POEMS 
 
 EUCSETROF WEHTTAM.
 
 PIUNTia BY MCILL AND CO., OLD I'laHMARKET, EDINBfKGH.
 
 TO MY FRIENDS. 
 
 THE following light effusions were composed 
 in minutes of idleness, and addressed to many, 
 though never presented to them. It was not 
 intended that they should meet the eyes of 
 any in print, but they now do so at the request 
 of some who have over-rated the productions 
 which are now offered as a small token of re- 
 gard by the Author. 
 
 EUCSETROF WEHTTAM. 
 
 2223279
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Written in a Bible, Page 1 
 
 On a Ruin, 2 
 
 On Death 2 
 
 An Evening Scene, 3 
 
 On my Eldest Son, 1815, 5 
 
 One Gleam of Sunshine on a Dreadful Dark Day, . 5 
 
 A Song, 6 
 
 On Jane Gordon Blair's Little Garden, on the Banks 
 
 of Fane, County Lowth, 7 
 
 Written in the Album of a Female Friend, . . 8 
 To Charlotte Blair, with the Annual "Forget-me-Not," 9 
 On a Man who obtained promotion as a Political Wea- 
 thercock, written in time of Cholera, . . .') 
 On a New Creation of Peers by Lord Grey to swamp 
 the House of Lords in 1832, with the young Fitz- 
 
 C s, fcc. &c 10 
 
 Written under a Portrait of the Duke of York, the 
 
 strong advocate for Protestant Ascendancy, . 12 
 
 Under a Portrait of Julia, in Don Juan, . . 12 
 Lines on the Wife of a Pilot with her Children 
 
 watching the return of her Husband, . . 13 
 
 On a Sigh, \'.'> 
 
 An Idea, 14 
 
 Question and Answer, by a Lady and Gentleman, lo 
 
 AnV/Eolian Harp, 16
 
 VI 
 
 On Mrs F rt c e's Eglantine Cottage, Stephen- 
 
 stoun, Paye 7 
 
 Rockite Notice, 18 
 
 On a Lady Belinda B 18 
 
 To 19 
 
 Preparing for a Fair in Ireland, .... 20 
 
 Memory, 22 
 
 A Reflection, 22 
 
 Written 25th February 1817, 23 
 
 A Thought, . 24 
 
 On a Medal, O'Connell's Head on one side, and on 
 
 the other, Choice of the People, ... 25 
 
 To Mary, an Imitation, 26 
 
 Friendship, 27 
 
 On Lady Sarah L nn x's Marriage, 1815, . . 27 
 
 The Snowdrop, 29 
 
 A Knight of the Garter. To Miss F r, . . 29 
 
 Presumption, 30 
 
 Order of Gout versus Military Orders, ... 32 
 
 The Pride of the Village, 33 
 
 Answer, 34 
 
 Marriage of Sixty-five'to a Girl of Eighteen, . . 35 
 
 The Warrior comes, 36 
 
 On Cigars, 37 
 
 Louth Hunt Directory, 39 
 
 Song, ... 45 
 
 A Thought, 46 
 
 To Mary A vn e, 47 
 
 To C. F., 48 
 
 On a Bunch of Grapes, 49 
 
 To my Legs on a Hunting Morning, ... 49 
 Written over the door at the Quatre Saison Hotel, 
 
 Wiesbaden, 52 
 
 To a Scent- Bottle, beautifully cut, .... 53
 
 Vll 
 
 On a Looking-glass made to deform, . . Page 53 
 
 Home, 53 
 
 Impromptu to a Lady who kept her watch in her 
 
 bosom, but remarked it always went slow, . 54 
 
 The Seasons, 54 
 
 My Four Boys, 56 
 
 The Icicle, 59 
 
 On my dear Clermont's death, my fifth son, . . GO 
 
 The Smile of Youth, (il 
 
 Hope and Fear, a dialogue between two horses thus 
 
 named, <;_' 
 
 The old Foxhound and the Harriers, ... 65 
 
 Almanack, Court Guide, and Register, ... 69 
 
 The Value of a Friend, 70 
 
 On my Wife, 71 
 
 On Jealousy, ........ 73 
 
 On the death of J. L. J n, .... 74 
 
 With a Bouquet, 75 
 
 Hunting Sketches, 76 
 
 Mottos in Peerage translated, 84 
 
 Burke's New Peerage, 90 
 
 The Hon. John Harvey to Matthew Fortescue, Esq. 99 
 To Mrs C Id d, for a Naval Friend, who had a Ship 
 
 of War worked for him in worsted, . . .10*2 
 
 The Same to the Same, 103 
 
 Given to a Lady, with her profile on a leaf, the re- 
 mainder of the leaf decayed, .... 103 
 The Same, with a Cupid hovering over a heart, . 104 
 
 The Peacock's petition to F y M n, to whom it 
 
 was sent, she wishing its plumage, . . . 104 
 
 Day and Night's Amusements of Louth, . . . 105 
 
 Northern Rangers, 117 
 
 English, Italian, Scotch, French, Irish Legs, were 
 given as a subject, and approval was to be pro- 
 claimed with other female beauties, . . . li~>
 
 POEMS. 
 
 WRITTEN IN A BIBLE. 
 
 HERE undefiled, are found alone 
 
 Those precepts, which our God will own. 
 
 Salvation's font is here defined, 
 
 To slack the thirsting anxious mind ; 
 
 And happy they, whose wishes yearn 
 
 To know the blessings they may earn. 
 
 Far happier they, whose early youth 
 
 Was taught thy ways of peace and truth ; 
 
 Whose hearts, unbiassed, never knew 
 
 The paths of pleasure, to pursue, 
 
 Than they, who read thy sacred page, 
 
 T' atone for vices in old age. 
 
 Yet still thy mercy's healing dew 
 
 Is not confined to any few ; 
 
 For here the infidel may see 
 
 That awful word, Eternity ; 
 
 And man in vice (though ere so bold), 
 
 Repentance beckons to the fold.
 
 ON A RUIN. 
 
 In me behold the ruin of the past, 
 
 Nor trust thy beauty will more surely last, 
 
 Age, fire, the sword, and lightning, throw a blight 
 
 Alike o'er all. our feelings of delight ; 
 
 Yet on a beauteous ruin still we gaze 
 
 With hallowed thoughts of its more brilliant days, 
 
 And though perhaps less dazzling to the view, 
 
 The love we loved it with is still as true. 
 
 ON DEATH. 
 
 Death, and what is it ? 'Tis the surest meed 
 Of good and evil doers here on earth ; 
 
 Then why avoid it ? since 'tis thus decreed, 
 We all must, die, as sure as we have birth. 
 
 Suppose that death, in sleep could rest for aye, 
 Never to wake to judgment, 'twere a balm 
 
 Which I in consciousness for self must say 
 
 Would o'er my passions throw the sweetest calm. 
 
 But then, when I must in my heart confess 
 There is a judgment-day, when one and all, 
 
 Be their crimes as they may be, more or less, 
 Must rise in joy or else as sinners fall ;
 
 Then my heart fails me, and I fear to die. 
 
 Repentance tenfold slackens justice, and 
 The hand that stops repentance, ne'er can vie 
 
 With that which leads us to the promised land. 
 
 Land of the blest ! where souls unerring here 
 Are sure to find a solace from the past, 
 
 When the loud trumpet rends the sulph'rous air 
 And man is called to his account at last. 
 
 When Christ shall say, " Come unto me ye blest, 
 Go hence to darkness ye defiled with crime : 
 
 For you I have prepared eternal rest ; 
 But ye repented not, while yet was time ; 
 
 Go ye congenial spirits into hell ; 
 
 Come here ye blessed, never more to sigh ; 
 Come with your Lord in endless bliss to dwell 
 
 For ever, ever to eternity." 
 
 AN EVENING SCENE. 
 
 See how yon bright star shines and plays on the 
 
 billow, 
 
 Its shadow seems rocked on the ocean to sleep, 
 While the wave's gentle murmur but hallows the 
 
 pillow, 
 While treachery lurks in the fathomless deep.
 
 Whoe'er saw at evening the calm waters flowing, 
 But thought the task light to be borne on the 
 
 wave, 
 
 Whoe'er saw a skiff and the fisherman rowing, 
 That thought the calm waters might soon be his 
 grave? 
 
 No ! it is not our nature, when all appears pleasure, 
 To cast to the future one sad look or sigh. 
 
 No ! moments of bliss in our hearts we so treasure, 
 We never believe that a blight can be nigh. 
 
 But that star-light, which late on the ocean was 
 
 Now ruffled, is toss'd on the foam to the sky, 
 And the fisherman's boat, which so lately was ply- 
 
 ing. 
 Dismantled and wrecked, now no longer can ply. 
 
