Mustachio led, they followed suit. And rode at Lord George Manners, Trusting his knowledge of the ground, His own paternal acres, To bring them safely in at last, of jumps Xo longer takers. And now farewell to all brave youths, Until another season ; To spin a longer rhyme than this, Would be quite out of reason ; Mind when you come next year again, Tou come prepared for going, 17 Mind, when you come next year again, You corne prepared for going- Come one, come all ! Goodall will give Tour best of steeds a blowing. The Belvoir hounds will faster run, The fences will grow larger, And the sport will satisfy your first, As well as second charter. WHAT WE SHOULD HATE DONE IP WE'D FOUND IN COTMANHAY WOOD. FEBRUARY lOin, 1863. Those Derbyshire men those Derbyshire men That rode at the fox in the morning, Are gone to their homes, and without broken legs, Though one of them did get a warming. "D'ye think we shall find Master Wikon?" said Jack- (The black coat was all brown from a fall) " I fear not, I fear not, I fear not at all ;" And he thought of his own aching back. We'll try it we'll try it ; for "Tuesday" has said That foxes are plentiful here (Perhaps " Tuesday" knows where) And perhaps he knows why it was idle to try At Shipley, and Spondon so near. Toi ! over in try for him ! Yoi, rattle him up ! Toi, rattle up Tuesday's fox ; Yoi in try for him, red Bellman ! " Gone away ! " from old Ben Boothroyd ; " Gone away ! away ! away ! " 18 ' Who's that going at the gate there ? Who's the man upon the grey ? " Five and forty of us started ; Five and thirty stopt before Twenty minutes had departed, And were never heard of more. " Hold hard ! " (a check) " Hi you, sir, hold hard ! Who are you ? what's your name ? " " 1 havn't got a name I havn't got a name ! But they sometimes call me the ' Devil of Derby.' " Hark holloa ! hark holloa ! the boy on the hill ! Hark holloa ! and forwards away ! We're in for a run we are in for a kill Who the devil's the man on the grey ? Frank Smith's had a fall, and a bad one. Where's Tuesday ? he's in a big drain Till we come again perhaps he'll remain. That man on the grey is a mad one. Jack's horse is going at a fence dead beat He must be down he is ! Oh, Charley Symmonds, could you see him now, You would not say he is very very meet To carry sixteen stone. " You want a third horse, Jack take mine ; Take Mercury, he's not half done ; I'll soon get yours out of the ditch, And ride him the rest of the run." Now the grass revives the scent ; Now the hounds begin to run ; What shall stop us or prevent Us, but the setting of the sun ? 19 It's an Annesley fox before us, And his point is Annesley Springs ; Well he knows the earths are open, And the knowledge lends him wings. What's the line of dirty pollards ? That's the Ere wash, broad and deep ; If you cannot swim like mallards You had better try and leap. The man on the grey is well over, The man with the patch has got in : Pour of the nine have got over Three out of the lot are well in. Oh for another twenty minutes of light ! Oh for a little longer day ! Or we shall certainly run into night, And have to ride the rest as best we may. Ben has given over trying Now to reach the open earths, For the chesnut's nearly dying, And he's broken both his girths. See, the leading hounds are running Just as if they had a view. What's that dark thing by the hedgerow ? Its the fox ! yoi ! tallyho ! Forwards! forwards! tallyho! Frolic has him ! Who-hoop, Frolic ! Who-hoop ! who-hoop ! who-hoop ! B. LEIGHTON, 1863. SONG. Johnny's freaks invite my song Johnny's always in the wrong ; Ever plotting, ever peddling, Up to every sort of meddling. Does a duke take to his hounds, And subscribers save some pounds ; Would a lord his horses sell, Johnny can the prices tell : Would a viscount try his horse, Johnny's ready on the course : Does a rich man want advice, Johnny's with him in a trice : If a man fall in a brook, Down he is in Johnny's book ; Does a breeder wish to know How to cross, that Johnny 11 show ; Are your foxhounds light of tongue, Johnny '11 tell you where you're wrong ; You'd the Derby winner know, You must straight to Johnny go ; Would you some old China buy, Submit it once to Johnny's eye ; If you would consult the same, J W is his name ; And at Barrowby you'll find This young man with well-stored mind. GASKELL. 21 BANKS AVRIGHT'S LEAD FEOM THE CUEATE GOESE, JANUARY 22ND, 1869. How little could we think that we Should hear a man of sixty-three Had done a trick we must admire, To beat the field in Leicestershire. Yet once again our well-known friend Has proved " to blood there is no end." 'Tis ages since Sir Eichard's day, When brother Banks oft led the way. Now pass we on from bygone days, And give the guerdon of our praise To one who, from the Curate Gorse, Tailed off a lot of Melton Horse. Away they streamed ! high looked each leap The rains had made the country deep ; But Banks ne'er heeds the ground a bit, And takes the lead on Goodson's tit. Him follows Musters, who can show How weight can o'er a country go ; But ah ! the sad decree of Fate ! He falls, and lands upon his pate. Not minding Musters or his pip, Comes cramming on the second whip ; Whilst Clowes is making up leeway, And means to hold his place to-day. 2-2 We surely saw at covert side Full many a swell intend to ride : The scent is high the pace is rare See, Banks is first! the rest "nowhere." For fifteen minutes had the pace Been equal to a two-mile race, When, close at hand, appears in view A Bullfinch you can scarce see through. Now, Banks ! now, Clowes ! who has it first ? No time to pause in such a burst ; To take a pull, Banks makes his mind, And, squeezing through, leaves Clowes behind. Along the grassy Broughton grounds He sails away 'long-side the hounds ; O'er Hickling Standard on they fly, And Eowhoe Wood afar espy. No longer now the hounds can own The scent, the fox is sorely blown ; He twists and turns, lets up the field, And Banks his pride of place must yield. " Aha, " cries he, " hear what I say I never, really, till to-day, Cut down a field, as you must own, Who saw me leading all alone. " I've often in Northamptonshire Cut down a field, o'er fences higher ; And well you know, how once from Crick, I Lady Stamford beat on Dick. 23 " Yet here I am at sixty-three, As good a man as you can see ; My azure breeches still can show The way you bouquet-swells should go. " Ah ! now the hounds are at a check I'll pat thee, Good son, on the neck ; For though a farmer's tit, you'll own, With hands like mine you are not blown . " Were but Lord Henry here to view The ease with which I brought you thro', No longer should I hear his tale I'll send you, Banks, a martingale " So here at present ends my tale ; The fox he died in yonder vale, Where Rowhoe Wood a shelter gave, Tho' useless now, to Eeynard save. JOHN PEEL. Did you ken John Peel, with his coat so grey ? He lived in Coalbank once on a day ; But now he has gone far, far away, We shall ne'er see his like in the morning. CHOBUS. For the sound of his horn brought me from my bed. And the voice of his hounds that he ofttimes led : John Peel's view hollow might awaken the dead, Or the fox from his lair in the morning. Yes, I ken'd John. Peel, with his coat so grey, He lived in Coalbank once on a day ; But now he has gone far, far away, We shall ne'er see his like in the morning. Chorus. Did you ken that hound whose voice was death ? Did you ken her sons of equal birth ? Oft, oft has the fox with his latest breath Cursed those hounds as he died in the morning. Chorus. Yes, T ken'd that hound, and Euby too, Battler, and Reefer, and Belmont too ; From a drag to a chase, from a chase to a view, From a view to a kill in the morning. Chorus. Then here's to John Peel, with my heart and my soul : Come, fill up, oh, fill up, another bowl ; I'd follow John Peel through fair and through foul, If I wanted a hunt in the morning. Chorus. HOE HILL. TUITE : " THE LAIED OF COCKPEN." In a nice little village, not far from the Trent, There lives an old cove whose mind on sport's bent But _" his " sporting consists in spoiling the fun Of his friends who indulge in the sports of a run. One morn, this old farmer he marshalled his men By a fox-cover side the clock had struck ten ; And oh ! it was near to a beautiful " hill " Where the monster, revenge, his vitals did fill. There was Harry and Dick, and Joe and big Bob, And Johnny commanding on his little cob ; Says lie, you mun keep old sly Reynard in, And at night I will ply you with brandy and gin. But soon consternation their bosoms did fill, For though " marshalled " in order they were not in drill ; As horseman and hound, with quick merry bound, Came gallantly up at the horn-thrilling sound. Hark ! 'tention lads, that's old Kally wood's note Oh ! I wish in my heart he'd a bone in his throat ; For I ne'er heard the sound of his musical tongue, But was sure of a find and that's one, or I'm. wrong. These words scarcely uttered, bold Ren poked his nose Through an opposite smeuse to take stock of his foes ; Says he, " by this way I am certain to pass, For I see nothing there but a monstrous big ass." By Jove he was right; not one there were five As overgrown donkeys as e'er they could thrive So out Eeynard came to show them some fun, And he shook his old brush, and away he did run. Hark, hark ! the view-halloo, tallyho ! tallyho ! O'er wheat and o'er seeds they ride " straight as a crow,' 1 While poor Johnny swore all their sport he would sap, By killing the foxes with poison or trap. 20 Now John with his men, all as sulky as bears, To his snug little cottage at Motgrave repairs ; But he thought it would be a shame and a sin To treat his brave heroes (?) with brandy and gin. So he called for his pipe his spirits to cheer, And made himself bosky by drinking strong beer : But when pillowed his head, no sleep could be found, For his mind was still haunted by horses and hound. MOHAL. Now take warning, ye farmers who broad acres own ; By the side of a cover don't grumble and groan, If o'er seeds or wheat the hounds perchance pass, For instead of a " brick " you'll be wrote down an " ass. v "KOUSE, BOYS, HOUSE." To THE TTJNE OF " HUNTING THE HARE.'' Eouse, boys, rouse, 'tis a fine hunting morning : Rouse, boys, rouse, and prepare for the chase ; Let not the time fly that's spent in adorning, But on to cover hie at a good pace. There when you find, sir, The country's divine, sir, The fences are whackers, the brooks are not small But were they larger, sir, Boldly we'd charge 'em, sir, Nor care a farthing, sir, how oft we fall. 27 Now from the cover the fox he is driven, sir : Hark how the valleys re-echo the call ; Tis Osbaldeston's voice reaching the heavens, boys, Hallooing "forward" loud as he can bawl. Then there's such spluttering, Spurting and sputtering, Each one so anxious to be in the van ; At the first rattling leap, Ox-fence or field-deep, Onward the good ones creep catch them who can. White on the right, sir, is in the first flight, sir, And quite out of sight, sir, of those in the rear ; And with hirn goes Neville, and Berkeley, that devil Who of good or evil knows no hope or fear. Molyneux strives at What horse scarce dare rise at, Bold Plymouth bullfinches close at his side ; Musgrave on Antelope, Baird upon Jenny Hope, Over the grassy slope forward they ride. Prince of the heavy-weights, Tweedale, is bruising; Maxse, on Cognac, cannot be beat ; Poor Johnny Campbell's horse, long since refusing, And struggling convulsively, dies at his feet. Coke on the pony, sir, Scarce has a crony, sir, Standish has distanced the crowd by afar ; While at a place, sir, That few men dare face, sir, Without checking pace, sir, drives Valentine Maher. 28 Our pace is the best, sir; the fox is hard press'd, sir : The hounds run with zest, sir, heads up and sterns down ; He can't reach yon cover ; no, no, 'tis all over Hark how the death-pealing tallies resound. Dined o'er our claret We'll talk of the merit Of ev'ry choice spirit that rode to this run ; And while we drink round, sir, Let's drink to those hounds, sir, Who over such ground, sir, could show us such fun. LOED LONSDALE'S HAEEIEES. It was an Earl of ancient name Who hunted the fox, but preferred him tame ; Though his sire had been a hunter free As bold as e'er rode o'er a grass countrie. This sire once mounted his high-bred horse, And viewed the wild fox from hill-side gorse ; His son had come down by the second class train, Worried a bagman and home again. Tis half-past twelve by the railway clocks, And the Earl he has called for his horse and his fox And behind the Earl there rides the Earl's groom, And there comes a man with a big birch broom Clad in the Earl's discarded breeches To tickle the fox when he comes to the ditches. The Earl's admirers are ranged in Brown's yard ; They all wear top boots, and intend to ride hard ; Whether the wily fox or timid hare Be the game to-day, they none of them care. 'Twas well for the Earl he had called for his fox, And brought him from Tring in a little deal box : For three hours and more they drew for a hare They drew in vain, all was blank despair. Then said the Earl to the elder Brown, Open your box and turn him down. So they turned him down in Aylesbury vale, In sight of a fence called a post and rail, To suit the views of a certain gent, Who rather liked rails and thought he went. Over the fence the first to fly Was the gent, of course, but the fox was shy, And would have declined, but the Earl and his groom, And the field, and the gent, and the man with the broom, T\v*o boys in a cart, and the Browns, Sam and John. Would not hear of his shirking, and drove him on. A pleasant line the captive took, Would not have doubles, avoided the brook ; As you may imagine he went by rule, Only taking the leaps he learnt at school. Two hounds, of Baron Eothschild's breed, Unmatch'd for courage, strength, and speed, Close on his flying traces came, And almost won that desperate game, When, just as the Earl prepared to sound The death who-whoop, he ran to ground. So they dug him out and the Earl and his groom, And the Browns, and the gent, and the man with the broom, And the fox and the hounds are at Tring again, And the Earl has gone home by the four o'clock train. THE SOUTH NOTTS. HUNT, 1833. On the ancient Foss road I arrived rather late Bold Eeynard I spied creeping under a gate ; He had stolen away from the Cropwell Hoe Hill, "Whilst the hounds in the cover were challenging still. A pause for one moment. Away with suspense ! Hark! the horn blows aloud they are over the fence. See Villager leads them ! Inspire, then, my verse, Sweet muse, while the sports of the day I rehearse. See the pack are all streaming breast-high down the hill, And the scent is so good they are certain to kill : Say who, gentle muse, in this fine rattling burst, Say who, gentle muse, shall we mention the first. JS"ow, fortune preserve him from doubt or disaster Lo, cheering his hounds, behold Dansey the Master ; And oh, if his hounds go along at this pace, I wish in my heart he may still keep his place. Breaks away like a rocket, a little too fast, Billy Musters as usual we'll hope it won't last ; 'Tis pity some sportsmen can't keep within bounds, Or remember they come out to follow the hounds. j All anecdote, rattle, good humour, and fun, In a very good place now the work is begun ; Lord Rancliffe, on Gildrigg, is going at score, And bestriding old Sovereign, that jewel, Tom Moore. 