 Though sad is his fate, yet the breast of the billow 
 Far better and braver has borne on its foam ; 
 
 Heads wreathed high with glory had waves for a 
 
 pillow, 
 And victory's favourites it for a home.
 
 ON MY ELDEST SOX, 1815. 
 
 Within that grate, in yonder shade, 
 Where many a swelling heap is seen, 
 
 A child most dear beneath is laid 
 
 Where gently swelled is yonder green. 
 
 'Tis there he lies, peace to his soul, 
 
 Dear little innocent adieu, 
 Your infant bosom no control 
 
 Of vice or folly ever knew. 
 
 You fled from hence, your God to meet, 
 Then why should parents shed a tear ? 
 
 You've found a happy blest retreat, 
 Far happier than awaits us here ; 
 
 May we, when death becomes our goal, 
 (As pure as thee from vice or crime) 
 
 Arise like thy all-spotless soul 
 
 To Heaven's blest and happy clime. 
 
 ONE GLEAM OF SUNSHINE ON A DREADFUL 
 DARK DAY. 
 
 Cheered by one bright but solitary gleam, 
 My heart awoke and thought the past a dream, 
 Thanked earth and heaven for the gifts they bore, 
 Blest thee, and bid thee shine for evermore.
 
 6 
 
 But, ah ! how soon a passing cloud can fade 
 The brightest emblem by obscurer shade, 
 How soon a passing thought drives mirth away, 
 And leaves our frailer visions to decay. 
 
 A SONG. 
 
 He said that he'd return again 
 E're clouds obscured the sky, 
 
 I sighed while I believed in him, 
 And tear-drops filled mine eye. 
 
 He said that he no other maid 
 
 Could ever love but me ; 
 He cried, and, oh ! believe my word, 
 
 I felt it could not be. 
 
 He wept, too, on his leaving me 
 
 A lover's tears are sweet ; 
 I thought, tho', that his look foretold 
 
 We never more should meet. 
 
 The clouds o'ercast the Heaven, and 
 The morning's brightness shone, 
 
 And weeks of torture passed me by 
 Yet still I am alone.
 
 But why did I believe in him ? 
 
 Why lash with his my lot ? 
 I little thought sweet promises 
 
 So soon could be forgot. 
 
 I now must weep in secret, nor 
 
 Let other tongues it tell ; 
 And though my heart may break at last, 
 
 In sorrow sigh, Farewell ! 
 
 ON JANE GORDON BLAIR'S LITTLE GARDEN, 
 
 ON THE BANES OF FANE, COUNTY LOOTH. 
 
 Here you may trace the texture of a mind 
 
 The gentlest, kindest, and the most refined ; 
 
 By nature formed in meekness, and by art 
 
 Yet no, that never hovered near her heart. 
 
 No towering sunflower rears its gaudy head, 
 
 As if to mock this relict of the dead ; 
 
 No gaudy holyhock or tulip gay, 
 
 Bask in the sunshine of the summer day ; 
 
 But here the rose, in modesty of mien, 
 
 Blushes unconscious, this the garden queen. 
 
 Here the pale violet, dressed in azure blue. 
 
 Planted by her, almost conceals its hue ; 
 
 And here the snowdrop droops its unstained head, 
 
 Her purest fairest emblem in the bed.
 
 8 
 
 Nor think that these alone her memory bring ; 
 The young green hops, luxuriant in the spring, 
 Through the thick branches of the elm arise, 
 And seem to claim a kindred with the skies. 
 So she as vigorous sought the throne of love, 
 Climbed the rough path that led to bliss above ; 
 And sure, if virtue, innocence, and youth, 
 Spent' in pursuit of holiness and truth 
 If firmest friendship, charity, and trust 
 In God, have claims to after bliss, she must. 
 
 WRITTEN IN THE ALBUM OF A FEMALE 
 FRIEND. 
 
 When on some future day, when years pass by, 
 The writer's name perhaps arrests thine eye, 
 Brings all his faults and follies to thy view, 
 Decked in the colours of their former hue, 
 Yet spare thy blame ; for if those follies can 
 Bring to thy mind the writer and the man, 
 It is enough, the thought itself beguiles, 
 And gilds my follies with a thousand smiles.
 
 TO CHARLOTTE BLAIR. 
 
 WITH THE ANNUAL " FORGET ME NOT." 
 
 As time rolls on, this little gift may tend 
 
 Thy mind to think upon an absent friend ; 
 
 While fancy, buoyant at the pleasing thought, 
 
 Breathes the fond hope you will " forget me not." 
 
 I've often thought with joy upon the past ; 
 
 I've often hoped that present joy would last ; 
 
 Yet to the future I now turn my view, 
 
 And pray that bliss may still thy path pursue : 
 
 That the full colour of the ripened rose 
 
 May on thy cheek its former blush disclose. 
 
 And oh ! I hope that like a spring-time day, 
 
 Though clouds obscure the sunshine of thy way, 
 
 That the mild summer of thy life impart 
 
 A glow congenial with thy warmth of heart ; 
 
 And that the autumn of thy life be free 
 
 From every stain that taints mortality, 
 
 So that, when winter, which at last must come, 
 
 A self-accusing conscience may be dumb. 
 
 ON A MAN WHO OBTAINED PROMOTION AS A 
 POLITICAL WEATHERCOCK. 
 
 WITTEN IN TIME OF CHOLERA. 
 
 The Baron F r is quite right 
 
 To close his gates by day and night ;
 
 10 
 
 For though he don't of justice know much, 
 He's judge enough to feel just so much, 
 That, while the Cholera stalks about, the devil 
 Might for the price his judgeship cost be civil ; 
 And a fit place for fresh promotion fix, 
 In justice to his character, beyond the Styx. 
 
 ON A NEW CREATION OF PEERS BY LORD GREY. 
 
 TO SWAMP THE HOUSE OF LORDS IN 1832, WITH THE 
 YOUNG FITZ-C S, &C. &C. 
 
 Alas ! polluted England, in thy fall 
 Must Whigs embitter all their deeds with gall ? 
 Is all the skum a monarch's harlot rears 
 To rank above the birthright of thy Peers ? 
 Is foul adultery's child to walk unveiled, 
 And, facing virtue, come without a shield ? 
 Is Second Charles from out his tomb to rise, 
 And raise a bastard peerage to our eyes ? 
 
 Are R ds G n's wounds to bleed anew, 
 
 By these fresh upstarts forced upon our view ? 
 Must female virtue, once our boast and pride, 
 Not blush to see vice nurtured by her side ? 
 Must old hereditary honours stand 
 Unmoved to see such outrage in our land ?
 
 11 
 
 O virtue ! once, when George the Third had sway, 
 Thy freshened blossoms opened into day ; 
 Nursed and caressed beneath his fostering wing, 
 He saw each beauty into vigour spring. 
 His court the hall where noble Barons stood, 
 The pride and boast of ancestorial blood ; 
 While in their face a mother's virtue shone, 
 Still manly valour marked them for her own. 
 Must honours won in fields of death and flame, 
 While England to such trophies had a claim, 
 Be now usurped, to trample virtue down, 
 And to Fitz-J a ns yield without a frown ? 
 Must heroes' breasts and features, marked by time, 
 Warfare, or danger, in some distant clime ? 
 Must mutilated forms, in conflict won, 
 Rank now no higher than a harlot's son ? 
 Must honours, heaped by country and by King 
 For service, be thought an empty thing ? 
 And shall our present revellers in place, 
 Deem such no better than a King's embrace ; 
 Then should they close our history's pages, nor 
 Mutter one word of all that passed of yore ; 
 Say sages wrote but children to beguile, 
 How Nelson fought and conquered at the Nile ; 
 And as to danger, there was none they knew, 
 Save one, of catching cold at Waterloo.
 
 12 
 
 1828. 
 
 WRITTEN UNDER A PORTRAIT OF THE 
 DUKE OF YORK, 
 
 THE STRONG ADVOCATE FOR PROTESTANT ASCENDANCE 
 
 And this is all, alas ! we have of thee, 
 Save the fond solace of thy memory, 
 Illustrious York ! unyielding, great 
 Foe to all changes, bulwark of the state ; 
 England must ever thy sad loss deplore, 
 And Britons weep that thou art now no more. 
 Yet in thy death, thy friends one solace knew, 
 Thou didst not live to see thine prove untrue. 
 
 UNDER A PORTRAIT OF JULIA, 
 
 IN DON JUAN. 
 
 And such they paint thee, Julia, Julia dear ; 
 Shame on us, we have no such beauty here. 
 Perhaps 'tis better ; so divine a face 
 Would turn all others into sad disgrace ; 
 And such as Juan loved, I have my fears, 
 Might sever marriages of riper years.
 
 LINES 
 
 ON THE WIFE OF A PILOT WITH HER CHILDREN WATCHING 
 THE RETURN OF HER HUSBAND. 
 
 Full many a sorrow withers the young heart, 
 When we are forced from all we love to part ; 
 Full many sad forebodings o'er it flee, 
 When life uncertain trusts th' uncertain sea ; 
 Borne by the winds, while waters round him roar, 
 The seaman vigorous plies the steady oar, 
 While the near widow'd heart must anxious burn, 
 And hope and fear must harass it by turn. 
 Still fondly press'd, her baby sinks to rest, 
 Nor knows what sorrows agitate her breast ; 
 Still lingering on the shore, she strains her sight, 
 No object comes, to soothe her, with delight ; 
 Perhaps engulph'd, her husband's latest breath 
 Dwelt on her name, and bless'd her in his death. 
 
 ON A SIGH. 
 
 Offspring of thought, of sympathy, of love, 
 Thou wafter, of our feelings to above, 
 I can't portray thee, for thou art as air 
 Invisible, yet oft the bosom where
 
 14 
 
 You hold your habitation will reveal 
 A thought, whate'er it be, thou wouldst conceal. 
 The maiden, forced some pleasure to forego, 
 Will at her toilette sigh her tale of woe ; 
 And man is not from such impeachment free, 
 For, wanting words, he has recourse to thee ; 
 Bent o'er his fond one lovingly, he hears 
 The gentle zephyrs playing through his ears, 
 He breathes alike, and spirits such as thine, 
 By contact form an essence that's divine. 
 
 AN IDEA. 
 
 She knew not, heard not, but she had mark'd the 
 
 tone 
 
 In which I was address'd, and she alone 
 Of all remarked the influence, light or shade, 
 Upon my heart the narrative had made. 
 Ah me ! how quick a woman's mind can spell 
 The eye, or thought, without one word, to tell 
 The secret she would know, how quick their eye 
 Man's inmost feelings, can at once descry. 
 And thus it was, the conflict and the fray, 
 On time's eventful pinions fled away. 
 She saw that 1 was happy, and the light 
 Shot from her eye in meteoric might,
 
 15 
 
 So pure and powerful, that it reach'd its goal, 
 And spent its strongest essence on my soul. 
 
 QUESTION AND ANSWER, 
 
 BY A LADY AND GENTLEMAN. 
 
 Why should you prize the full-blown rose, 
 
 Which fragrance through the garden throws? 
 
 Because, my love, its breath, like thine. 
 
 Wafts odours almost quite divine. 
 
 Why should you prize the raven's wing, 
 
 When blackest in the bloom of spring ? 
 
 Because the tresses of thy hair 
 
 Reminds me of the ebon there 
 
 W T hy should you prize the fawn's dark eye, 
 
 Or star that gilds the brightest sky ? 
 
 Because the fawn's is soft like thine, 
 
 And twinkling like the star it shine. 
 
 W T hy should you prize the falling snow 
 
 Upon the mountain's lofty brow ? 
 
 Because its purity can best 
 
 Portray an image of thy breast 
 
 Why should you prize the ivy yoke 
 
 That clings around the mighty oak ? 
 
 Because it makes me feel that we 
 
 Thus join'd, should never more be free
 
 16 
 
 Why should you prize the timid dove, 
 
 Emblem of constancy and love ? 
 
 Timidity is like to thee, 
 
 And, dove-like, claims my constancy. 
 
 One question more, I pray thee, Why 
 
 Am I the subject of reply ? 
 
 Because, my love, there's no one thought 
 
 Of richness thou possessest not. 
 
 AN JEOLIAN HARP. 
 Ah me ! what sweetly melancholy lay 
 
 Awakes my soul to softness, leads my breast, 
 To soar above the frivolous and gay, 
 
 And wish a home in sombrish shadow dress'd. 
 
 How quick my heart this moment would caress, 
 So smooth the slacken'd pulse of ev'ry vein, 
 
 The lonely abbey as a dwelling-place, 
 Ne'er to revisit crowded scenes again. 
 
 There, with one friend my soul could choose,from ail 
 The world I'd rest, and listen to thy strain, 
 
 While the wild wind around the cloister'd wall 
 Re-echoed all thy beauties o'er again. 
 
 Then, as th' uncertain notes struck on my ear, 
 And as to joy or sadness they gave birth, 
 
 My soul would rise superior to its sphere, 
 And feel it were no dweller upon earth.
 
 17 
 
 ON MRS F RT C E'S EGLANTINE COTTAGE, 
 STEPHENSTOUN. 
 
 Here, undisturb'd by busy crowds, may thought 
 
 Recall to mind some pleasure long forgot, 
 
 And should your memory lead where thorns have 
 
 spread 
 
 Unhallow'd feelings on life's restless bed, 
 Turn to this peaceful scene thy cares will fly, 
 And nought but rapture guide thy memory. 
 Here may the soul's fond sleep indulge in dream, 
 Expand its fountain, and let loose its stream, 
 Think foes are friendly while unbiass'd hearts 
 Beat with the softness solitude imparts. 
 
 solitude, for moments thou art sweet, 
 When thought the sad reality would cheat, 
 Indulging fancies that must lead to bliss. 
 Such is the solitude I love, and this 
 
 1 often court ! 'Tis not my wish to trace 
 A long, wide, heartless, solitary space, 
 
 Where friend nor foe e'er greet the coming tread, 
 Nor woe nor rapture hover round my head ; 
 Where, still unheard, unknown of, I might roam 
 Till wasted nature sunk into the tomb.
 
 18 
 
 ROCKITE NOTICE. 
 
 Lower your rents, your labourers' wages raise, 
 Or else your mansion shall about you blaze. 
 
 ANSWER. 
 
 Kindle the match, and let the rafters burn, 
 My relics ne'er can have a nobler urn. 
 Here will I stand, where I my money spent, 
 Though flame and ruin raise my monument : 
 And ye, who now with violence assail, 
 Believe me, will your actions yet bewail. 
 
 ON A LADYBELINDA B 
 
 There is a charm in Bella's eye 
 Gleams brighter as you view, 
 
 A sentiment in every sigh 
 Which hope imagines true. 
 
 On Bella's eye the tears look bright, 
 As shower on Summer's morn, 
 
 On Bella's lip the smile sits light, 
 A rose without a thorn. 
 
 And who, untaught by wily art, 
 But quick would seek to know, 
 
 While hope foretold the warmest heart 
 Beneath such emblems grow.
 
 19 
 
 But, stranger, venture not her mind, 
 
 In Pluto's regions cast, 
 To all our nature's feelings blind, 
 
 Betrays itself at last. 
 
 Trust not to outer signs, though fair 
 May seem each word she spake, 
 
 But seek her inmost heart, and there 
 You'll surely find the Snake. 
 
 TO 
 
 Let other minstrels tell the tale, 
 
 I will not sing our love, 
 Nor tell the many vows that we 
 
 Had wafted to above. 
 
 I will not tell the many times 
 My hand was pressed in thine, 
 
 Or how thine eyes in rapture looked 
 For confidence in mine. 
 
 I will not tell the joy I felt, 
 
 Thy footsteps moving near, 
 Nor tell (when told that " part we must") 
 
 Our parting cost a tear. 
 
 Thy silver tones in accents sweet, 
 
 When no one else was near, 
 Had charms no other voice ere had 
 
 To soothe and glad mine ear.
 
 20 
 
 Yet bliss like ours could not last, 
 This much to Love is due, 
 
 We parted, but our parting breath 
 Could never say Adieu. 
 
 PREPARING FOR A FAIR IN IRELAND. 
 TUNE Moll Roe. 
 
 COME Marta, my darlin, for glory, 
 
 Now let us be off to the fair, 
 The Dullahans, all in from Gorey, 
 
 Decidedly mean to be there. 
 
 I just called at Paddy's the straddlers, 
 He says he will be there to-night ; 
 
 And Jolly the dab at the daddlers 
 Says he is quite ready to fight. 
 
 In the lane I just met with O'Scanlan, 
 He's sharping his scythe with a hone, 
 
 And Larry says he and O'Hanlan 
 Has reaping-hooks' cuts to the bone. 
 
 Then Soutty the bandy-legged tailor, 
 He crawls on the ground like a fluke ; 
 
 In fighting was ne'er known a failer, 
 To touch up their shins with a hook :
 
 21 
 
 And then, on their pates, never mind him, 
 
 A seven-feet man with a flail, 
 To thrash all the varmin I bind him, 
 
 He goes by the name of O'Gale. 
 
 There's Tim, Dick, O'Hague, and there's Teddy, 
 Taque, Donally, lightsome as corks, 
 
 They fight for us all, and are ready 
 As always to come with their forks. 
 