31 See Uolleston, you'd think that he sat iu ;i chair ; Old Musters, a man in ten thousand, is there. The great Duke of Limbs, (1) man of muscle and bone, On Shamrock is taking a line of his own. The Colonel (2) is there too, a slasher at starting, And next after him comes that welter, George Martin ; And he, too, the hero whom brook, fence, or gate, Could never yet hinder the wild Captain -Kaite. Never flinching a jump, never heeding a fall, His elbows as high as his ears, sir, that's all ; So determined his look, I could swear, at a mile, Bruce Campbell is putting his horse at a stile. Then Story and Sherwin, Fox, Salmond, and Wright, We've just time to note down their names in our flight : There's Jessop, who sits as if he were waxed, And Close showing rather more light than is taxed. Next, on lean dipt muscular horses so fleet, The barracks, this morning, have sent their elite ; And pretty good men, in a dashing quick run, Are Copeland, and Elliot, and Dyer, and Dunn. (3) Now soar, gentle muse, for we next must aspire, Tho' Diana be jealous, to sketch Mrs. Dyer : Not first in the throng the fair huntress you'll find, For the throng, you may swear, she's left safely behind. John Becher is there too, so free of his neck, And with him his neighbour, the valiant Trebeck ; From Southwell these worthies have travelled post, Just to witness the runs the South Notts, can boast. (1) Joseph Whitaker, Esq (2) Colonel Hancox. (3) Officers of Queen's Bays. Of farmers a few, and no better I'll swear, In this or the next hunting country there are : The Butlers, the Barnetts, so firm and so quiet, With Pilgrim and Talbot and eke Harry Pyatt. Then he who perchance might handle a pill well, Tho' no hand at the ribbons, the Doctor (4) from Chilwell; Quite flash in new pink, and he'll keep pretty right, As long as he keeps Tommy Butler in sight. 'Twere hard to remember the whole of the names, But who would Tom Campbell forget or young James ? Or he who may set, but ne'er break any limbs, The Doctor, par excellence, " Watts " of the hymns ? We've done with the flyers, and yet it were hard If we could not one stanza bestow on the bard : Of rhymes he would venture to sport all his stock, oh ! If Pegasus carried as safely as Jocko. (5) The Foss Reynard crossed, and for Stragglethorpe shows, But wheels, and for Saxondale points his sharp nose ; There pressed, he runs stoutly and right down the wind, And near Werton the hounds are but one field behind. There headed before he can enter the wood ; For Bingharn he points, but the hounds make it good : And in fifty-five minutes, with never a check, In the lane by Aslockton they've hold of his neck. Then resume we, fair muse, now the thread of the tale There are three miles of sportsmen at least on the trail : And some so well known in the annals of fame, If they can't live the pace they are sure to die game. (4) Dr. Owen Davies. (5) The horse of Mr. Butler, the author of the poem. See, bestriding the Pearl, with a vast deal of grace, Canters Donington's Marquis, not last in the race : With a straggling Meltonian, so foreign his air, J Tis Matuschevitz surely, the Charge d' Affaires. He surely must beat all the field into fits It' long prices could do it, Count Matuschevitz ; But five hundred by fifty still beaten is found, If fifty goes straight and five hundred goes round. Then a squadron of steady ones, all holding tight, Lowe, Barker, and Taylor, and Ichabod Wright, Good men in their day, and the gentle muse adds, " She wishes their sons were as good as their dads." Squire Edge (and your twenty stone fellows may scoff) Protests that " the old ones have all left it off," And moreover adds, in his good-humoured fun, The young ones, he thinks, " can have scarcely begun.'' Next in slate-coloured smalls, just to look at the sport, See Counsellor Balguy, who still seems in Court ; 'Tis true with the gown and the wig he dispenses, But still cross-examines with care all the fences. Looking hard for a gate, or a gap, or a twitchill, From far Bobbers' Mill see the great Mr. Mitchell ; Like most heavy weights, light-hearted and merry, With something to say about Pastime and Jerry. A long way to leeward behold the last man Takes a very long day on a very soft plan ; Like a chess-player, meditates long ere he moves; Ere he goes at a gap, waits to draw on his gloves. 34 Last of all the last men, does he come out for sport ? As the man never rides, does he come to report ? Tet hold, or the muse will be growing severe Xoisy Martin, as usual, will bring up the rear. Then on parting, sweet muse, I must say, to my fancy, There are no hounds on earth like the hounds of old Dansey ; Let flattery abide in the castle or court, But these are the darlings for genuine sport. EET. W. J. BUTLER. CLASSIFICATION OF THE TALENT OF MELTON ix 182i>, BY THE EET. J. EMPSON. 1st Class. 2nd Class. 3rd Class. T. A. Smith V. Maher F. Burdett Lindow ) Maxse Chester 1 Eolleston J Osbaldeston F. Bentinck J Jersey Lord R. Manners McKenzie Chaworth ] Mills Aylesford 1 Cholmondeley [ Pierrepoint Megler I C. W. Forester J Lucas 1 Moore Sir Bell. Graham F. Forester j Petre Davy Dartmouth Napier White Bradshaw Walker Kamsden, 2 Lord Bernard Drummond Lowther, 3 Yane Powlett Arnold Standish ) Lord Tavistock The Duke J Joey Smith j Lord C. Manners Lord LonsdaleJ Plymouth Dollin Rancliffe Xtie Alvanley SIX HILLS, DECEMBER I?TH, 1869. 'Twas a day towards the end of December, And windy and wild was the morn ; Still none of us, I well remember, E'er dreamt of deserting the Quom. Each one bustled along on his hack To Six Hills, the advertised meet, Where once more this favourite pack, And once more the Quornites we meet. The order was given for going ; We trotted along down the Eoss ; Frank Gillard lost no time in throwing His hounds into Cossington Gorse. A very few minutes were over When we heard the deep notes of the pack ; The fox tried each side of the cover, And each time he was headed back. i* After this, as we might have expected, Our fox to break cover declined ; An hour or more we were collected, And pierced by a most bitter wind. The Field, their impatience betraying, Were to and fro riding about ; And many a sportsman was saying, " I wish I had never come out." They little knew what was to follow ; They little knew what was in store Hark! hark! that must be Machin's holloa. The fox has made one trial more. This time I'll lay odds he means going By Jingo, this time he's away ; The hounds, tho' a west wind is blowing, Seem as if they would show him some play. For Seagrave at first he was making, Then our fox seemed for Walton inclined ; But not liking the line he was taking Chang'd his purpose and turned down the wind. Now, those who rode in the first scum- Were beginning to shake off the cold, When sharp to the right in a hurry He led us o'er Thrussington Wold. Neither deigning to stay in this wood, Nor yet to seek refuge in holes, By Ragdale he gallantly stood, And soon safely reached Shoby Scholes. From hence the pace greatly improved, For here we got up to our fox, Who, once from this cover removed, Found that he was in the wrong box. Close to Lord Aylesford's cover we pass : Of Grimston we just get a sight ; Then stream away over the grass, And for Saxilby turn to the right. 37 The new cover at Welby appearing, We view the fox climbing the hill ; Hear Gillard his favourites cheering, And forward they go with a will. O'er the ground at a merry pace sailing. Hounds had not to stoop to the scent : I noticed a smart bit of tailing As point blank for Melton he went. The fences here several impeded, And others were getting abroad, When happen'd, and some say 'twas needed, A check in the Nottingham road. Here a forward cast quickly availing, Some the chase altogether forsook, Perhaps conscious their horses were failing. And forward we go for the brook. Here the good ones the water defying Swept onward ; some on the banks stood Whilst others were bent upon trying To see if the bottom was good. Now our fox we considered as lost ; The hounds his line scarcely could find ; The turnpike for Grantham we crossed, And now leave Thorpe Arnold behind. The fox jumped up soon after in view ; A few fields they merrily went ; But even this chance will not do The hounds have again lost the scent. 38 We hunted his line to the river, His head straight for Stapleford Park, Then whipped off near Burbidge's cover 'Twas four o'clock and getting dark. We twenty miles must have gone over, Consid'ring the line we did go ; For Thorpe Arnold to Cossington Cover- Is twelve miles as flieth the crow. The absence to-day of the master, (Who thus lost this prime bit of fun,) Was regretted by all for if faster He'd have kept a front place in the run. THE WOOBE COUNTRY. Now the sunshine of summer is over, Once more we behold the glad pack ; And Wicksted appears at the cover Once more on old Mercury's back ; And Wells in the saddle is seated, Tho' with scarce a whole bone in his skin ; His cheer by the echo repeated, " Loo in, little dearies, loo in." How eagerly forward they rush ; In a moment how widely they spread " Have at him there, Hotspur hush, hush ! 'Tis a find, or I'll forfeit my head." Fast flies the fox away : faster The hounds from the cover are freed ; The horn to the mouth of the master, The spur to the flank of his steed. May the names I record in this metre When my own is forgotten survive : From Tunstall comes one they call Peter, And three from the Styche they call dive : There's Hammond from Wistaston bringing All the news of the neighbouring shire : Eitzherbert, renown'd for his singing, And " Dorfold's " invincible Squire. Few sportsmen so gallant, if any, Did Woore ever lend to the chase ; Each dingle for him has a cranny, Each river a fordable place ; He knows the best time for each cover ; He knows where to stand for a start ; And long may he live to ride over The country he loves in his heart. There's Henry, the purple clad vicar, So earnestly plying the steel ; Conductor conducting him quicker Each prick from the spur at his heel. Were my life to depend on the wager, I know not which brother to back, The Vicar, the Squire, or the Major, The purple, the pink, or the black. On a steed thorough-bred there's a bruiser, Ne'er known o'er a country to flag ; The name of the man is John Crewe, sir, And Ajax the name of the nag. There's Aqualate's Baronet Boughey, Who's eye still on Wicksted is cast ; Should the fox run till midnight I know he Will stick by his friend to the last. 40 There's .Ford, the fox-tinder, how cheery To ride by his side in a run ; Whether midnight or morn never weary Of revel, and frolic, and fun. When they lay this good fellow the tomb in He shall not be mocked with a bust, But the favourite evergreen blooming Shall spring and o'ershadow his dust. With Chorister, Concord, and Chorus, Now Chantress commences her song ; Now Bellman goes jingling before us, And Sinbad is sailing along ; Old Wells closely after them cramming, His soul quite absorbed in the fun, Continues unconsciously damming Their dear little hearts as they run. When the scent on the fallow is failing, Should a check from o'er-riding ensue, Hear Charley the mischief bewailing With sorrow so touching and true : "Friends, gentlemen, and fox-hunters there no w, You all on my ruin are bent ; Hold hard, sirs, I ask, is it fair now All over the line of the scent ? " 'Tis but for a moment we tarry ; One cast and they hit it anew See, see, what a head they now carry, And see now they run him in view. More eager for blood at each stroke, See Vengeance and Vulpecide rush ; Poor Eeynard, he thinks it no joke, Hearing Joker so close at his brush. 41 See Soldier prepared for the brunt Hark ! Champion's challenge I hear ; While Victory leads them in front, And Havock pursues in the rear. Who-whoop ! there's an end to the scurry ; IN^ow Charley, \vith might and with main, First dances, then shouts, " worry, worry ! ' Then shouts and then dances again. A fig for your Leicestershire swells, While Wicksted such sport can ensure ; Long life to that varmint, old Wells ; Success to ths country of Woore. Let statesmen with politics parley ; Let heroes go fight for renown ; While I've health to go hunting with Charley, I envv no monarch his crown. KTEBT GATE. At Kirby Gate the gorse we drew ; That a travelling fox was there, we knew ; He was owned by a sportsman staunch and true As ever got up in the morning. The Squire was there on his trustiest steed, The boast of the country for bone and breed. Jack Stevens rode his wiry weed To cover betimes in the morning. 42 Her tongue we heard old Prioress throw, Who never yet spoke false, you know ; Frank Holyoake viewed the varmint go With a " forrard away " in the morning. Now o'er the pasture lands they sail But the fences run large in the Leicestershire Yale. And there's bellows to mend, and a lengthened tail, Though 'tis early yet in the morning. How far more silent the field has grown ; At the next ox-fence a dozen are clown ; But the Earl and the Squire still hold their own And give them a lead in the morning. The Whissendine brook ran deep and wide, But the foremost flight ne'er turned aside, And six took it fairly in their stride, With a " forrard away " in the morning. Two hundred started fair or more, But they all tailed off ere the run was o'er, And to see him die there were but four Of all who got up in the morning. But the Squire was there, the people said, And the tree tops shook on Wood'ell Head When his cheer, which told the fox was dead, Woke the echoes up in the morning. When the Quorn next meet at Kirby Gate, Unless you can go when the hounds run straight, You may take my word for the death you're late, Though you're there with the first in the morning. 