 The Fair will begin with the horses, 
 That's sold on the night that's before, 
 
 And end with an inquest on corpses, 
 Which we will provide in Gilliore. 
 
 No matter to us how the wool goes, 
 
 Or cattle, lean butchers or fat, 
 We go as the dealers of hard blows, 
 
 There's buyers and sellers for that. 
 
 No matter the price of the horses, 
 
 No matter the price of the pigs, 
 No certainty is but the corpses 
 
 Are sure as that judges wear wigs. 
 
 What's a fair without fighting, my darling ? 
 
 Why should people deal at their ease ? 
 If the Dullahans are not for quarrelling 
 
 We'll knock up a fight about pease.
 
 22 
 
 MEMORY. 
 
 As o'er the brightest morn a shade 
 
 May for a moment lower, 
 So all our thoughts will shine or fade 
 
 As memory paints the hour. 
 
 The higher we our spirits rise, 
 Though tears might suit us best, 
 
 The deeper feel we when disguise 
 Is deafened into rest. 
 
 The dream, the restlessness that sinks 
 
 The soul intent on thought, 
 Is but the cheating sleep that winks 
 
 On what should be forgot. 
 
 So 'tis with all, and memory still, 
 
 In bright or sad array 
 Asserts her all-capricious will 
 
 To deck the passing day. 
 
 Yet, though with downcast looks we view 
 
 The future or the past, 
 We still must hope a brighter hue 
 
 Will gild our thoughts at last. 
 
 A REFLECTION. 
 
 Is it not sweet to bathe the soul 
 
 With tears of bliss from sorrow's bowl,
 
 23 
 
 To view in Time's eventful glass 
 The joys that come and those that pass ? 
 Is it not sweet in leisure hours 
 From fancy's wreath to gather flowers 
 Which live a moment in the breast, 
 And leave the recollection blest ? 
 Is it not sweet, though comfort's gone, 
 To think its rays have all not shone ; 
 To feel our inner thoughts dispel 
 The gloomy clouds we see too well ? 
 As sailors view from highest shrouds 
 A gleam of light behind the clouds, 
 So I, though sorrow reigns to-day, 
 Hope joy may chase its spell away. 
 
 WRITTEN 25 TH FEBRUARY 1817. 
 
 Lured by the sun's inspiring ray 
 
 A little bud appeared, 
 I saw it the succeeding day 
 
 By Spring's approaching cheer'd. 
 
 That eve I saw it blooming still 
 In brightest verdure dress'd. 
 
 And heard the blackbird whistling shrill 
 To call his mate to rest.
 
 24 
 
 Next morn, again, my footsteps stray'd 
 
 The path I wander'd last, 
 And saw the little bud decayed 
 
 And wither'd by the blast. 
 
 Thus man too soon by kindness caught 
 
 To others will impart, 
 By nature soften'd, and by art untaught, 
 
 The feelings of his heart. 
 
 The brilliant sunshine of an hour 
 Brought forth the little spray, 
 
 Yet ere the morn the thunder shower 
 Had turned it to decay. 
 
 So we too soon may trust a friend 
 
 Before we know his worth, 
 Be left neglected in the end 
 
 And have no friend on earth. 
 
 A THOUGHT. 
 
 Full many a tear escapes the sight 
 
 And many a sigh the ear, 
 And many an eye with joy is bright 
 
 Though sorrow is shelter'd there. 
 
 Full many a woe (though bliss appear 
 To wreath the happy brow),
 
 25 
 
 May youth's or manhood's temple sear 
 By Care's untimely blow. 
 
 Yet should she shew one conquering gleam, 
 
 Nor joys gone past remain, 
 Let Memory tasted bliss redeem 
 
 And Hope blot out the stain. 
 
 ON A MEDAL. 
 1830. 
 
 O'CONNELL'S HEAD ONE SIDE, AND ON THE OTHER 
 CHOICE OF THE PEOPLE. 
 
 As Tim and Paddy down the street, 
 Sure both of them was walking, 
 
 When Larry Flin they chanced to meet 
 Who politics was talking. 
 
 Says Larry, " What d'ye think of this, 
 
 Fornint St George's steeple, 
 One side it has O'Connell's phi/, 
 
 T'other Choice of the people." 
 
 Says Tom, " It will be gould I'm boun', 
 
 A darling head it is then, 
 It surely is thought worth a crown 
 
 By any of the Claremen."
 
 26 
 
 But Pat swears by the piece in hand, 
 " As praties are worth covering, 
 
 " There's many a man in Erin's Land 
 " Would take him for a Sovereign." 
 
 TO MARY. 
 AN IMITATION. 
 
 Yes, I own had that lip been sincere, 
 And Mary proved constant for ever, 
 
 Let another be ever so dear, 
 
 I never could leave her, no never. 
 
 No, by heaven, that eye had such charms 
 I could gaze on its lustre for hours ; 
 
 Had my love ne'er had cause for alarm 
 I would not envy gods and their powers. 
 
 But that lip which had taught me to love 
 With such dear and romantic delight, 
 
 By example induced me to rove 
 
 And now freezes my blood at its sight. 
 
 Thus our passion the hotter it burns, 
 The sooner 'tis chill'd to the core, 
 
 And slighted it never more turns 
 To the idol it worshipped before.
 
 27 
 
 FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 When worldly cares the mind oppress 
 And hasten pleasure's dream away, 
 
 Tis pleasing in a friend's caress 
 To feel a gladdening hope delay. 
 
 Or when the anxious mind is toss'd 
 By storms within the breast that roll, 
 
 To have a friend, if all is lost, 
 
 To make the passions know control. 
 
 Yet should that gladdening hope increase, 
 And care, and sorrow, both depart, 
 
 To have a friend who breathing peace 
 Would guide the impulse of thy heart. 
 
 Ah ! this is happiness indeed 
 
 W T hich few on earth can ever say, 
 
 " They have a friend in wealth or need 
 To share the fortunes of the day." 
 
 ON LADY SARAH L NN X'S MARRIAGE, 1815. 
 
 Yes, beauteous maid, in early days, 
 
 Though pomp and splendour were thy share, 
 And suns all shone with brighter rays 
 
 And all acknowledged you were fair.
 
 28 
 
 You saw and heard each lover sigh, 
 
 Though deem'd unfit to share thy heart, 
 
 With blushing cheek and beaming eye 
 You hinted kindly to depart. 
 
 Not one harsh look was in thine eye, 
 Of azure blue so gently beaming; 
 
 It never passed the luckless by 
 
 Without a kind remembrance gleaming. 
 
 But warlike valour gain'd thy heart, 
 
 Hand, heart, and soul thou didst consign, 
 
 Though peers and riches, fops and art, 
 Had knelt before thy hallow'd shrine. 
 
 No wish to meet the public eye 
 
 In state-like grandeur sway'd thy mind, 
 
 But worth and merit do not fly 
 And leave a heavy heart behind. 
 
 A soldier seeking love's control 
 
 Is seldom found, but you have found him, 
 And by thy purity of soul 
 
 In love's fond fetters you have bound him. 
 
 Oh may your happy moments glide 
 As dreams of pleasure on the wing, 
 
 May love and honour side by side 
 Make life one calm perpetual spring.
 
 29 
 
 THE SNOWDROP. 
 
 Fairest of all the flowers that rise 
 Forerunner of the summer skies, 
 Pure as the white snow's falling hue 
 And rare the modesty I trace in you. 
 Like innate virtue always shy 
 To meet too quick the public eye, 
 You hang your little unstain'd head 
 Among the leaves that form thy bed ; 
 And then like purity within, 
 Unconscious of the guilt of sin, 
 With Modesty's insulted grace 
 Hide the pale beauties of thy face. 
 
 A KNIGHT OF THE GARTER 
 
 TO MISS F B. 
 
 After Adam was made, a rib from his side 
 V r as taken to make him a thing called a bride, 
 To honours at that time were tacked to men's name, 
 
 No title or peerage-book sounded his fame ; 
 Jut years work'd a change, and a Peer in his charter 
 
 1 1;ul K. G. to his name for lifting a garter,
 
 30 
 
 A lady's it was, to this honour so great 
 
 liaised Dukedoms and Earldoms alike in the state; 
 
 While I am neglected, nor raised a degree, 
 
 For seeing in private your delicate knee, 
 
 But am pledged upon honour an honour I own 
 
 Ne'er to mention the elegant part that was shewn. 
 
 Still I feel such an honor for pride I must barter, 
 
 And call myself Knight of the Knee not of Garter. 
 
 PRESUMPTION. 
 
 Man builds the palace, man erects the camp, 
 Man rears the fortress, makes the buttress stand, 
 
 Man tills the dry land, and reclaims the swamp, 
 And thinks all nature subject to his hand. 
 