43 QTLESITUM MERITIS. A club of good fellows we meet once a year, When the leaves of the forest are yellow and sere : By the motto that shines on each glass it is shown We pledge in our cups the deserving alone ; Our glass a qusesitum, ourselves Cheshire men, May we fill it and drink it again and again. We hold in abhorrence all vulpecide knaves, With their gins, and their traps, and their velveteen slaves ; They may feed their fat pheasants, their foxes destroy, And mar the prime sport they themselves can't enjoy ; But such sportsmen as these we good fellows condemn, And I vow we'll ne'er drink a quscsitum to them. That man of his wine is unworthy indeed Who grudges to mount a poor fellow in need ; Who keeps for nought else but to purge them with balls- Like dog in the manger his nags in their stalls. Such fellows as these we good sportsmen condemn, And I vow we'll ne'er drink a qusesiturn to them . Some riders there are who, too jealous of place, Will fling back a gate in their next neighbour's face ; Some never pull up when a friend gets a fall ; Some ride over friends, hounds, and horses, and all : Such riders as these we good fellows condemn, And I vow we'll ne'er drink a qusesituin to them. 44 Por coft'ee house gossip some hunters come out Of all matters prating save that they're about ; Jr'roni scandal and cards they to politics roam ; They ride forty miles, head the fox. and go home Such sportsmen as these we good fellows condemn, And I vow we'll ne'er drink a qusesiturn to them. Since one fox on foot more diversion will bring Than twice twenty thousand cock pheasants on wing ; That man we all honour, whatever his rank, Whose heart heaves a sigh when his gorse is drawn blank Quaesitum, qusesitum, fill up to the brim We'll drink, if we die for't, a bumper to him. Oh give me the man to whom nought comes amiss, One horse or another, that country or this ; Thro' falls and bad starts who undauntedly still Eides up to this motto, " Be with them 1 will." Qusesitum, quaesitum, fill up to the brim We'll drink, if we die for't, a bumper to him. Oh give me the man who can ride thro' a run, Nor engross to himself all the glory when done ; Who calls not each horse that o'ertakes him a screw ; Who loves a run best when his friend sees it too. Quaesitum, quaesitum, fill up to the brim We'll drink, if we die for't, a bumper to him. Oh give me the man who himself goes the pace, And whose table is free to all friends of the chase ; Should a spirit so choice in this wide world be seen, He rides, you may swear, in a collar of green. Qusesitum, quaesitum, fill up to the brim We'll drink, if we die for't, a bumper to him. 45 OLD OULTOX LOWE. Bad luck to the country, the clock had struck two We had found ne'er a fox in the gorses we drew ; When each heart felt a thrill in the sound tally ho ! Once more a view-hollo from Old Oultoii Lowe. Away like a whirlwind towards Calverley Hall ; For the first thirty minutes Pug laughed at us all : Our nags cured of kicking, ourselves of conceit, .Ere the laugh was with us we were most of us beat. The AVillington mare, when she started so fast, Ah ! we little thought then that the race was her last ; Accurst be the stake that was stained with her blood : But why cry for spilt milk ? may the next be as good. 'Twas a sight for us all, worth a million, 1 swear, To see the Black Squire how he rode the Black Mare ; The meed that he merits the muse shall bestow First, foremost, and fleetest, from Old Oulton Lowe. The odds are in fighting that Britain beats France ; In the chase, as in war, we must all take our chance ; Little Ireland kept up, like his namesake, the nation, By dint of coercion and great agitation. Now Victor and Bedford were seen in the van, Cheer'd on by the maiden who rides like a man ; He screech'd with delight as he wip'd his hot 'brow : Their bristles are up, sir ; they're hard at him now. 46 In the pride of his heart, then, the manager cried. Coine along, little Eowley boy, why don't you ride? How he chuckled to see the long tail in distress, As he gave her the go by on Bonny Brown Bess. The Baron from Hanover halloo'd who-whoop, AVhile he thought of the lion that ate him half up ; Well pleased to have baulk'd the wild beast of his dinner, He was up in his stirrups and rode like a winner. Oh where, 'mid the many found wanting in speed : Oh where, and oh where, was the Wistaston steed ? Dead beat, still his rider so licked him and pricked him, He thought well he might 'twas the devil that kick'd him. The Cestrian Chesnut show'd symptoms of blood, For it flow'd from his nose ere he came to the wood. Where now is Dollgosh ? where the racer from Dunham ? Such fast ones as these, what mishap has o'erta'en 'em ? THE BREECHES, 1841. When I mention " The Breeches, " I feel no remorse, For the ladies all know 'tis an evergreen gorse ; They are not of leather, they are not of plush, But expressly cut out for Joe Maiden to brush. Good luck to the 'prentice by whom they were made ; His shears were a ploughshare, his needle a spade ; May each landlord a pair of this pattern bespeak, The Breeches that lasted us three days a week. 47 The fox is away, and Squire Koyds made it known, Setting straightway to work at a pace of his own ; Past him sped Tollemache, as instant in flight As a star when it shoots through the azure of night. They who witness'd the pack as it skirted the Spa, By the head they then carried, a struggle foresaw ; At their heels a white horse, with his head in the air, But his bridle was loose and his saddle was bare. May Peel (near The Breeches at starting o'erthrown, Where he left the impression, in ruud, of his own), When next he thinks fit this white horse to bestraddle, See less of The Breeches, and more of the saddle. From Spurstow we pointed towards Banbury Church : Some rounding that cover were left in the lurch ; By Hurleston we hurried, nor e'er tighten'd rein Till checked for a moment in Baddiley lane. When we passed the old gorse and the meadows beneatli ; When, across the canal, we approach'd Aston Heath ; There were riders who took to the water like rats ; There were steeds without horsemen and men without hats. How many came down to the Eddleston brook ? How many came do\vn not to leap but to look? The steeds that stood still with a stick in their side Will remember the day when The Breeches were tried. The pack pressing onwards, still merrily went, Till at Dorfold they needed no longer a scent ; Man and maid rushing forth, stood aloft on the wall, And uprais'd a view-hollo that shook the old hall. Too weak for the open, too hot for the drain, He cross'd and recross'd Ran' moor covers in vain ; When he reach'd the Bull's wood he lay down in despair, And we hollow'cl whoo-whoop ! as they worried him there. Puss in Boots is a fable to children well known ; The dog in a doublet at Sandon is shown ; Henceforth, when a landlord good liquor can boast, Let the fox and The Breeches be hung on his post. -From Vulpecide villains our foxes secure ; May these evergreen Breeches till doomsday endure : Go ! all ye good squires, if my ditty should please. Go clothe your bare acres in Breeches like these. WABBUBTON. THE SPECTKE STAG: A LEGEND OF THE EHI> T E. A Baron lived in Germany, Of old and noble race, Whose mind was wholly bent upon The pleasures of the chase. Thro' Summer's sultry dog-days, Thro' Winter's frost severe ; This Baron's hunting season Was twelve months in the year. From dawn till dark he hunted, And the truth I grieve to speak : The number of his hunting days Was seven in the week. 41) Xo lands within his seignorie Was serf allowed to till ; Xo cornfield in the valley ; No vineyard on the hill. What marvel hungry poachers When the Baron was a-bed Were bent on stealing venison .For very lack of bread. But woe that wretch betided Who in the quest was found ; On the stag he would have slaughter'd Was his naked body bound. Born, like Mazeppa, headlong From the panting quarry's back He saw the thirsty blood-hounds Let loose upon his track. The pack, their prey o'ertaken, On the mangled victims feast, And, mixed in one red slaughter, Flows the blood of man and beast. The Baron thus his pastime Pursued until he died ; My tale shall tell how this befell On the eve of Eastertide : The moon rose o'er the forest, And the distant village chime Called sinners to confession, And bespoke a hallow'd time When suddenly a strange halloo Was heard around the ring ! The hunter seized his bow and placed An arrow on the string. The cry, the cheer, the tumult Of the chase and then, display'd By the pale light of the moonbeam, Far adown the forest glade, Was seen, with brow full antler'd, A monster stag his back Bestridden by a huntsman Apparell'd all in black. Their eyes unto their master The crouching pack upraised ; The master, on his trembling steed, At the sight was sore amazed. " Te curs," he cried, " why stir ye not ? A curse upon the breed ! And you, ye loitering varlets, Where are ye in such need ? '' To summon, then, his followers, He grasped his hunting horn ; Through the forest's deep recesses The echoing blast was borne, But borne in vain his retinue No note in answer gave ; And the silence that succeeded Was the silence of the grave. 51 His eye in terror glancing From glade to distant crag, Nought saw lie save the spectre Goading on that grisly stag. The nearer it approached him The larger still it grew ; Again he seized his hunting horn, And his gasping breath he drew : Eye, cheek, and throat distended, Each fibre strained to blow ; His life-breath past in that bugle blast, And he fell from the saddle bow. "Where the Baron's chase was ended There they laid his bones to rot ; And his heirs in after ages Built a chapel on the spot. And still that note is heard to float Through the woods at Eastertide ; From hill to hill re-echoing still The strain by which he died. R. E. EQEETON WARBUJRTOIS'. THE GALLOPING SQUIEE. Come, I'll show you a country that none can surpass For a flyer to cross like a bird on the wing : We have acres of woodland and oceans of grass ; "We have game in the autumn and cubs in the spring We have scores of good fellows hang out in the shire, But the best of them all is the galloping Squire. The galloping Squire to the saddle has got, While the dewdrop is melting in gems on the thorn ; From the kennel he's drafted the pink of his lot How they swarm to his cheer, how they fly to his horn. Like harriers turning or chasing like fire, " I can trust them, each hound," says the galloping Squire. One wave of his arm, to the cover they throng " Yoi, wind him and rouse him, by Jove he's away." Thro' a gap in the oaks see them speeding along O'er the open like pigeons, they mean it to-day ; You may jump till you're sick, you may spur till you tire, For it's catch 'em who can, says the galloping Squire. Then he takes the old horse by the head, and he sails In the wake of his darlings, all ear and all eye, As they come in his line o'er banks, fences, and rails, The cramped ones to creep and the fair ones to fly. It's a very queer place that will put in the mire Such a rare one to ride as the galloping Squire. But a fallow has brought to their noses the pack, And the pasture beyond is with cattle stains spread ; One wave of his arm, and the Squire in a crack Has lifted and thrown in the beauties at head. On a morning like this it's small help you require, But he's forward, I'll swear, says the galloping Squire. So forty fair minutes they run and they race 'Tis a heaven to some, 'tis a lifetime to all ; Though the horses they ride are such gluttons for pace, There are stout ones that stop, there are safe ones that fall; But the names of the vanquished need never transpire, For they're all in the rear of the galloping Squire. 'Till the gamest old varmint that ever drew breath, All stiffened and draggled, held high for a throw, O'er the Squire's jolly visage is grinning in Death Ere he dashes him down to be eaten below ; While the daws nutter out from a neighbouring spire At the thrilling who-whoop of the galloping Squire. And the labourer at work, and the lord in his hall, Have a jest or a smile when they hear of the sport ; In ale or in claret he's toasted by all, For they never expect to see more of the sort ; And long may it be ere he's forced to retire, For we breed very few like the galloping Squire. WIITTE MELVILLE. THE FOX AND THE BRAMBLES. Before the pack for many a mile A fox had sped in gallant style ; But gasping with fatigue at last, The clamorous hounds approached him fast ; Though painful now the toilsome race, With draggled brush and stealthy pace, Still onward for his life he flies. He nears the woods before him lies A tangled mass of thorn and bramble ; In vain beneath he tries to scramble, So springing, heedless of his skin, With desperate bound he leaps within. The prickly thicket o'er him closes ; To him it seemed a bed of roses, As there he lay and heard around The baying of the baffled hound. "Within that bush, his fears allay 'd, He many a sage reflection made : " 'Tis true, whene'er I stir," he cried, " The brambles wound my bleeding side ; But he who seeks may seek in vain For perfect bliss, then why complain? Since, mingled in one current, flow- Both good and evil, joy and woe, Oh, let me still with patience bear The evil for the good that's there. Howe'er upleasant this retreat, Tet every bitter has its sweet The brambles pierce my skin, no doubt ; The hounds had torn my entrails out." Good farmers, read, nor take amiss The moral which I draw from this ; Grieve not o'er gap or broken gate, The damage small, the profit great ; The love of sport to home brings down Your landlord from the smoky town, To dwell and spend his rent among The tenantry, from whom they sprung. Though vainly, when he leads the chase, His willing steed urged on apace ; "When scent is good and hounds are fleet, Though vainly then you shout, " ware wheat ! " That steed, perchance, by you was bred, And yours the corn on which he's fed ; Ah ! then restrain your rising ire, Nor rashly damn the hunting Squire. E. E. EOEETON WABBUBTON. A WORD ERE WE START. Boys, to the hunting field, though 'tis November, The wind's in the south, but a word ere we start : Though keenly excited, I bid you remember That hunting's a science and riding an art. The order of march, and the due regulation, That guide us in warfare, we need in the chase ; Huntsman and whip, each his own proper station ; Horse, hound, and fox, each his own proper place. The fox takes precedence of all from the cover ; The horse is an animal purposely bred, After the pack to be ridden, not over Good hounds are not reared to be knocked on the head. Strong be your tackle, and carefully fitted, Breast-plate and bridle, girth, stirrups, and chain ; You will need not two arms if the mouth be well bitted, One hand lightly used will suffice for the rein. Buckskin's the only wear fit for the saddle; Hat for Hyde Park, but a cap for the chase ; In tops of black leather let fishermen paddle The calves of a foxhunter white ones incase. If your horse be well bred, and in blooming condition, Both up to the country and up to your weight ; Oh, then give the reins to your youthful ambition, Sit down in your saddle and keep his head straight. Pastime for Princes, prime sport of our nation ; Strength in their sinew, and bloom on their cheek ; Health to the old, to the young recreation All for enjoyment the hunting-field seek. Eager and emulous only, not spiteful ; Grudging no friend, though ourselves he may beat : Just enough danger to make sport delightful ; Toil j ust sufficient to make slumber sweet. THE CHESHIEE HUNT. Come, awake from your slumbers, jump out of your bed, Drink your tea, mount your hack, and away to Well Head; For who'd be behindhand, or like to be late, When Sir Harry's fleet pack at the cover-side wait ? Those sons of old Bedford, so prized by George Heron, So quick at a cast, and so steady to turn ; If with these fast hounds you would play a good part, Both the rider and horse must be quick at a start. Hark! hark! they have found him! who would not rejoice At the soul-stirring sound of old Victor's loud voice ? He's away, I declare ; don't you hear there's a holloa? And now let us see how the gentlemen follow. But now let me ask, who is thrusting along So anxious the first to get out of the throng ? Who's cramming his mare up yon steep rotten bank, With the rein on her neck and both spurs in her flank ? 57 There's scarcely a young one, and ne'er an old stager, For the first twenty minutes can live with the Major ; (1) Though supposing this run for an hour should last, I hope he won't find that he started too fast. Who, glued to his saddle, with horse seems to fly ? 'Tis a Lancashire Lord, (2) who. is worth a Jew's eye ; In this run I will wager he'll keep a front seat, For, unless his horse stops, he can never be beat. With a seat that's so graceful, a hand that's so light, Now racing beside him comes Leicestershire White : Not yet gone to Melton, he this day for his pleasure Condescends to be rural and hunt with the Cheshire. Who's charging that rasper ? do tell me, I beg, With both hands to his bridle and swinging his leg; On that very long mare, whose sides are so flat, With the head of a buffalo, tail of a rat. Tis the gallant Sir Eichard, (3) a rum one to follow, Who dearly loves lifting the hounds to a holloa ; A straightforward man, who no jealousy knows, And forgets all his pains when a hunting he goes. Then next, snug and quiet, without noise or bother, On Sheffielder, comes the brave Colonel, his brother He keeps steadily onward, no obstacle fears, Like those true British heroes, the bold Grenadiers. But who to the field now is making his bow ? 'Tis the Squire of Dorfold, (4) on famed Harry Tow, That preserver of foxes, that friend of the sport, Though he proves no preserver of claret and port. (1) Major Tomkinson. (2 Earl Sefton. (3) Sir R. Brooke. (4) James Tomkinson. 58 And who's that, may I ask, who in purple is clad, Eiding wide of the pack, and light holding his prad ? 'Tis a bruising top-sawyer, and if there's a run, The Rector of Davenham (5) will see all the fun. Now hustling and bustling, now rolling about, And pushing his way through the midst of the route Little Ireland (0) comes on ; for a front place he strives ; Through rough and through smooth he his Tilbury drives. Pray get out of the way, at the fence why so tarry, Don't you see down upon us is coming Sir Harry? (7) And if you don't mind, you may p'r'aps rue the day, When, like Wellington, you were upset by a grey. This grey he can't hold, though his arm is not weak, And his bridle, you see, has a very long cheek ; But if the first flight he can't keep in his eye, To be thereabouts he will gallantly try. Now leaving the crowd, our attention we fix Upon two knowing sportsmen, both riding with sticks : The first so renowned on the turf, Squire France, Who on his young Milo will lead them a dance : The next is John Glegg, and I really don't brag When I say no one better can ride a good nag A. good nag when he has one, I mean by the by, Do you know who has got one ? he's wanting to buy. Now racing along with the foremost you see, Quite determined to go, Charley Ford on the Pea ; This moment extatic, this joy of the chase, His regrets for old Paddy can scarcely efface. (5) Rev. Tomkinson. (6) Ireland Blackburne, Esq. (7) Sir Harry Mainwaring. 59 For Walmsley, on Paddy, has just now past by, And on him poor Charles has cast a sheep's eye ; But ne'er mind, for no pleasure's without its alloy, And some day you'll again have a good one, my boy. Who's that ? I can't see by his figure I know tho' It can be no other than Kammond (8) on Otho ; If practice makes perfect, he's nothing to fear, For his nag has been practiced for many a year. Going straight to the hounds, never known to cast wider, Now comes little Eowley, (9) the steeple chase rider ; Harry Brooke, his antagonist, quiet and steady, And Stanley, (10) who always for business is ready. Then there's Squire Harper, who some may call slow, But I have seen him ride well when he chooses to go. Little Jimmy (11) comes next, and of danger shows sense, From the back of Surveyor, surveying the fence. But the pride of all Cheshire, the bold Delamere, Alas ! I can't show you, for he is not here, His collar bone's broken; don't be in a fright, His spirit's not broken, he'll soon be all right. (8) James Kammond, Esq., Wistaston. (8) Rowland Warburton, Esq., Arley. (10) The Hon. W. O. Stanley. (11) Rev. J. Tomkinson. 60 MELTON IX 1830: A DAT WITH LORD SOUTHAMPTON'S HOUXDS. Midst lowering skies, o'ercast and tinged with red, Sol, slowly rising, quits his ocean bed, Chases the vapours of the night away, Illumines Melton, and proclaims the day ; Par in the East his glorious orb appears, And smiles at once on Helpers and on Peers. O'er gorse and wood alike, o'er hill and plain, On brooks, still bumpers from the recent rain, His brightest rays he cast, as if he meant To gladden nature, but to spoil the scent. Though bright his rising, soon his face he shrouds Behind a mantle of o'erspreading clouds ; And ere John Clod has drove a-field his wain, His jacket's moistened with a drizzling rain. Now Melton sportsmen for the chase prepare ; Some curl their wigs some merely curl their hair, And curse that rashness which has brought them down So far from Crockford's and the joys of town. Tenacious of his toggery, Musgrave fears To spoil his garments, worn for many years ; And, though already mounted, back he goes, And changes old ones for still older clothes : (What's in a coat? When hounds run, he is wont To show its back much oftener than its front.) Now here a youth, who goes too fast to last, On milk and soda water breaks his fast ; Here older hands, with stronger stomachs blest, With tea and brandy lull their nerves to rest. 61 Now, trampling at the door, the hack appears ; Impatient of delay, he kicks and rears ; Away ! away ! once mounted, on they ride, And soon are panting at the covert side. Hark to that cheering note ! they've found him see The gorse is waving like a troubled sea ; He's gone away, hark, halloo ! to the cry ! Like swallows skimming o'er the fields, they fly. " Give them a moment's time hold hard, sir, pray ; You'll stop his pulling ere we've done to-day." Look at the gallant pack, away they sweep ! The pace is killing, and the country deep. Eolleston is far behind, and on our right The house at Nosely just appears in sight ; By Glooston-wood, o'er Cranoe-field they pass, Where many a horse declining missed the grass. On, on they go, and at a trimming pace ; See, Baird is racing for a foremost place ; Yet much I do mistrust me, if his steed Can hold that pace, and always go full speed. White spurts and cranes, now skirting looks for balks. And gallops faster than our Rokeby talks. See Chesterfield advance with steady hand, " Swish at a rasper," and in safety land ; Who sits his horse so well ? or at a race, Drives four-in-hand with greater skill or grace ? And when hounds really run, like him can show How fifteen stone should o'er the country go. If not in person monstrous, yet in weight, Campbell conies crashing through a new-made gate ; Now, " by his fathers' gods " you hear him swear, And much you wonder who those fathers were. Now Plymouth, at a brook, with Gilmore crams, While JJrumrnond jobs his horse, and, jobbing, damns ; With iron hand, and seat devoid of grace, Ton see at once the counter is his place ; Now on this side, and now on that he pitches, Strikes all his timber, fathoms all his ditches, Till, by a binder caught, a weight of lead, He comes at last to anchor on his head. Quite at bis ease, yet stealing o'er the grass, From out the struggling crowd see Wilton pass. Here Goodrioke, perfect in his hand and seat, Rides like a sportsman who can do the feat; And Stanley, who in courage may not yield To him of yore, who fought on Flodden Field, Forgets his weight, and labours all he can To show " Perfection " both in horse and man. Carried beyond excitement's wildest bounds, His horse forgetting, seeing but the hounds, Kinnaird, that dear enthusiast of the chase, Heeds not how deep the ground, nor slacks his pace : Will nothing turn or stop him ? nothing check That form of riding., but a broken neck ? Here Lowther follows slowly on the track, And pines in secret for his " tailing pack." (We speak of years gone by) for now we're told Their style of hunting is not always cold A nd that they draw till one : We therefore pray "That they, like other dogs, may have their day;" Since Lambert's judgment has reformed the pack, Improved their breeding, and dispensed with Slack, All head and legs no longer now they look, But stoop to pick a leaf from Goosey's book. The gallant Colonel, pottering at the gaps, First damns, then envies " those hard-riding chaps." 63 Gardner, who then for raspers ne'er would swerve, And thought all riding to consist in nerve And swimming rivers owned the pace was good, But still would have it faster if he could. See Haycock flies along ; and few there be, Where all ride hard, can harder ride than he. With spurs and hand-whip Matuzevic plies O'er ridge and furrow swiftly Zodiac flies ; But though his steed be made of gallant stuff, " Tamnation, Zodiac, you will get enough ! " Lyne Stephens onward holds a steady course, And Grantham gallops faster than his horse. Green, leaning slightly forward, passes by, But quickly turning shows how good his eye. Pinned in his shoulders, see old. Johnny Moore ; A gate half open, Eokeby slips before, Forgets his manners in his love of place, And slams the swinging gate in Johnny's face, Then, spurring onward with a graceful seat, Unlike Camilla, gallops through the wheat. Now some, alas ! before their horses fail ; Flight after flight succeeds of post and rail. Then Langton Hill appears the crowd decline, And keep their riding till they've had their wine. Now Brudenell leads, and well does Langar show The rattling pace that strength with blood can go. Wilton and Gardner next their station took, And Derry, following close on Billy Coke. Sloping to meet them, stood exposed to view, An awkward piece of timber, stiff" and new ; No other place will do but this alone, No choice is left go at it, or go home. Langar leaps short, and see, on high his tail, 64 Turned in the air, proclaims how strong the rail. Over they go, together rise again, For Brudenell tight in hand retains the rein. Here Leporello fell a harder fate Attends his falling : where he fell he sate. Now Billy Coke, who never lost a chance, Down the hill's side caine rattling on Advance, And though he saw the willows, still he took His line, and crammed him straight at Langton- brook ; But vain the effort, gazing on the flood, Narcissus-like, upon the bank he stood, Then struggling headlong fell ; and see, he's done ! He washed his master, but he lost the run. More on the left, see Wilton kiss the plain ; Then " Time " to Pugilist was called in vain. Without a pause, by Bowden now they fly, The pace so good you scarcely hear the cry ; With speed unchecked, see bravely o'er yon hill, Brudenell alone maintains his station still. Here's Dingley-gorse ; " By Jove, they run in view ! " On Reynard struggles, on the pack pursue ; The earths are open, will he reach the cover ? Who-hoop ! he sinks exhausted ; all is over. How are the mighty fallen ! lulled to rest By fifty minutes of Southampton's best ; Some deep in ditches lie, 'midst brambles toss'd ; Others, more prudent, are " by Farmers crossed ; " These lost their start, from those the hounds had turned, Yet something still from Brudenell all have learned ; And now, for once, a Melton field must own, Fairly and cleanly, they were all " cut down." The backward crowd are still the first to chide, For all can censure where but few can ride. 65 Let those blame others who themselves excel, And pass their judgment, who have ridden well. Each timid skirter thinks it is his right To hurt your feelings and display his spite. If blest with iron nerves, "you ride for fame, And seek in hunting nothing but a name ; " If tender of your person in the chase, " You love the hounds, but still refuse to race." " Look at him now !" on all sides it is said. " I always knew it, damn him, he's afraid ! " These blame the system, master, hounds, and all, And swear the huntsman does not like a fall ; Not prone to cavil, or to take offence, Some in good nature pardon want of sense, And think a smiling and unmeaning face Can Ewart stop, or Willis, when they race. On t'other tack some err, and make their boast, Hounds run the hardest when they're damned the most. Who to Southampton could in judgment yield? With a light hand he ruled a stubborn field ; Now firm, now gentle, as occasion proved, And on all sides alike, both feared and loved. Come then again ! resume thy proper place ! Manage the kennel, and direct the chase ; An equal balance keep, the skirters chide, And check " Spring Captains " when they try to ride. For want of practice all our talent's lost ; Hounds never run, but still the same they cost. What shall we do without thee ? for I hear The country's vacant in another year. Old times, old sport bring back ! and once again Melton shall flourish 'neath thy golden reign. A MEETING DURING THE LATE FKOST. SEXEX. Well, now then, tell me what's the news I see you're like the rest : The hunting-men are all in town, Unhappy and depressed ; The " Kag" is full of idle men, Who lounge about and sigh ; If it wasn't for the Mordaunt case I swear I think they'd die. It's not a cheering thing, I grant, To contemplate the cost Of a lot of nags at Melton Standing idle in the frost. But hang it, man, you can't help that ; 'Tis but the luck of war ; The same thing happen'd lots of times To all of us before. You youngsters " curl up " now-a-days At a trifle, I declare When I was young a six weeks' frost Came nearly every year. But tell me what you've done of late My hunting days are o'er ; But memory often takes me To the hunting grounds of yore. And how I loved them, too ! E'en now I never tire Of thinking of those jolly days, Sir Eichard and the Squire. J UVEXIS. No, no, it's not the frost alone That's put me in the blues That's bad enough, 'tis true but say, You've surely heard the news ? You'll cease to wonder all the Hunt Are looking so forlorn, When I tell you Chaworth Musters Is giving up the Quorn. In one more month the season's o'er ; In one more month we lose The best of all the line who've stood in Hugo Meynell's shoes. I've heard you talk of mighty giants Of your day in the shire, But, believe me, all their quality Lives in the present Squire. By Jove, 'twould do you good to see To know his cheery face ; Ay, see him ride, though sixteen stone, Let hounds go any pace. However stiff the country be, However fast they fly, Look when you can, or when you like, The Master's always nigh. With four or five stone vantage, Yet there's not a man can say, If he's seen more in a burst He's seen more in a day. On the grass to watch his darlings Sweep like swallows on the wing Or, horn in hand, with thrilling cheer, To make the forest ring. But ne'er again shall Valesman Bear him gaily to the fore ! 