 Man builds the ship of war, which on the wave 
 Rides a triumphant queen, and seems to say, 
 
 " There's not a nation which those waters lave, 
 That shall not be subservient to my sway." 
 
 Man hews the mountain, forms the granite's edge 
 To meet its partner in the work of skill, 
 
 Constructing mighty arches from the ledge 
 Of mountains rent asunder by God's will. 
 
 Thus man, by Art, joins Nature, parted lands 
 Crossing, at will, o'er torrents fathomless,
 
 31 
 
 He smiles upon the working of his hands ; 
 And little thinks of his own worthlessness ; 
 
 In the proud ardour of his soulless joy, 
 He thinks himself omnipotent, that all the world 
 
 He had the wielding of, as of a toy. 
 
 That as he wishes, nature should be hushed. 
 
 Yet what is man ? the slightest breeze that plays 
 Upon his palace, camp, or fortress, may 
 
 Waft fell disorder on his younger days, 
 And weigh him down with sickness and decay. 
 
 The proudest ship that ever held man's form, 
 May ride to-day triumphant o'er the wave, 
 
 Yet, ere to-morrow, the avenging storm 
 
 May cast them where no mortal hand can save. 
 
 The lightning, too, that cleft the mighty rock 
 Which he had join'd by art and spanned the tide, 
 
 Might from the earth in justice by one stroke 
 Hurl him with all his arrogance and pride. 
 
 Yet such has man been always, such will be, 
 Till his proud spirit sinks, and own control 
 
 In the wise workings of his God's decree, 
 For there alone is safety for his soul.
 
 ORDER OF GOUT versus MILITARY ORDERS. 
 
 Let people grumble, as they often do 
 
 Who spent their life mid scenes like Waterloo, 
 
 Fought battles, bearded death, and all for Fame 
 
 Rested their hopes on that great strumpet's name. 
 
 Nay, some who soared for honours diplomatic, 
 
 Perhaps may now be rotting in an attic ; 
 
 Not so with those who serve the god of wine, 
 
 Who sheds his rays as glories ought to shine, 
 
 Not by side shifts, but vertically down 
 
 They fall directly on his subjects' crown ; 
 
 Far better 'tis to join his joyous throng 
 
 Where mirth and revelry enhance the song, 
 
 Where toasted beauty seems to us more fair, 
 
 And fairy forms are held as sylphs of air ; 
 
 Where no harsh words or clash of arms assail, 
 
 No lives are lost for widows to bewail, 
 
 Our arms transparent, carry nought but grape, 
 
 Which gracious Bacchus sends in liquid shape, 
 
 And though it makes some totter, reel, and fall, 
 
 Is not what death in dictionaries they call. 
 
 After a life of pleasure or of broil 
 
 One hopes at least a something for the toil. 
 
 The soldier who at far-famed Waterloo 
 
 Let his best blood th' embattled field embrue, 
 
 What his reward ? a medal worth a crown
 
 33 
 
 To dangle at his button ; such renown 
 
 The kings of countries, battles, and of strife, 
 
 Deem quite sufficient for a subject's life ; 
 
 But Bacchus, gen'rous king, more kindly sends 
 
 A token worn, by many of my friends, 
 
 An emblem of regard, an essence strained 
 
 From every cup of pleasure, we have drained ; 
 
 Yet free from it, you will allow, no doubt, 
 
 That pleasure's not a synonyme for gout. 
 
 It dangles not, like medals now a-days, 
 
 To meet the vulgar attribute of praise ; 
 
 It shines not where the seat of honour springs, 
 
 Nor floats, like favours, upon cobweb wings ; 
 
 But firm and fast it will itself entwist 
 
 Around your feet, your ankle, or your wrist, 
 
 And sometimes Oh ! it makes my pencil dumb- 
 
 For it has just alighted on my thumb. 
 
 THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE- 
 O couldst thou leave thy bonny home, 
 
 Sweet maid, my fate to share ; 
 Though many cares my heart might press, 
 
 You'd find a shelter there. 
 
 And should one tear at thoughts of bliss 
 
 Gone by escape thine eye, 
 I'd fondly press thee to my breast 
 
 And kiss remembrance dry.
 
 34 
 
 I'd be to thee the firmest friend, 
 And thou shouldst be my star, 
 
 To guide me through life's thorny path 
 Where warring passions jar. 
 
 Thus happy we, howe'er the world 
 With other's fortunes deals, 
 
 Would feel, let joy or ill betide, 
 What love alone reveals. 
 
 ANSWER. 
 
 O could a mother's fondest care 
 
 Be ever found in thine, 
 Or could a father's happy look 
 
 Be ever traced in thine. 
 
 Could you such parents' toils pursue, 
 
 To form a daughter's bliss, 
 Or, having broke their peace, could I 
 
 Be solaced by thy kiss. 
 
 No, no though dear thou art to me. 
 
 Go ask my parents' will, 
 And though denial sears my heart ; 
 
 It will adore thee still.
 
 MARRIAGE OF SIXTY-FIVE TO A GIRL OF 
 EIGHTEEN. 
 
 Oh why should a flower, the loveliest of May, 
 
 Be bound to a tree on the eve of decay ; 
 
 And why should the smile a youth could enrapture, 
 
 Be coldly returned by one sixty, or after ? 
 
 O say, was it gold that bought thy fair face ? 
 
 Or hast thou ta'en shelter from love and disgrace ? 
 
 For no one can think that so lovely a maid 
 
 Would plant a fresh heart in so sombre a shade. 
 
 Was it beauty or figure allured thy young heart 
 
 From nature and reason alike to depart ? 
 
 No, look at the man, and then answer me this, 
 
 Is he emblematic of lover-like bliss ? 
 
 Are the tongue's accents sweeter in age than in 
 
 youth ? 
 Has its speeches more kindness, more fervour, or 
 
 truth ? 
 
 Or can aged old arms, in embracing, impart 
 Those feelings of love that o'erpower the heart ? 
 While youth, health, and beauty, thy features adorn, 
 And thy dark eyes shine bright as a sunbeam at 
 
 morn, 
 
 Vain hope that thy beauty its merit can win, 
 Unless I, fair lucly, advise you to sin.
 
 36 
 
 THE WARRIOR COMES. 
 
 The warrior comes, a wreath prepare, 
 
 Let loud huzzahs resound ; 
 Let bonefires light the sulphury air, 
 
 And dancers press the ground. 
 
 The laurel branch first bring to view, 
 Next spring's fresh blushing rose, 
 
 The drooping hyacinth and yew, 
 Should victory's wreath compose. 
 
 The laurel victory's favourite place, 
 
 The highest in the wreath, 
 Let beauty's (emblem flame) grace, 
 
 The circle underneath. 
 
 But let not beauty's injured pride 
 
 The laurel's birthright scan, 
 Honour must flourish by her side 
 
 The attribute of man. 
 
 Honour protects the maiden's heart 
 Which plodding folks would steal, 
 
 And honour barbs the winged dart 
 Which makes dissemblers feel. 
 
 And who the maid, could cast one glance 
 
 With warm affection, charm'd, 
 
 
 Upon the man who turns his lance 
 
 Or leaves the field unarm'd ?
 
 37 
 
 The drooping hyacinth next entwine, 
 The widow claims a flower, 
 
 To deck her youthful husband's shrine 
 Who fell in glory's hour. 
 
 The sweet and pretty hanging bells 
 Her children bring to view, 
 
 And in their simple language tells 
 Her story well and true. 
 
 Her prop is gone, her partner dead ; 
 
 The gardener knows how art 
 Supports the drooping floweret's head 
 
 As nature does the heart. 
 
 Then let the mournful yew be bound 
 In friendship's firmest knot, 
 
 It seems to hallow every ground 
 Where friends are ne'er forgot. 
 
 The warrior comes, I hear the shot 
 Which his approach portends, 
 
 The wreath has all its emblems got 
 Of honour, love, grief, friends. 
 
 ON CIGARS. 
 
 ^hile tombs the ashes of mankind enfold, 
 And marble slabs have all their worth enroll'd ;
 
 38 
 
 Tell, conquer'd tyrants, knelt as abject slaves 
 Beneath man's conquering spirit on the waves, 
 Shall iny dead ashes lie unwept, unsung, 
 On whom in life so much of pleasure hung, 
 Though unobtrusive they upon a plate 
 Lie, or take shelter underneath the grate, 
 Yet there are those among the busy crowd 
 Whose heart I charm'd and hallow'd with my cloud. 
 While health and spirit lasted I could throw 
 On friendly spirits a congenial glow, 
 Could chear the sailor's journey up the mast, 
 And soothe the wayworn traveller with a blast 
 Could downcast spirits charm and add a zest 
 Amidst his splendour to the Persian's rest. 
 Like Proteus, I have many forms, forsooth ; 
 I please the nose, the stomach, and the tooth : 
 To fam'd tobacco I my nature owe, 
 A well-known soother of both high and low ; 
 With me without a dinner, well can dine 
 Fishwife or beggar, and my clouds benign 
 Are for gay mirth and revelry the sign, 
 That care must all her cruelties resign. 
 When you, ye mortals, can such glories shew, 
 Cigars must die, but not without a blow.
 