68 The grand dog-pack in Leicester's woods Shall hear his horn no more ! No more the " voice of Solitude " Shall make our hearts rebound, As we settle quietly for a start, And bless the well-known sound. " Every dog," they say, " 's its day," But thine was ev'ry day, old hound The first to find the fox The truest on the line when found. No more his joyful ta' ally ho Shall make the beauties fling Their spotted forms mad bristling Upon the prey to spring. No more so gracefully and quiet, And yet withall so straight, Will his lady figure in the van Well worthy such a mate ! No more with voice and stirring note, And quick as lightning's flash, Shall Gillard show how sport is earned By science, pluck, and dash. No more from Trussels, thorns, or gorse, AD clamorous at the brush ; No more from Holt or Coplow Shall his cherished fav'rites rush Such a master, such a huntsman, And a pack so quick and keen ; Such a prince of real good fellows The Quorn have never seen. And Tattersall, in devilish joy, Aloud proclaims his prey ; In every paper blazing forth A sale on " such a day." NlPHON. 'Land and Water," March 5th, 1870. G9 THE GREATWOOD RUN WITH THE BADMINTON, FEBRUARY 22xD, 1871. Come, pull off your boots, 'tis no time for a nap ; Let us measure the run on the Ordnance Map ; Much fun have we seen since the frost, bat this last day Proves the joke that Ash Wednesday's a regular " fast day." Our meet Swallett Gate, and at Greatwood the draw, For the stoutest of foxes the vale ever saw. In the corner we viewed him he's gone in a minute ! Here's a chance for the riders who mean to be in it. And Heber, remember you make our hearts glad When you whistle and we can come to you, my lad. Headed back near the brook, thro' Greatwood once more, He returns to the cover that's called " Reservoir;" Just touching on Faston, he crosses the rail ; Eight over to Drinkworth he threads thro' the vale : The brook, as you'll see, was full up to the brim Cis Howard got across without losing a limb ; While Candy commenced a succession of plunges, That rendered himself and his pal like two sponges. But brooks are like casks ('tis no figure of speech), They are full when a bung is inserted in each. Now, those who lost start had both struggled and spurred, When a check, after fifty-five minutes, occurred ; And some of the horsemen dispers'd o'er the plain, Took leave of us here, and ne'er saw us again ; But Lord Worcester, our huntsman, soon hit off the scent, And onward to Somerford Common we went. Hard by, the Duke addressing, .Ruck, the stout yeoman, stands ; His hair was white ; His farm rode light ; "Well cultured were his lands ; And, with a voice prophetic, Thus to the master spake : " The fox I viewed This side the wood, My oath I'll hereby take ; He's earned a name, He's just the same (Mark well the words I speak) Throckmorton's hounds To Blunsdon's grounds Hunted last Thursday week ; And when you stand With fox in hand, If such shall be your luck, Then thank the powers That made him yours, And think on Edmund Kuck." He ceased. Red Lodge was past, and then the pack By Grospel-oak pursued the onward track. In front, old Sentinel and Sexton show'd ; Close to the bridge they cross'd the Minety road ; While, strangers to the country, on we pass, Straight to the glories of the Tadpole grass. But time had told its tale in dim despair The swells perceived no change of horse was there : Said one, " the law, which man from wife divorces, Should never part us from our second horses." Alas ! no lagging groom can now avail To succour Jonas in the Tadpole wale. 'Twas here that eating luncheon, And stern as hardy Norseman, A heavy weight Sat on a gate And cursed his second horseman. To him another sportsman spake, Of civic mien and figure, (I hardly know which of the two In scales would prove the bigger) " Oh, Colonel, I am not the man A run is wont to frighten, But to my face Declared his Grace, ' This fox is going to Brighton ! ' If this he true 'Tis time that you Were off like flash from pistol ; 'Tis time that I Should homeward fly Which is the way to Bristol ? " But onwards still, and onwards This wondrous hunt proceeds : Upon the right lay Burton Stoke, We cross the Whitehall meads, And leaving Cricklade on his left, Seven bridges on his right, Straight to the Thames he crossed the road- No bridge, no ford in sight. And first and foremost, Worcester, The hero of the day, Plung'd in the depths on Beckford, The old flea-bitten grey ; And after many a struggle They reached the farther side, 72 The hounds were far before them They must for dear life ride ; And on to the canal bank, And back across the river, It looked as though this Greatwood run Were going to last for ever. On the right lay Castle Eaton, And Kempsford on the left : The nags stood still Brave Beckford's beat, Of all but life bereft. Some viewed the run from villages, Or steeple's friendly roof; Some left their steeds in farming stalls. And tried to "pad the hoof." So on they speed past Hannington ; So on past Crouch's Wood ; One brook alone remained to jump There was but one who could. And when this gallant fox appear'd E'en now among the slain On the Swinton side of Highworth ' He crept into a drain. Three hours and thirty minutes Those hounds and nags did go ; For them 'twas eight and twenty miles, And fifteen for the crow. So Hamblin, kennel huntsman, Shares the honours of the day ; For of all the Badminton dog pack There were but two away. 73 Oh, for Whyte Melville's pen, that I might tell The varied fortunes that our field befel ; For tho' the finish he presumes to treat on, Your bard's last resting place was Castle Eaton, Where both for horse and man he found good quarters Thanks to the parson and his charming daughters. Of those who saw the end I fain would fix on : Three gallant Colonels, Ewart, Bourke, and Dixon : The huntsman, Heber, on his home-bred grey ; Luce, Chaplin, Barker, and, to end my lay, (Ye daring thrusters, tell it not in Gath) Attired in pink, a veteran from Bath ; After such feats as this I never can Pitty the sorrows of a poor old man. But first among the foremost in the race, Jenkins, on Giffard, merited a place : Well known on various courses is his fame ; Well known as " Mr. Merton " is his name; While Grace, on Cooley's mount, appeared to be A brother worthy of great W.G. ; And undeniable, to please my fancy, Are Charlie Dill, Jack Savile, and Joe Dansey ; For all can testify to Candy's pluck, But can we estimate Byng's wondrous luck, Who saw the run for some three hours or more, And never hunted in this isle before ? My task is done. One moral from the tale Of beaten chargers toiling o'er the vale I fain would draw. Experience endorses The dogma, that good hounds will beat good horses ; Strangers from Quorn or Py tchley, if you doubt, Bring down your gee gees, and let's see them out ; 74 Let's see them out on such like day, and you Will all admit my theory is true : For time, and points, and country, all attest The finest run recorded in the west. DA>*>*Y MAN. HUNTING SONG. Here's health to every sportsman, Be he stableman or Lord ; If his heart be true, I care not What his pocket can afford ; And may he ever cheerily Each noble sport pursue, If he takes his liquor fairly, And his fences fairly too. What care we for the bubbles On fortune's fickle tide ; Who like Bendigo can battle, And like Oliver can ride. We laugh at those who caution, At those who chide we frown, As we clear a five-foot paling, Or we knock a " peeler " down. A captious world may blame us, boys, But what care we the while, Whilst coral lips can cheer us, And bright eyes on us smile ? For beauty's fond caresses Can tenderly repay The weariness and trouble Of many an anxious day. Now fill your glass, and drain it, too, With all your heart and soul To England's sports, the fox-hunt, The fair ones, and the bowl ; To a stout heart in adversity, Through every ill to steer, And when fortune frowns, a score of friends Like those around here. HOW TO SEND HIM ALONG. Oh tell rne, old Eobert you can if you will How to go to the fore, the crack riders among ? I can sit on my nag, and don't care for a spill, But I do wish to know how to send him along. Very well, Master Harry, I'll tell you with glee, For I'm right glad to find to th' old stock you belong, And if you will only just listen to me, You'll ne'er be the last as you send him along. Be sure you are in time at the cover's dark side ; Throw away your cigar ; leave the jest and the song ; Get down and be quiet in some likely ride ; Sit still and be ready as you send him along. Watch closely the hounds as they carefully draw ; More closely the true one that first throws his tongue ; Then list to the halloo away ! gone away ! And down like a lightning flash send him along. He's away ! he's away ! and you're well away, too ; Tou've got a good start, and there's nothing gone wrong ; The hounds just before you ; the fox is in view ; Bise up in your stirrups and send him along. A few fences well over, you're in the first flight ; Never heed those that follow ding-dong and ding-dong : Never look to the left ; never look to the right ; But keep your eyes forward and send him along. The fields they are large, and the brooks they are wide, And the timber it looks most infernally strong ; But the low racing nag will take all his stride ; Sit down in your saddle and send him along. Near an hour they've been at him the pace it must tell ; The tails they are shaking like tails in Hong Kong. Now give heed to your head, and to your hand too, as well, As you sit close and nurse him, still send him along. The fox is fast sinking ; they're close at his brush Who-whoop ! they have got him ! one smack of your thong ; Give your whoop too, and halloo ; you're in with a rush ; And thank Eobert, who taught you to send him along. WINSLOW. 'Twas morning on the dewy lawn, Assembled at the peep of dawn, The gallant pack to covert sprang ; The woods with thrilling echoes rang ; The hunter gaily tossed his mane ; Each ardent rider curbed his rein. The fox, amid the forest, here Lay dreaming in his lair, But soon, as o'er the mead he flew, Awaken'd to the view-halloo : Now dazzling was the bright array Of scarlet, olive, black and grey ; Mark, o'er each silvery spur and bit, The twinkling sunbeam dance and flit. Old Guardsman (1) cahnnly snuft'ed the air Eclipse, (2) for rasping work bade fair, And Rhadamanthus' (8) eagle eye Responded to the huntsman's cry. The day was young, the air was clear, The horn's shrill echoes charmed the air ; At every blast the hounds awake, Burst through the clew-bespangled brake ; In scattered groups their course they ply, O'er fern and bramble merrily ; Again they sweep the thorny hedge, Or brush through tangled briar and sedge, While silently the hunters ride Expectant at the cover side. From out yon greenwood thicket near The foremost of the pack appear ; Old Mayfly leads them view-halloo ! Hark ! Cowslip winds him well in view. Away o'er brake and sward they fly, The gorse resounding to the cry ; Now stretching fast o'er swamp and mead, Our Lady boldly takes the lead ; And oft Jim Mason's nerve was tried, O'er many a rasper, side by side. The scent was good, and brisk the run : Our gallant Lady still held on. A bruising line the varmint chose To baffle or delay his foes ; 1. Mr. Poole. '2. Mr. Mason. 3. Mrs. Villiers. 78 He heard, borne down upon the wind, Their savage music close behind ; But of the crowd who followed, few Dashed on with such a course in view : At length a voice was heard to say, Stand back and give the field fair play ; Who dares yon treacherous brook to ride Our gallant Lady's steed to guide ? With eye well skilled and look intent, Brave Mason o'er his courser bent 'Tis past, and o'er the distant green Jim Mason's spurring form is seen ; Follow who may, but ere the crowd Had ceased from plaudit long and loud, Like arrow darting on the wind, Our Lady left the brook behind. Then let each festive hall resound With hunting deeds of fame, And shape each syllable and sound Into our Lady's name ; Give three times three for Lilly Lowndes, And pledge the dashing few Who never yet forsook the hounds, To whom all praise is due. HUNTING SONG. We have seen a run together ; We have ridden side by side ; It binds us to each other Like a lover to his bride. 70 We have seen a run together, When the hounds run far and fast ; We have hearkened by each other To the huntsman's cheering blast. How gay they bustled round him ; How gallantly they found him ; And how stealthily they wound him O'er each brake and woody dell. 