 39 
 
 LOUTH HUNT DIRECTORY. 
 
 Oh, here are the hounds, but where is the master ? 
 Pray, sir, what o'clock is't ? My watch is faster ; 
 By yours it is just (by mine half after) ten, 
 I think I am right by the faces of men ; 
 Yet while there is time, will you give me a clew 
 To the riding, taste, character, just of a few ? 
 The frost is quite hard and the men cannot delve, 
 But I think for our hunting 'twill answer at twelve ; 
 Those here come of course from a distance, the frost 
 Is seldom or never so hard near the coast, 
 But tell me the names of some horses and men, 
 That I, as a stranger, may know them again. 
 
 The gentleman mounted on yonder black horse 
 Has been here some time, and was down at the 
 
 Gorse, 
 
 I think, by the cut of his jib, that he could 
 Lead us into some secret, I mean if he would ; 
 His breastplate is girth-web, and long out of date, 
 I think I ne'er saw one since old ninety-eight, 
 When cavalry yeomen, well pipeclay'd for beauty, 
 Went out for a week upon permanent duty. 
 We call him the Captain, but he was a boy 
 When the horse volunteers did the croppies destroy, 
 And about the said breastplate conjecture is dumb 
 As he never mentions from whence it has come ;
 
 40 
 
 I'll say nothing more, do you stick to his side. 
 Over Louth you can't have a more cognisant guide. 
 
 The man on the dun, I've been credibly told, 
 Is a straight-forward rider, decided and bold. 
 Oh yes, and I'll tell you an anecdote now : 
 One day we were out in a very deep snow, 
 The scent lying well, though the fences were blind, 
 It never once daunted his sportsmanlike mind ; 
 His dun was quite willing, but lacking that speed 
 Which oft is required in cases of need ; 
 He spurred him and cried, " This is no time or place 
 To save you, so go it or die by the pace." 
 The poor little nag did his best, but, they say, 
 He ne'er was out hunting again since that day. 
 
 See, here come the greys, and a pleasanter set 
 In his Majesty's service you scarcely could get. 
 The muster is changed from the barrack, the horn 
 Of the hunter they hear on the breath of the morn, 
 And the trumpet's shrill blast, and the dull drill 
 
 give place 
 
 At once to the vigour and joy of the chace, 
 So friendship and concord in peace do not mar 
 The active exertions required in war. 
 
 The man in the cab is the Major Chas. Wyndham, 
 His horse fell one day and all thought he'd have 
 
 skinn'd him, 
 
 " I'm all the right side, says he, push you along, 
 Not hurt," but just give him a touch with your thong,
 
 41 
 
 I suppose he'll get up, when out of the drain, 
 I'll mount, and if possible join you again. 
 I know not his weight, hut I thought I could guess 
 That his quadruped sometimes did wish it were less. 
 Then Fawcett rides hard, but misfortune attends 
 Ofttimes on a rider before the chace ends, 
 Black eyes, bloody nose, or wet leathers ne'er cloy 
 The heart that's inured to the chase from a boy ; 
 And if after dinner you chance not to know 
 The pace, place, or country where reynard did go, 
 Dick Fawcett will give you a run from the first, 
 Whether hour, half hour, or ten minutes burst, 
 Which mingles so nicely (while sentiments flow) 
 With the bubbles that float on our Chateau Margeau, 
 That we doubt (till in slumber the run is forgot) 
 Whether any or all of us saw it or not. 
 
 Then Adams, and Murray, and Trafford, I trow, 
 Are names that in sportsmanlike diction an't slow, 
 But 'tis hard, where so many contend to be first, 
 'Tis invidious to say who is best or who worst. 
 
 Then C v n at luncheon can play double part, 
 Cakes, sandwich, or dumplin he loves in his heart, 
 And 'tis hard to say whether his hunting career 
 Would not close at the sound of such excellent cheer. 
 When Sullivan joined and came first to the Greys, 
 His wardrobe was wanting in hunting relays ; 
 On hunting resolved, his messmates he tried, 
 Who kindly and quickly equipped him to ride,
 
 He borrowed coat, breeches, and boots for the day 
 And hiring a hack, rode to cover away. 
 'Tis needless to say he did not shine much then, 
 But experience improved him like most other men. 
 He could ride the Greys know steeple-chasing at 
 
 least 
 Vouch for it ye * Slipper-clad queen of the feast. 
 
 That's Upton, and truer words never were spoken, 
 A joke he will give or take, here is a token. 
 He rode Miss M'Fadd at the Rogerstown drain ; 
 She baulked he turned round put her at it again. 
 She stopp'd, and he seemed to say, " You silly elf, 
 Do you think I'd ask you and not do it myself ; 
 For into the drain he went o'er head and ears 
 By way I suppose of subduing her fears. 
 Invincible Norman comes at it and clears ; 
 Fitzherbert then comes, and into it peers. 
 Which baulk, in conjunction with Upton's mishap, 
 Made others, less valiant, go look for a gap. 
 Some say they go over, while others got in, 
 But about this said drain there's a wonderful din, 
 So much so I wish a bridge over the place, 
 As it occupies time in the course of the chace. 
 
 That's Clements just come, from his place called 
 
 Rakenny, 
 In chasing a fox, on an afternoon, many 
 
 * The prize was a pair of Slippers, which Sullivan pre- 
 sented to one of the ladies.
 
 43 
 
 Are not his superiors, and nothing is clearer ; 
 We all have a wish that Rakenny was nearer. 
 
 Hark! Hark ! I hear Tuneful, Pilgrim, and Rally, 
 The fox is unkennelled, aye there is a tally ; 
 He turns, hark the crash, as the hounds get together, 
 The gorse shakes like storm-beaten bells on the 
 
 heather. 
 
 Away now he goes see he flies o'er the hill, 
 Takes the fallow to give them a trial of skill ; 
 As the scent appears good, I will lay you a crown, 
 Before half an hour the pack pull him down. 
 Now all are away. Yes Stroker, old boy, 
 You have it, I hear thy loud chorus of joy ; 
 Let thy notes on the errand of death call thy breed, 
 To vie with each other in hunting and speed. 
 Go Volatile, Nelson, Statesmen, and Sally, ] 
 Penitence, Lightning, Harmony, Tally, 
 Assist them old girl, the blood of thy sire 
 Was never deficient in vigour or fire. 
 Kwijihy! over there, Dainty he's gone thro' the 
 
 hedge, 
 
 Stand ! Stinger has got it on yonder rocks' ledge. 
 No shifting or shuffling on roads or o'er rocks 
 Avail when old Stinger is chasing a fox ; 
 Tho' in pace he's not always the foremost or best, 
 In hunting such places his nose is the test. 
 Push forward there, Novelty, Barbara, Trimmer, 
 He crosses the brook, and by Jove 'tis a brimmer ;
 
 44 
 
 We never can jump it 'tis o'er the head ridge, 
 
 So must nolens volens go cross at the bridge. 
 
 They turn down the bank, O 'tis gallantly done, 
 
 We see without chance of our spoiling the run. 
 
 How hugged up together the pack press the foe. 
 
 He can't last much longer, if thus they will go ; 
 
 Hark ! yonder I hear Tallyho from the hill, 
 
 Old Trimbush and Lubin are trying their skill ; 
 
 'Tis strange how old hounds will the young ones go 
 past 
 
 When they know many minutes a fox cannot last. 
 
 They're right, and he hears them they see him. 
 your crown 
 
 Is lost, the half-hour's not up, and he's down 
 Woo hoop ! its all up, and most brilliantly done. 
 As on we trudge homeward, let's talk o'er the run : 
 That low boggy drain engulfed two of our men, 
 And Bingham stopped there to release them again, 
 By which he lost all or the best of the chace, 
 In sympathy feeling their hazardous case. 
 The Royal Dragoons, who fell into the reeds. 
 Rode off to Dundalk to get rid of the weeds. 
 
 M Pratt was not there till the run had near 
 
 closed, 
 
 And Lambert and Fortescue somehow were posed ; 
 All three seemed most dreadfully left in the lurch. 
 The latter two, lastly, were seen at the church ;
 
 4.') 
 