'Twas from Keitwick Broom we view'd him As he stole along the vale ; Though we cheerily halloo'd him, 'Twas to him a deadly wail. By Lintrose we did pursue him, Despite each fence and rill, Till his heart began to rue him On Haliburton Hill. Oh, how they sped together O'er the moor among the heather, Like birds of the same feather, And their music like a bell. By Auckter house we hied him, Still hunted by their cry, Till in Belmont Park we spied him, And we knew that he must die. Through the hedge he made a double, As his sinking soul did droop ; 'Twas the ending of his trouble When we gave the shrill who-whoop ! Oh now then let us rally ; Let us toast the joyous tally In a bumper to our ally, The gallant John Dalzell. TOM MOODY. You all know Toin Moody, the whipper-in, well The bell just done tolling was honest Tom's knell : A more able sportsman ne'er followed a hound, In a country well known to him fifty miles round. Ko hoxind ever challenged so deep in the wood, But Tom knew the sound and could tell if 'twas good ; And all with attention would eagerly mark When he cheer'd up the pack with, " hark, Eattler boy, hark ! " Hie cross him and wind him, now " Eattler boy, hark ! " Six worthy earth stoppers, in hunter-green dressed, Supported poor Tom to an earth made for rest ; His horse, whom he styled " his old soul, " next appeared, On whose forehead the brush of his last fox was reared. Whip, cap, boots and spurs, in trophy were bound, And here and there followed an old straggling hound ; Ah ! no more at his halloa ye vales will they brace, Or the Wrekin resound his first scream in the chase With, hie over, now press him, tally-ho ! tally-ho ! Tom thus spoke to his friends ere he gave up his breath " Since I see you're resolved to be in at the death, One favour bestow, 'tis the last I shall crave, Give a rattling ' view-holloa ' thrice over my grave : And unless at that warning I raise up my head, My lads, you may fairly conclude I am dead." Honest Tom was obeyed, and the shout rent the sky, For ev'ry voice joined in th' enlivening cry With tally-ho, forward ! tally-ho ! tally-ho ! 81 THE COAL-BLACK STEED. Whoever is fond of a hunting lay Has heard of the neck or nothing grey ; The "horse of all horses" that carried the Squire. Which the hardest day could never tire. Now, I have a nag that a king from his throne Might jump with rapture to call his own For beautiful shape, for courage and speed, I challenge the world with my coal-black steed. The blood of Eclipse runs free in his sire ; His dam's descended from old High Flyer ; And none who know her would ever dare Attempt to throw a stain on the mare. But it can be proved, some years ago, That a little was tinged the crimson flow ; Yet ne'er do I wish for a better breed Than this of my famous coal-black steed. He's just as high as a horse should be, Not missing an ace of fifteen three ; But his chest's so deep, and his back so wide, He seems a devilish big one to ride ; For in spite of all the succeeding dips He retains the withers of old Eclipse : To judge by what we in history read, He'd just the back of my coal-black steed. His head ! what a beautiful head he's got ! And his tail's put on in the proper spot ; While four such legs, for muscle and bone, You may travel a week and riot be shown. 82 His mouth's so good ; he's so easy to ride, A child may safely be trusted to guide ; For, when put out to his utmost speed, A thread would pull up my coal-black steed. Talk of water jumpers I've ridden him o'er A place that never was crossed before ; And when on the stream there's an overflow, The edge of the river he seems, to know. At timber he measures his leaps so true, That gate or stile he tips with his shoe. As a standing leaper or taking at speed, I ne'er rode horse like my coal-black steed. One day last spring we'd a ten miles burst, And up to the hounds he carried me first. At starting we mustered a hundred or more ; When reynard was killed there were only four ; And just at the finish I beat them all By showing him over a five feet wall. Some call'd him a devil, but all agreed They'd never seen nag like my coal-black steed. A gentleman who, the week before, Had offer'd three hundred, now bid me four ; But to all his tempting my ears were shut When he asked me only the price to put ; For nothing on earth shall make me sell A favourite nag that carries me well. No ! perish the thought of such a deed As parting with thee, my coal-black steed ! When nature fails (and one day she will), My gallant old horse, I'll keep thee still ; In summer thy food and shelter shall be The verdant mead and the leafy tree ; 83 In winter a roomy shed, with law To run in a yard well filled with straw j And every night and morn a feed Of corn will I give to my coal-black steed. Until the fire of that eye is gone, And death hath claimed thee for his own, Thus shalt thou live from slavery free, In return for the sport you have shown to me. Nor butchering knife, nor fang of hound, Shall on thy body inflict a wound ; Nor ravenous bird or beast e'er feed On the cold remains of my coal-black steed ; But deep in the earth I'll see thee laid Beneath the spot where thou oft hast strayed ; Thy favourite shady tree shall wave Its spreading branches above the grave : And that thy deeds may in memory dwell, An epitaph over the place shall tell, To every one who chooses to read, The wondrous feats of my coal-black steed. A EUM'UN TO FOLLOW A BAD'UN TO BEAT. Come, I'll give ye the health of a man we all know, Of a man we all swear by a friend of our own : With the hounds running hardest he's safest to go, And he's always in front and he's often alone A rider unequalled, a sportsman complete ; A rum'un to follow a bad'un to beat. 84 As he sits in the saddle a baby could tell He can hustle a sticker, a flyer can spare ; He has science and nerve, and decision as well ; He knows where he's going, and he means to be there. The first day I saw him, they said at the meet, He's a rum'un to follow a bad'un to beat. "We threw off the Castle, we found in the Holt ; Like wildfire the beauties went streaming away ! From the rest of the field he came out like a bolt, And he tackled to work like a school boy to play. As he crammed o'er his hat, and got down his seat : 'Tis a rum'un to follow 'tis a bad'un to beat. 'Twas a caution 1 vow but to see the man ride ! O'er the rough and the smooth he went sailing along : And what providence sent him he took in his stride, Though the ditches were deep and the fences were strong ; And I thought, if he leaps me, I'm in for a treat, With this rum'un to follow, this bad'un to beat. Ere we'd run for a mile there was room in the front Such a scatter and squander I never did see ; And I honestly own I'd been out of the hunt, But the broad of his back was the beacon for me. So I kept him in sight, and was proud of the feat, This rum'un to follow, this bad'un to beat. Till we came to a rasper, as black as your hat You could not see over, you could not see through ; So he made for the gate, knowing what he was at, And the chain being round it, why over he flew ! While I swore a round oath, that I needn't repeat, At this rum'un to follow, this bad'un to beat. For a place I liked better I hastened to seek ; But the place I liked better I sought for in vain ; And I freely confess if the truth I must speak That I never set eyes on niy leader again. But I thought I'd give something to have the recipe Of this rum'un to follow, this bad'un to beat. They told me that night he went best through the run ; They said that he " hung up " a dozen " to dry " When the brook in the hollow stopped most of their fun But I know that I never went near it, not I ! For I found it a fruitless attempt to compete With this rum'un to follow, this bad'un to beat. So we'll fill him a bumper as deep as you please, And we'll give him a cheer, for, deny it who can, When the run is severest he's most at his ease ; When the country is roughest he rides like a man ; And the pace cannot stop, or the fences defeat, This rum'un to follow, this bad'un to beat. WHTTE-MELVILLE . CHAELES DAVIS. I'll sing you a sporting song, Made by a sporting pate, Of a fine old English huntsman, Who has not a large estate, But who keeps a royal kennel In a manner quite first-rate, And wins the good opinion of all sportsmen, Small and great, Does this fine old English huntsman, One of a sporting time. This fine old man is fully known Along the banks of Thame, Where, as gallant huntsman, He has earned a lasting fame. His urbane conduct in the field Must approbation claim ; He's one of nature's gentlemen, Charles Davis is the name, Of this fine old English huntsman, One of a sporting time. "Tis now full fifty years ago Since he assumed the post Of huntsman to the Eoyal Hounds, Where he was needed most; And though nigh single-handed, yet he proved Himself a host In making them what they are now, In truth a country's boast, Did this fine old English huntsman, One of a sporting time. These buckhounds so magnificent He from the best strains bred Improving their condition, them with equal Care he fed. Ye gods, it is a picture to see Davis at their head ! As they joy onward to the meet, So gallantly they're led By this fine old English huntsman, One of a sporting time. But when the deer's uncarted, And the hounds begin the chase, Charles Davis, riding up to tail, Maintains the foremost place ; No bullfinch ditch or rasper does he hesitate To face ; He takes the lead and keeps it, too, For none can beat the pace Of this fine old English huntsman, One of a sporting time. Well may he point to his old deeds With truly honest pride, For North and South, from Aylesbury Vale To Hampshire's forest side, And East and West, from Harrow's spire To Oxford's classic tide, The good report rings loudly, And stretches far and wide, Of this fine old English huntsman, One of a sporting time. And when the solemn warning Of the mournful passing bell Proclaims that he has bidden us His final last farewell, He'll need no sculptured monument His worthiness to tell'; His name will live oh, may we all : Acquit ourselves as well As this fine old English huntsman, One of a sporting time. 88 THE BERKSHIRE. Just chancing this morning through Brightwell to stray, I suddenly heard tally-ho ! gone away ! When quick, in a body, the Berkshire flew by, Their fox just away, and forwards they cry. Two hundred of horsemen in the scene take a part, All cramming and nicking to get a good start. See ! who have we here on that fiery steed, Who o'er hedge and brook seems determined to lead ? 'Tis " Dare-devil George," who thus heads the throng ; " Old Billy," as usual, well larking along : That style not a moment while running he'll slack, Then go across country the nearest way back ; And this happy task proh pudor, I speak His master performs about three days a week. Next, close to his side, at a rare lasting pace. Comes the Squire of Culham, ever in a good place : As a horseman he's good, once hunted the pack, But wisely resigned, not having the knack. Still on him keep an eye, he'll make a good guide ; He knows what they're doing, and the right time to ride. Here's good-natured Billy, smiling cheerfully round, Who doats on the fox and delights in the hound ; Whose very existence on hunting depends The horse and the hound his chief pleasure and friends ; And who'd live in the chase, with lasting delight, From the break of the morn till the coming of night. With breeches and boots as neat as can be, The swell of the hunt, dark Oliver see ; Who, like many swells, will frequently show To tigers and ruffians the way they should go. On his gray cornes the Major, so flash and so prim ; A regular clipper, one who always keeps time. Though a hunter he rides, she still has to feel The press of the collar, and hear the coach wheel : For his acme of pleasure's to be on the road With four sparkling tits and a good heavy load. Hie ! stop, Coachman, stop, sir ! what are you about ? I can't, sir ; I'm late, and full in and out. Squire Hammersley next, in a very fair station A mighty great man in his own estimation ; Too fond of the " long tails," yet, give him his due, When hounds go the pace, pretty near them is Hugh. The Manager now in our eye let us scan, Who seems of 'em all to have found out the plan : First this one and that one as Manager came The first was a bad one, the next was the same The horses, the hounds, and the story were lame ; And Morland alone to give has the forte, Both great satisfaction and plenty of sport. And where is Jack ? aye, search the world o'er, The Master of hounds, who could wish to do more ? With elbows well squared, and without any noise, But quiet and cool comes the Lord of Camois, Who just for a day has deserted Sir John To see how the Berkshire affairs are going on. 00 Behind him, his voice rising higher and higher, And all in a bustle, comes Brightwell's great Squire ; By gad, Sir, what hounds ! they can do the trick ; I wish those cursed tories like this we could lick ! Master M orland must put us now in the front rank, For Brightwell ne'er yet knew the meaning of blank. His chesnut, nigh gruelled in keeping his place, But still shov'd along at a cruel great pace ; In clerical boots Parson Beauchamp we see, To-day with old Buggy perhaps making too free. Now, Billy, the brewer, comes craning along, Whose nerves, like his beer, are not very strong ; But if there's a race, a hunt-meeting, or fair, Sure by some means or other the brewer is there. With hat doubled in a sure sign of a fall Comes sweet Mr. Veret, the last of them all ; Halloa ! what's the matter ? what makes you behind ? My horse made a blunder, I fear he's going blind ; Then regarding as nought the mishap of the day, So cheerful and chatty he canters away. These I managed to pick from the rear and the front, As local attendants, or men of the hunt ; But with them there came, in numbers so few, From Oxford renowned, a most odd-looking crew. A Peer and a Dealer here charge side by side, To set one another, determined to ride. Now a Proctor gets spilt, and over him rolls A Freshman, too sure to be hauled o'er the coals. So this, Sir, 's the way you think to get knowledge, By breaking no less than the head of his college. Ill Rebuked thus lie rises in pitiful plight, Affording his friends most unbounded delight. On a very hot young one a cadger here crams, And here he in trouble most awfully d urns. A Parson in posse (quite shocking to hear), At the brute which to-day he is trying to steer. From Christ-Church come dandies all polish and shine, On clippers from Quartermain coming it fine. Now some Freshmen rush by in toggery new, Which was cut in a style quite wondrous to view ; In short there were gownsmen, in numbers of course, And mounted on every description of horse. Some Dealers from Oxford with them rattle by, Who steeds for young Nimrods are wont to supply. Ned Wheeler 'mongst others appears in our view, Just warming the blood of a bit of a screw. Here funking along on a nag of high figure, Lord Oxford behold, looking bigger and bigger ; Toung Venables with him, most sadly abusing His Jane, as a leg a hedge by refusing. On a hunter comes Seckham, next Symonds and Co., With many more jibbers I really don't know; And others from Oxford enjoying the fun ; Some here for business, some here for fun. The hounds, long ere this, from Brightwell had fled, And for Newham, like lightning, were streaming ahead. The cracks had all well settled down to their work, While some were already beginning to shirk ; When having no longer a sight of the pack, I rattled along on my thorough-bred hack. 9Q THE HOUNDS OF OLD EABT. Whilst passing o'er Barnsdale, (1) I liappen'd to spy A fox stealing on, and the hounds in full cry : They are Darlington's, (2) sure, for his voice I well know. Crying forward ! hark, forward ! from Skelbrook (3) below. With my Bkllynarnonaora And the hounds of old Eaby for me. See, Binchester (4) leads them, whose speed seldom fails, And now let us see who can tread on their tails ; For like pigeons in flight, the best hunter would blow, Should his master attempt to ride over them now. From Howell Wood (5) come they, to Stapleton (6) go What confusion I see in the valley below ; My friends in black collars (7) nearly beat out of sight, And Badsworth's (8) old heroes in sorrowful plight. 1. Barnsdale, a district a short distance from Robin Hood's Well. 2. William Henry Vane, Earl of Darlington, afterwards first Marquis of Cleveland, died 1842. 3. Skelbrook, about seven miles from Doncaster, a handsome gentle- man's residence. 4. Binchester, a leading hound in the pack. 5. Howell Wood is about ten miles westward from Doncaster. 6. Stapleton, in the parish of Darrington, is about five or six miles from Skelbrook. 7. The members of the hunt wore black velvet collars, with a gold fox thereon. 8. Badsworth Hall. In 1673, Sir John Bright, Bart., lived there, and is supposed to have been built by him. 4 From Howell's famed cover the fox broke away, Nor long in Park Springs would lie venture to stay, But o'er Hems worth's (9) black heath still advancing along, Down to Norwood (10) he flew, close pursued by the throng. O'er Elmsall's (11) fair lawns now despairing he roves ; Fair Elmsall, the mansion of graces and loves, Where beauty, in rapture, looks -on with delight, And grac'd with attractions, adds charms to the sight ; Whilst the view, "lovely Sarah," (12) and all the bright train, Like nymphs of the wood adding charms to the plain With such beauty in sight, and such hounds in full cry, Poor mortals forget they are fated to die. O'er Upton's (13) wide fields thence determined he goes ; Nor Skelbrook (14) thy Hollins could conquer his foes ; Where, disdaining Burgh wallis (15) and Owston's (16) fam'd brake, Over Barnsdale's wide common he gallantly takes. "Xls hard to describe all the frolic and fun Which of course must ensue in this capital run ; But I quote the old proverb, howe'er trite and lame, That "the looker-on sees most by half of the game." 9. Hemsworth is seven miles from Barnsley, and six from Pontefract. 10. Norwood, in the neighbourhood of Elmsall. 11. Klmsall, seven miles south of Pontefract. 12. " Lovely Sarah," a lady visiting at that time at Elmsall Lodge. 13. Upton, in the neighbourhood of Elmsall. 14. Skelbrook. See note 3. 15. Burghwallis, seven miles off Doncaster. 16. Owston. The estate formerly belonged to the ancient family, Adams. Then, first in the burst, see, dashing away, Taking all in his stroke on Ralpho the grey ; With persuaders in flank comes Darlington's peer (17) With his chin sticking out, and his cap on the ear. Never minding a scramble, a scratch, or a fall, Laying close in his quarters, see Scott, of Wood Hall ; (18) And mind how he cheers thsin with, " Hark to the cry ! " Whilst on him the peer keeps a pretty sharp eye. And next him, on Morgan all rattle and talk Cramming over the fences, comes wild Martin Hawke; (19) But his neck he must break either sooner or late, As he'd rather ride over than open the gate. For good humour renown'd, see my friend, Harry Jadis, (20) He rides Speculation, that nag that so mad is ; No wonder he's up, for you know 'tis an art To ride well to hounds, and he studies his part. There there's dashing Frank Boynton, (21) who rides thoroughbreds, Their carcases nearly as small as their heads ; But he rides so d d hard, that he makes my heart ache, For fear his long legs should be left on a stake. 17. " Darlington's peer." See note 2. 18. Scott-William Lister Fenton Scott. Esq., afterwards registrar of Teeds for the West Riding. 19. The Hon. Martin Blade Edward Hawke, the author of the song, died September i4th, 1839. 20. Henry Jadis, Esq., a south countryman, an occasional visitor at Elmsall Hall. 21. Of the East Riding ; of the Baronet's family of Boynton, of Burton Agnes, near Bridlington. 95 George Tower (22) exclaims, " What a head the hounds carry ! What heart can be tame or be tempted to tarry ? And tho' very long at this pace I sha'n't thrive, I will prove to them all that my Jack's still alive ! " Behold Harry Hellish, (23) as wild as the wind, On Lancaster mounted, leaving numbers behind ; But lately returned from democrat France, Adhere, forgetting to bet, he's been learning to dance. Making desperate play o'er the fences and hills, By grog well inspired, observe Robert Milnes ; (24) But quickly stockstill in the field he must stand, For hard riding is useless without a good hand. That eagle-eyed sportsman, Charles Brandling (25) behold, Laying in a snug place which needs scarcely be told ; But, from riding so hard, my good Charley, beware, For fear you should tire your thirty-pounds mare. And close at his heels, see Bob Lascelles (26) advance, Dressed as gay for the field as if leading a dance ; Resolved to ride hard, nor be counted the last, Pretty sure of the speed of his favourite Outcast. 22. Colonel Tower, of near Richmond. Born 1777, died 1838. 23. The family of Mellish were at one time residents in Doncaster, and several are buried in that church. 24. Robert Pemberton Milnes, Esq., of Fryston Hall, near Ferrybridge. 25. Charles Brandling, Esq., of Gosforth House, near Newcastle-upon- Tyne. 26. Supposed to be Robert Lascelles, Esq., of Sowersby, who married Grace, daughter of Robert Hutton, Esq., of Haughton-le-Spring. Always gocd-tempered when sober or mellow, Jack Grimston (27) comes next, that comical fellow ; He gaily beholds the fleet pack with delight, And hopes in good claret to drink them that night. Then, mounted on Pancake, behold Hartley Len, (28) For whose sake I must quote an old proverb again ; And as his tit's blown, perhaps the warning he'll take, That " You can't first enjoy, and then have your cake." Newby Lawson (29) conies next, a north-country spark, And so keen of the sport that he crossed Skelbrook Park ; Whilst the people exclaimed, " You'll be stopped by the wall ; " " I can easy get over," he cries, " with a fall ! " With young Mr. Silvertop, (80) see Parson Harrison; (31) The old adage says, " You should make no comparison ; " So I leave you to draw what conclusion you choose, Only venturing to hint that they lost some foreshoes. On Methodist perch'd, in a very good station, Frank Barlow (32) observe, that firm prop of the nation ; But nothing could greater offend the good soul, Than if to Coventry sent from the chase or the bowl. 27. Jack Grimston, from Xeswick Hall. 28. Leonard Hartley, Esq., the owner and occupier of Middleton Lodge. 29. Newby Lawson, of Durham. 30. George Silvertop, Esq., of Minster Acres, Northumberland, Deputy- Lieutenant and Sheriff of that county in 1831. 31. Rev. . Harrison, of Firby, North Riding. 32. Francis Barlow, of Middlethorpe, near York, a Master in Lunacy, and uncle of Lady Wensleydale. 07 Then those three little fellows, as light as a feather, The Parkers (33) and Clowes, (3-1) come racing together ; And, riding behind them, see Oliver Dick (35) On Slapdash, half blown, looking sharp for a nick. Le Maitre's dead beat ; is he not Squire Burton? (36) In vain you keep spurring you'll never reach Sturton : With a stable like yours, I'm sure you're a dunce For not bringing out sixteen hunters at once. But how can I mention the elegant bow Mr. Waterton (37) made over- head in a slough ? But as of hard riding he seems mighty fond, I trust this mayn't prove now the " slough of despond ! ' On Ebony mounted, behold my Lord Barnard, (38) To live near the pack now obliged is to strain hard ; But mount little Barney on something that's quick, I warrant, my lads, he would show you a trick. Then smack at a yawner falls my friend, Billy Clough, (39 ) He gets up, stares around him, faith, silly enough ; While Pilkington, (40) near him, cries, "prithee get bled!" " Oh Lord! never mind, Sir, I fell on my head." 33. Charles Parker, of Browsholme. in this county. 34. Samuel Clowes, Esq., who lived at Warmsworth and Sprotbrough Hall. He died 22nd of July, 1811. 83. Kichard Oliver Gascoigne, Esq., of Darlington Hall. 36. Burton, of Hotham Hall, in the Guards 37. Charles Waterton, Esq., of Walton Hall, three miles from Wakefield. 88. Henry Vane, Lord Bernard, now second Duke of Cleveland. Suc- ceeded 1842. 30. Billy Clough John Wm. Clough, Esq., of Oxton, near Tadcaster; afterwards of York. 40. Of Chevet Hall, probably near Wakefield. 98 Next Bland (41) and Tom Gascoigne (42) I spy in the van, Riding hard as two devils at catch as catch can ; But racing along, to try which can get first, Already I see both their horses are burst. But where's that hard rider, my friend Col. Bell ? (43) At the first setting off from the cover he fell ; But I see the old Crop thro' the whole chase will carry In respectable style the good-tempered Harry. With very small feet, sticking fast in the mud, Frank Hawksworth (44) behold on his neat bit of blood But pull up, my dear sir; say you've lost a fore-shoe, Else bleeding, I fear, must be shortly for you. Sitting snug in his saddle, observe little Treacher (45) On Sweepstakes so neat, going bang at a stretcher ; And in case he should fall, I assure you 'tis true, Mr. Alderson's (46) now with his lancet in view. Oft the clodpoles amusing, and making them stare By the crow of a cock or the squeak of a hare ; So famed as a mimic, for fun and grimace, See Pollington's Lord (47) making on in the chase. 41. Thomas Davison Bland, Esq., of Kippax Park, near Castleford. 42. Son of the late Sir Thomas Gascoigne. 43. Harry Bell, brother to the late Matthew Bell, Esq., of Woolsington, Northumberland. 44. Francis Hawksworth, Esq., of Hickleton. 45. Probably George Treacher, Esq., and Life Guards, only son of the Rev. Thos. Treacher, of Audley. 46. Mr. Alderson, of the Angel Inn, Ferrybridge. 47. Lord Pollington, the late Earl of Mexborough, of Methley Park. Died 1860. 09 Oli cease such exertion it never can do, For Hawksworth, (48) your mare and yourself's all Askew. (49) Oh haste ! administer warm ale and gin From the " Kobin Hood " (50) near, that most excellent inn. To the Lees, (51) Harvey Hawke, (52) Frank Soth'ron, (53) and all, See skirting away for Stapleton Hall ; (54) Whilst, far in the rear, behold Alverley Cooke (55) Endeavouring to scramble o'er Hampole's (56) wide brook. To keep their nags fresh for the end of the day Sir Edward (57) and Lascelles (58) just canter away, Not enjoying the pace our Raby hounds go, But preferring the maxim of " certain and slow." 48. Kichard Ayscough Hawksworth, Esq., of Barmbro' Grange. 49. Askew, a pun upon the name of Ascough. 50. Robin Hood s Well, where meet the three parishes of Kirkby, Smeaton, and Burghwallis. 51. William i ee, Esq., of Grove, near Pontefract. 52. Edward (srd Lord) assumed the name of Harvey on his marriage with Frances Anne, daughter and sole heiress of Stanhope Harvey, Esq., of Womersley Park. 63. Frank Sotheron, R.N., afterwards Admiral, of Darrington, three miles from Pontefract, and Kirklington, Notts. 54. See Note 6. 55. Brian William Darwin Cooke, Esq., of Alverley, near Doncaster. Died 26th April. 1823. 56. Hampole, a village on the estate of Charles Sabine Augustus Thelluson, Esq., of Brodsworth. 57. Sir Edward Smith, afterwards Sir Edward Dodsworth, Bart., of Newland Park, 58. Henry Lascelles, second Earl of Harewood. Died Nov. 24, 1841. 100 At the brook Johnny Dalton (59) made a terrible slip, Lost his horse in the water, and cried for his whip ; When his groom coming up, seeing master so cross, Cried, " d n your fine whip, sir ; but where is my horse ? " Safe os-er the brook but where's Captain Dancer? (60) Oh! he's stopping to catch Sir Rowland "Winn's (61) prancer. But what is the use of that, my friend Winn ? If on foot you attempt it, you'll sure tumble in. Mr. Burrell (02) was out on his dun, safe and slow A capital tit, for the pace he can go ; And I beg to assure you, nor mean it in fun, 'Tis far better to ride than be rode by a dun. That all things must alter, our moralists say, And it just prov'd the case on the Howell wood day : And the stud-book affirms that a Childers ( 63) once flew ; But it was not the case, Len, exactly with you. Far aloof to the left, and op'ning a gate, There's a sportsman by system, who seldom rides straight. But why, my good Godfrey, (64) thus far will you roam, "When a pack of fine beagles hunt close to your home ? 59. J. Dalton, Esq., an officer in the 4th Dragoons, then lived at Ackworth, near Pontefract. 60. William Danser, Lieut.-Col. R.R. 61. Sir Rowland Winn, Bart., of Nostel Priory. 62. Leonard Burrell, Esq. 63. Leonard Walbanke Childers, Esq., of Doncaster. 64. The late Godfrey Wentworth, Esq., of Woolley Park. 101 To a neat little rider (who came from Doncaster), Near Norwood occurr'd a most woi'ul disaster ; By a terrible fall his bones were so shaken, That he gave up all hopes of saving his Bacon. (05) Oh ! Hero of Melton, (06) I hoped now to see You dashing along at the top of a tree ; For Elinsall's good Squire, (07) admiring the pace, Forgets his Newmarket, and joins in the chase. At the top of his speed, sadly beat and forlorn, Behold Captain Hornton (68) is steering for Balne; (69) For accustomed at sea both to shift and to tack, He hopes by manoeuv'ring to gain the fleet pack. Tho', to quote these old proverbs I really am loth, They say, " too many cooks will oft spoil the broth ;" Tet it somehow occurred, in this excellent run, By George Cook (70) alone was a nag overdone. On his chesnut nag mounted, and heaving in flank, At a very great distance observe Bacon Frank ; (71) So true's the old maxim, we even now find That "justice will always come limping behind." 