 And Mervyn, who got away, had his line chalked. 
 But Hope* at a fence most untowardly baulked, 
 So to save an attempt at such frolic again 
 He turned o'er and gallantly walked thro' a drain ; 
 At least I conjecture, for Hope did not get 
 Quite up to the middle, like Mervyn, in wet. 
 It oft happens thus, that disaster or chance 
 Deprives fondest lovers of partners to dance ; 
 So thus in the chase, a turn or mishap, 
 A choice of a fence, or a run for a gap, 
 May crown every wish that we have for a run, 
 Or spoil for a day, peradventure, our fun 
 
 I wish that your leisure could bring you my way 
 To spend with my party the rest of the day, 
 But 'as you've engaged, may I hope Wednesday next 
 May not furnish you with an equal pretext ; 
 We here know no strangers, no politics ever 
 'Midst foxhunting men should friendship dissever. 
 The county is wide, and the court-house is small, 
 But the world has amusement sufficient for all. 
 
 SONG. 
 Come sit down, my friends, lef s be merry, 
 
 For time is fast fleeting away ; 
 All rancour and spleen we must bury 
 Far off in the depths of the sea. 
 * Hi 1 ? horse*
 
 46 
 
 The moth flutters close round the taper, 
 II lured by the flame it emits ; 
 
 So joy on our bumpers should caper, 
 And cheer every soul as he sits. 
 
 No temper should ruffle by drinking, 
 And wine should but mellow the breast, 
 
 As evening the sun does while sinking 
 His head in the ocean for rest. 
 
 Pure friendship when mingled with liquor, 
 With mirth and good humour to cheer, 
 
 Without any acid or bitter, 
 
 Makes punch to ennoble a peer. 
 
 Then fill high your glass, let your senses 
 Be wrapt in the goblets we drink ; 
 
 Let sorrow and care be pretences 
 
 We leave to all blockheads who think. 
 
 A THOUGHT. 
 
 In ev'ry life there is a time when pain 
 Would gladly joy from former moments gain, 
 W r hen thought runs wild and mem'ry serves too 
 
 true; 
 
 I've found it happen, so perhaps have you. 
 Say have you not, when o'er the giddy brain, 
 Darts like a meteor, pleasure that gives pain ;
 
 47 
 
 When mem'ry fiend-like brings to present thought/ 
 A frailty or a vice should be forgot. 
 When days long past in sad revolt will rise, 
 And bring their buried secrets to our eyes. 
 When pleasure past now crowns the cup of care, 
 How few the joys we gather from despair ; 
 A manhood spoil'd, ere yet it reached its prime, 
 A winter blast invading summer time. 
 
 TO MARY A V-NE. 
 
 Clever at all (I speak to you, my fair) 
 That can man's passion or man's heart ensnare ; 
 In thee no blemish Nature's eye can trace, 
 If we may judge of all things by thy face. 
 But ladies are such adepts now in dress, 
 Their hidden shape oft puzzles, I confess. 
 While o'er their arms a muslin bulwark stands, 
 Their neck to view a skin of snow expands ; 
 Then they half hide the things we all must like, 
 Their ankles, by a cursed black Vandyke : 
 But you such magic in the art display 
 That Nature triumphs over art I say. 
 You only hide your fingers, pretty loves, 
 By the slight covering of your silk net gloves. 
 'Tis scarcely fair to hide one spot of thee. 
 If charms we don't, can equal those we see.
 
 48 
 
 TO C. F. 
 
 WRITTEN IN 1814. 
 
 Xo, no, I cannot leave thee now, 
 
 My footsteps linger still, 
 And every nerve I would command 
 
 Rebels against my will. 
 
 Thy azure eyes, thy pearly teeth, 
 Thy quivering lips, impart 
 
 A thrilling feeling, that disarms 
 The purpose of my heart. 
 
 Yet, yet away, I must forego 
 
 All pleasure of the past, 
 The brilliant sun that lights the sky 
 
 In ocean sinks at last. 
 
 So 'tis with me, my every thought 
 Of bliss to thee was given, 
 
 I centered all my rays in thee, 
 Thy presence was my heaven. 
 
 And now my sun must sink at last 
 When I must part with you, 
 
 And every joy that cheered my heart 
 Must fade with that adieu.
 
 4!) 
 
 ON A BUNCH OF GRAPES. 
 
 Delicious fruit, whose mild and purple streams 
 Make all our ills imaginary dreams, 
 Gild all the pleasures of our life anew, 
 And o'er its thorns the leaves of roses strew. 
 Friends o'er thy bowl in firmer links are bound, 
 Till in the labyrinth of thought profound 
 The soul reposes, as thy juices shed 
 Their sweet and mellow incense o'er the head ; 
 And then the calm forgetfulness you bring 
 Makes every care that sears the heart take wing, 
 And hints that foes are friendly, while the soul 
 Inhales the essence of thy mantling bowl. 
 
 TO MY LEGS ON A HUNTING MORNING. 
 
 FEBRUARY 7- 1835. 
 
 O you ungrateful wretches, I could bang 
 You well, while justice plauded every pang, 
 Did not my better judgment countermand, 
 Which, though you don't, yet I, do understand 
 Ingratitude for kindness comprehends 
 The worst of all return from friend to friends. 
 Did not my mother, when you could not stand, 
 Oft rub thy ice-cold ankles with her hand ? 
 
 D
 
 50 
 
 Did she not kindly clothe with worsted hose 
 Thy little feet to warm thy infant toes ; 
 And after all, when you could run, ye rogues, 
 To save thy feet did she not purchase brogues ? 
 Were you not taught to dance our country jig, 
 Though your best dancing ne'er was worth a fig 
 In others' minds, or mine, you were no dabs 
 At dancing, which in fact resembled crabs ; 
 Yet never mind, I care not now, my boys, 
 You pleased me much at many other ploys : 
 At football I was with you heart and hand, 
 At prison-bars I had you in command, 
 At hare and hounds you carried me along, 
 Amid the foremost of the joyful throng ; 
 And there were few could jump the post or rail 
 At which thy energies were like to fail ; 
 At hockey, too, we had some sporting runs, 
 When I enjoyed thy friendship and thy funs. 
 Those were our school-boy days, but latterly 
 I can't for acts of friendship flatter ye. 
 Then when maturer age allowed, I tried 
 Thy pliant limbs, and taught thee how to ride ; 
 While the rash courser, over hedge and briar, 
 Bore thee along with unabated fire ; 
 Say, did I not, to save thy fragile shins 
 From thorns, provide thee covers of calf-skins ; 
 Or, lest the term thy memory ill suits, 
 In simple English buy a pair of boots.
 
 51 
 
 Nay, even spurs, that, if it pleased thy mind, 
 Thy horse should never lag too far behind. 
 Did I not shoot with you o'er moor and bogs, 
 All day hallooing to unruly dogs, 
 Carried the gun, the powder and the shot 
 Upon my shoulders, with the game I got ; 
 And never flagged until some hint did come 
 From one, or both, like aching to get home ; 
 When there, did I not sit before the fire, 
 Cherish and warm ye ? Could ye more desire ? 
 Did I not clothe thee, warm thee, show and hide, 
 Study thy looks, with fashion for my guide ; 
 And when knee-breeches suited not, I soon 
 Concealed thee in the graceful pantaloon : 
 But I, to tell the truth, admire by half 
 The more, the man without than with a calf. 
 A parent's care was mine, and O it burns 
 A parent's heart to tell of thy returns : 
 
 I Yet out it comes I wish to walk, you slia'nt, 
 I wish to go out hunting, O you can't ; 
 I wish to get from this to that arm-chair, 
 You both reply, content, be where you are ; 
 And then you burn and fume with actual ire 
 Till I imagine you are all on fire. 
 Then you get dogged, sulky, lazy, and 
 All is the same run, walk, lie still, or stand, 
 Appear to be all kindnesses which you 
 Had rather see me d , well d d than do.
 
 52 
 
 'Tis now too late, I wish I'd known the wa\ .- 
 Thou would'st have served me in my older days : 
 In youth, perhaps, I might thy rage have cured, 
 But now thy wilful flights must be endured. 
 'Tis hard, when kind and boundless nature r shed 
 Such unearned blessings on my humble head, 
 You both, of all the friends I love the most, 
 Should thus, o'er all my actions, rule the roast; 
 There must be some one, who, 'twixt you and me 
 In malice wrought up all this devilry ; 
 Say, is there not ? Speak both of ye, speak out. 
 We will, old Boy, we will, 'twas Mr Gout ; 
 He twitched us gently first, he then insisted ; 
 We said we'd serve you, but he still persisted, 
 And nearly got our mutual friends your hands 
 To join alike with us in his commands ; 
 And had he gained his wish you ne'er had made 
 The least attempt at writing this tirade. 
 
 WRITTEN OVER THE DOOR AT THE QUATRE 
 SAISON HOTEL, WIESBADEN. 
 