65. Major Bacon resided at Carrhouse, Doncaster. 66. Lion or Hero of Melton. Probably a crack rider from Melton Mowbray. 68. Joshua Sidney Hornton, Captain K.N., then residing at Woodlands, near Doncaster. 69. Balne, about three miles east of Womersley. 70. George Augustus Cooke, Esq., of Wheatley. 71. Bacon Frank, Esq., of Campsall Park. He was the nephew of the celebrated antiquarian, Richard Frank. 102 See Starkey (72) and Hopwood. (73) so full of their jokes, From Bramham Moor (74) come to be quizzing the folks : And when they return the whole chase they'll explain, Tho' they saw little of it to crony Fox Lane. (75) Lost, spavin'd, and wind-galled, but showing some blood, For from Coxcomb's poor shoulders it streams in a flood. Behold Squire Hodgson (76) how he fumes and he frets, While his bay lies entangled in cursed sheep nets. Sadly tempted to stray from the aid of a gate, Poor Wilkinson's (77) fall I must doleful relate ; But I'm sure his poor horse he can't punish or scold, Tor now, my dear sir, he is twenty years old. Oh, Squire of Welton, (78) on your comical black, I see you are nearly a mile from the pack. Then what can I say there of jolly Trebeck? (79) Why he'll ne'er see a hound till they come to a check. See the Dringhouse's Squire, (80) with his friend, Mr. Ellin, (81) From York city come now his nag to be selling ; While his valuable servant rides hard, I declare No doubt he'll obtain a large price for his mare. 72. James Starkey, Esq., Fellfoot, Westmoreland. 73. Mr. Hopwood, of Hopwood, Lancashire. 74. Bramham Moor is about four miles from Tadcaster. 75. George Lane Fox, Esq., Bramham Park. 76. Ellis Leconby Hodgson, Esq., at that time occupying Stapleton Park. 77. Unknown. 78. Joseph Thompson, Esq., of Welton, afterwards Womersley. 79. Rev. Thomas Trebeck, Vicar of Wath. 80. . Beal, Esq., of Dringhouses. 81. Mr. Ellin, of York, a gentleman farmer. But who is that there makes his nag's shoulders bleed ? From Pomfret town come, he is Perfect (82) indeed : Tho' really not anxious or eager to quiz, I cannot help joking, Perfection like his. " Oh ! hasten, good blacksmith; oh ! hasten from Smeaton, To bleed my poor mare so convulsed," cried young Seaton (83). But to make some amends for this loss of his fun, A seton, you know, can command a fine run. With Earnshaw, of Eolle, (84) behold Knottingley Clarke (85) Perhaps their blown nags may reach home in the dark ; But tho' both are tired, oh, do not despair, The horse is so young, and so hot is the mare. Xow drifting to leeward, and far from each hound, A large Sayle (80) behold, who is nearly aground ; And I'm fully convinced that 'tis surely his fate, Tho' to Wentbridge he's bound, now for convoy to wait. If his name I pass'd over I fear he would cavil I just wish to say that I saw Mr. Savile; (87) And with very long coat on a friend to his tailor With some more Wakefield heroes behold Mr. Naylor. (88) John Perfect, Esq., banker, Pontefract. . Seaton, banker, Pontefract. Mr. William Rawden Earnshaw, of Roal Hall. Mr. Thomas Clarke, surgeon, and a sporting man, Thomas Sayle, Esq., Wentbridge. The Hon. Charles Savile, uncle to the Earl of Mexborou.u'h Dr. Naylor, Wakefield. 104 A large posse in the valley below, Who serve very well for to make up a show : But broad as the brook is it made many stop It's not ev'ry man's luck for to get on the top. But I'm grieved to observe, in this excellent chase, That a comical proverb is now in disgrace : For fortune, they say, " makes the mare to go fast "- Then Watt (89) is the reason her favourite is last ? I think I have read that a premium is granted To whoever most freely and ably has planted : What do those hounds deserve, then, that o'er heath and fen So freely have planted both horses and men ? Now, all having pass'd, I'll to Ferrybridge (90) go ; Each event of the day at the club I shall know ; Where bright bumpers of claret enliven the night, And chase far away hatred, envy, and spite. Then forgive me, my friends, if you think me severe ; 'Tis but meant as a joke, not intended to sneer : Oh, think, should a line either vex or annoy, The mighty indulgence we poets enjoy. But I think I perceive you're all pleased with my lay, Tho' I've led you, perhaps, something out of the way. Come, I'll give you a toast in a bumper of wine " Here's success to this club and to sport so divine.'' WBITTEN IN 1805 BY THE HON. MABTIH BLADEN EDWARD HAWKE. 89. Richard Watt, Esq., Bishop Burton. 90. The Badsworth Hunt Club was held at Ferrybridge. It is 15 miles from Doncaster. 105 THE RUFFORD HUNT. On Dragon so famous, see Scarboro's peer, (1) His visage expressive of anger and fear. He stops at the leap to consider this lesson That of valour the far better part is discretion. Oh, Dragon, consider how great is thy charge ! How great were the loss to the nation at large If by any mischance in taking a leap The peer should be killed how Britannia would weep ! How would Wyndham, and Eatnsclen, and Featherstone cry, And the tear trickle down from the Prince's (2) bright eye; How filled would their hearts be of sorrow and dread When they heard that their friend, Dicky Dismal, was dead. Who is it that rides at that hedge there full slap ? 'Tis Sherbrooke, (3) I see, by the cut of his cap. " Sir Calidore " clears it, top, binding, and all, And ne'er puts his rider in mind of a fall. Next little Bob Lowe, (4) on his little brown mare, Comes nicking across with all possible care ; On her he rides steady, but when he rode Stella No man in the hunt could be his playfellow. With boots so well polished, and leathers so clean, See close in his rear the good-natured Dean ; (5) And though for the company's sake he comes out, He'd rather be crimping a pike or a trout. 1. Eichard, 6th Earl. Born 1757 ; died 1832. 2. George IV. 3. William Sherbrooke, Esq., of Oxton. Died 1831. 4. Eev. Robert Lowe, Hector of Bingham, cousin and heir of VV. Sherbrooke, father of Henry Sherbrooke, of Oxton. Died 1845. 5. Rev. John Cleaver, Vicar of Edwinstowe. IOC With waistcoat unbuttoned and neckcloth untied, Which some say is indolence, others say pride, Sitting loose in his saddle and sucking his tongue, Lord Newark, (6) on Barker, comes rolling along : Though he's got a bad place, yet his nag can go fast, And never, I'm sure, need be counted the last. On his grey ruare see Philip (7) approach He sits on her back as if driving a coach : From the length of his whip, you may see from, afar, That he thinks he is touching them under the bar. Setting spurs to his horse, and giving a holloa, Charles Bentinck (8) comes forth on the swift-footed Rollo. Ever ready to laugh and make others merry, Little Davy comes next on his famous Bob Cherry. He is pleased, I am sure, by his good-humoured grin, And I hope the next ditch that he won't tumble in. Let Billesdon Coplow hide its head, And Pytchley men grow pale, While here I sing the run we had Within the Derby Vale. 'Twas February the Sixth, Eighteen Sixty Eight Long will Derbyshire sportsmen remember the date. At Kadbourn the hounds were appointed to meet, Where the Poles have for years had their family seat. In red coats or black full two hundred or more Good sportsmen assembled before the hall door : Yet of all those hard riders, it seems very clear, Not ten at the end of the run did appear. 6. Charles Herbert, 2nd Earl Manvers. Died 1860. 7. Hon Philip Pierrepont. Died 1864. S. Lord Charles Bentinck. Died 1826. 107 It was just twelve o'clock of this notable day, When from Eadbourn decoy he was hallooed away. For the first forty minutes a ring they ran round, And many a sportsman was seen on the ground. Back through the decoy, our fox now changed his plan, And straight up to Brailsford plantations he ran. Here we checked, but Tom (1) quickly recovered the scent, And on o'er the grass we to Kedleston went. At that covert our fox took a very short look, Then forward away he crossed over the brook. Back over again just by way of a lark, Like pigeons they flew over Kedleston Park. Our number had dwindled to scarcely two score When at Langley we viewed the sly villain once more ; Yet to prove the old proverb, that " pace alone kills," This stout fox set his head for the Derbyshire hills. Mansell Park saw the stoppage of many a horse, And scanty the number that passed Jarratt's gorse ; Till at Hulland Wood village just five we espy Left alone with the hounds, going on in full cry. To surmount Black well Hill vainly two of those try There a noble lord stopped, and Tom Leedham's horse died. This ascent overcome, Reynard found it was vain To hope any longer the hills to regain. Back he turned, straight down wind, and it now became clear, That his strength being exhausted, his end must be near. So it proved ; for at Biggin, being chased by a cur, He crawled into a ditch, quite unable to stir. 1. Tom Leedham, Mr. Meynell Ingram's huntsman. 108 Then " Ringlet " came up, and alone stood at bay Till the others joined in, and there ended the day. As the clock proclaimed four the fox gave up his breath, And the "who-whoop" for miles around told of his death. Over full thirty-two miles of ground had we been, And from Eadbourn decoy, as the crow flies, fourteen. Your pardon I ask, being unable to tell, Who went best in a run where so many went well ; But the name of one lady with pleasure I write " Miss Meynell," who went throughout in the first flight. All sportsmen I hope, too, for many a year The name of Tom Leedham will greet with a cheer ; His well-earned silver horn may lie long live to wield, And, as on that day, show the way to the field. So fill up your glasses, a bumper we'll drain Health to Meynell Ingram, success to his name. From the days since his grandfather ruled over Quorn His hounds from all others have still the palm borne. When you've finished the first, fill a second besides To the health of Squire Pole, (2) who such foxes provides : And a third to the men, over whose land we ride, The yeomen who live on the Derbyshire side. N.B. The hounds, after this great run, were so tired, that they were unable to kill their fox, who was knocked on the head by a man who came up, as he was lying in the hedgrerow. 2. Edward Sacheverell Chandos Pole. Born 1826 ; died 1873. 100 I've often asked, what shall I do To pass a weary day ? When answer told me, lose no time, With Hugo Meynell (1) stay: For of all the sport he has the'best, And all the people say It is because he takes things In a quiet sort of way. To begin with, there is dear old Tom, Whose hair has long turned grey : Which does not, I'm glad, prevent* him yet From showing us the way. His right-hand man to help him, too "Well done, Charles," (2) judges say ; I never saw hounds turned so quick In a quiet sort of way. The second whip, whose name is Fred, Appeared in pink one day, When two young gentlemen, well known, Were boldly heard to say " If Hugo does not soon that man In scarlet coat array, We'll give him one, and pay for it In a quiet sort of way." The hounds we need not mention. Suffice it now to say Bar " Belvoir " and " Lord Yarborough's " packs, They're the oldest of their day : 1. Hugo Francis Meynell Ingram, great grandson of Hugo Meynell, the famous M.F.H. 2. Charles Leedham, the huntsman's nephew. 110 Which does not follow that they're good- (Pray doubt it all who may) If Tommy had not broken them In a quiet sort of way. Where are the places I should see ? I very quickly said ; For I like a bit of hunting, But I'm devilish fond of bed. For if I cannot see some sport, Thpn all I have to say, I may as well go back and snooze In a quiet sort of way. Is that the only man, I said, That I have got to fear ? Oh dear no, there are lots besides To whom reputation's dear. There's one we know once rode so well, That, said Tom to him one day, " I'd give two hounds if you'd go home In a quiet sort of way. Than to Eadbourne you can't better go, For all the sport's from there ; And, if you want to beat our Bass, (3) Don't take the light-ribbed mare, For he always rides his first horse well, As long as he can stay, And then he nurses " Grasshopper " In a quiet sort of way. 3. Hamar Bass, Esq. Bom 1842. Ill There's another, too, who's Paget (4) named, Whom all the swells call Dandy ; And if not absolutely there, Is always somewhere handy. Again, there are six may be described : If you hear a fellow say, "Who's down?" says Tom, "a Buller," In a quiet sort of way. The two Miss Meynells you can't beat, Do all that you can do ; You'll find one will too many be What will you do with two ? For they, after a short scurry Of four hours one fine day, Only then began to take things In a quiet sort of way. There is a man, Ned Coke's (5) his name, Who always goes so well; And if you wish to kow 'tis he, This is the way to tell : The same bay horse he always rides But this I mean to say, That he beats the chaps who bring out two In his quiet sort of way. Another one, to fame well known, A lady I do mean, For seat, and hand, and nerve, you'll own Her equal ne'er was seen. 4. Lord Alexander Paget. Born 1839. Son of Henry, and Marquis of Anglesey. 6. Hon. Edward Coke. Born 1824. Son of ist Earl of Leicester. 112 For when you see her canter past, " Who's that ? " you're sure to say ; They'll answer, " Mrs. Colville, (6) In her quiet sort of way." By Jove ! I nearly have forgot The master to describe ; You may be sure there is a scent When he sets to work to ride. For if the hounds a cracking pace Are seen to go away, Here's 6 to 4 he's with them, In a quiet sort of way. From Derby town a Boden (7) comes, A right good man is he, Who rides to hounds as nicely As yon could wish to see. For if they twist or turn or race, Or go which way they may, He, like the master, 'a with them, In a quiet sort of way. There's one that's last by no means least- Who once was nearly hung ; And Hugo always calls him beast When he is seen among The people, who he always tries At billiards to make play, When the beast he makes a hundred In a quiet sort of way. 6. Hon. Katherine, daughter of J. Russell and the Baroness de Clifford, and wife of Charles Colville, Esq., of Lullington, Derbyshire. 7. Walter Boden, Esq. 113 The author (