 Curae vacuus hunc adeas locum 
 Ut morborum vacuus abere queas, 
 Xon enini hie curatur qui curat.
 
 53 
 
 TRANSLATED THUS, M. F. 
 
 Those who come here for health must leave behind 
 The many curses of an anxious mind ; 
 For be assured, to minds oppressed with care, 
 The best of water is but bitter fare. 
 
 TO A SCENT-BOTTLE, BEAUTIFULLY CUT. 
 Some may admire and prize the artist's pain, 
 I only prize the essence you contain ; 
 For glass and beauty are of clay -born kind, 
 But sense and essence leave their sweets behind. 
 
 ON A LOOKING-GLASS MADE TO DEFORM. 
 Pride not thyself, nor to thy faults be blind, 
 I am the mirror of the public mind. 
 
 HOME. 
 There's a magic that wakes in the soul when once 
 
 more 
 
 The Briton returning espies his own shore ; 
 When the heart that beat fondly far regions to trace 
 Now melts into joy at his native embrace. 
 O sadly mistaken, and much led astray, 
 Is he who from nature and love turns away ; 
 Like the sheep we have read of, of old, to their cost, 
 Thought fields far off greener, thus strayed and 
 
 were lost.
 
 54 
 
 IMPROMPTU, 
 
 TO A LADY WHO KEPT HER WATCH TN HER BOSOM, BUT 
 REMARKED IT ALWAYS WENT SLOW. 
 
 The place you hide your watch, my fair, 
 Makes time, for pleasure, linger there ; 
 No wonder he should droop his wings, 
 When lying on those lovely things. 
 
 THE SEASONS. 
 MARCH 1834. 
 
 While freshened nature now again looks gay, 
 A brighter sun proclaims the lengthened day, 
 On every spray the birds enamoured sing, 
 To welcome in the blessings of the spring. 
 The violet, primrose, cowslip, now disclose 
 Their opening blossoms with the early rose, 
 To scent the breeze that vibrates o'er their bed, 
 And through the air a sweeter fragrance shed. 
 The bursting buds bedeck the humble thorn, 
 The fields look greener, as the early morn 
 Inhales the fragrance which the night has cast, 
 Like tears, to mourn the seasons that have past. 
 Calm is the breeze, and bright the sun appears, 
 As from the ocean's depth his head he rears
 
 55 
 
 Unaltered and the same years make no change, 
 
 Except in earthly things sun, moon, stars, range 
 
 Eternally, and vary but in glow 
 
 Of light or warmth, as shed on us below. 
 
 We view in wonder, and in thought confess, 
 
 The hand of God in all its mightiness. 
 
 The seasons come and pass, the winter cloud 
 
 Spreads o'er departed autumn her cold shroud ; 
 
 The spring, the first-born season, seems to cheer 
 
 With smiles the labour of the opening year. 
 
 Glad nature vies, in every varied form, 
 
 To chase from view the mem'ry of the storm ; 
 
 December's blast, that lays on Time's cold bier 
 
 The many changes of the bygone year. 
 
 Next Summer comes, in emblem as in truth, 
 
 The fervent representative of truth. 
 
 When the full vigour through the form is spread, 
 
 And all seems joy o'er man's enchanted head ; 
 
 When clouds, before the sunshine of his soul, 
 
 Depart like racers hurried from the goal. 
 
 And O ! if man could but from days gone by, 
 
 Like seasons, cull the sweets of memory. 
 
 See how our God, omnipotent and sage, 
 
 Gives us this lesson of our youth and age : 
 
 How like our lives the blossom-crowning spring, 
 
 When first our opening thoughts in youth take wing, 
 
 Soar into vigour with the summer's youth, 
 
 Till life autumnal tells this awful truth
 
 56 
 
 Winter will come, and with it will close o'er 
 
 The year, a season never to come more ; 
 
 The leaves, decayed and withering, fast will fall. 
 
 So mortal man thy lot is, one and all, 
 
 With this- one difference, which alone I trace 
 
 Leaves fall for ever Man must face to face 
 
 Meet his Creator, seated upon high, 
 
 With look benignant, yet avenging eye. 
 
 And what man's chance, save his Redeemer's pain, 
 
 Suffered, that he should bliss eternal gain 
 
 Through his all-spotless blood, which clears away 
 
 Sin from the heart that can devoutly pray. 
 
 MY FOUR BOYS. 
 
 BUXTON, 15TH JUNE 1834. 
 
 CHARLES, like his mother, not in form and face, 
 But yet, in all the qualities that grace 
 The human mind ; his the aspiring thought 
 And quick perception, with a wish to learn, 
 Ready to catch at objects, and to pry 
 Into each source of learning. Study still 
 Employs his in-door hours, and the seeds 
 Of love and warm affection, kindling in 
 A bosom warm by nature, shew themselves 
 In quick obedience to parental will. 
 No lurking selfishness or turn for vice
 
 57 
 
 Lurk in his youthful mind : he soars above 
 The low-born vulgar ways of other boys, 
 Thanks to his mother's care and watchful eye ; 
 Straight in his figure, manly in his mien, 
 Courageous, kind, and by his warmth of heart 
 Endears himself to friends, his mother's boy, 
 May he still love her as he ought to do. 
 FREDERICK, the next, a dear gay sprightly child, 
 Tricky, without one vice, thoughtless, and quick 
 In temper, like his father, whom a word 
 Can " kindle or assuage;" he differs much 
 In most things from him, such as, their pursuits 
 Seem not the same : in these the elder has 
 The same dislikes and likings as his father, 
 No matter what they are. Frederick is quick, 
 But idle ; yet his mind once turned to books, 
 And his attention gained, he learns as fast 
 As others of his age, and will, I hope, 
 Prove all parental tenderness can wish. 
 Dear TINY, open-hearted generous boy, 
 His little wee round face, devoid of care, 
 Is one continued reservoir of smiles ; 
 Sturdy, stout-hearted, independent, quick, 
 Like Fred., in temper, with both tongue and hand 
 Ready to fight for what he deems his right, 
 Which, when obtained, he'd give with all his heart ; 
 Brimful of kindness to his seeming foe. 
 CLERMONT, our last, and as the youngest is
 
 58 
 
 Always, the greatest pet (each had their turn, 
 
 So none need feel much jealousy at that), 
 
 And he's a pet with all his brothers too, 
 
 As well as me, and every body else, 
 
 A little flaxen-headed cherub, with 
 
 Ringlets which hang o'er shoulders white as snow. 
 
 Blue laughing funny eyes, encircled with 
 
 Dark eyelashes, which give a cunningness 
 
 To his expressive look, where quickened thought 
 
 Beyond his age, give hope his intellect 
 
 May with his years increase. He's but a child, 
 
 Just five years old, so hope alone 
 
 Can lead us to his future woe or weal. 
 
 God grant the four turn out what oft I pray, 
 
 For their dear mother's sake, if not my own ; 
 
 She well deserves that not one cloud for them 
 
 Or me should lower o'er a mind so pure 
 
 As hers has been, and is. May the great God 
 
 In Heaven reward her ; may her years to come 
 
 Be as unruffled as the calmest pool, 
 
 When the tossed waters rest beneath the fall 
 
 Of the vast cataract ; may no pebble e'er 
 
 In life's oft stormy course, disturb her mind 
 
 From that serenity which, I trust, may be 
 
 Her happy portion to eternity.
 
 59 
 
 THE ICICLE. 
 
 Coldness has wrought much change in thee 
 Since last I saw thee in thy pride, 
 
 Sparkling around the foaming spray 
 In freshened vigour from your tide. 
 
 Each pebble that delayed thy race 
 Ruffled your pure though hasty wave, 
 
 But all again was lulled to peace, 
 And you were silent as the grave. 
 
 A little warmth can turn thee back, 
 To flow and sparkle as of yore ; 
 
 To maze along the beaten track 
 
 Thy former stream had traced before. 
 
 The heart of man, like thy pure stream, 
 Can feel the flowing blood made chill, 
 
 Can feel it freeze with treachery's aim, 
 And grow as hardened as thy rill. 
 
 But yet, unlike thy magic spray, 
 
 No heat can thaw the coldness there ; 
 
 No sun can warm with summer ray 
 
 The heart which love has ceased to share.
 
 60 
 
 ON MY DEAR CLERMONT'S DEATH, 
 
 MY FIFTH SON. 
 
 Dear child, how oft the sudden tear will start 
 Fresh from the fountain of my troubled heart, 
 While down my cheek the furrowing anguish sears 
 Its path, the index of maturer years, 
 Sweeps youth and manhood both alike away, 
 And leaves alone its emblem of decay. 
 In joy or sorrow, to that little urn 
 That held thy spirit, still my thoughts will turn. 
 Thy rapid prattle, far beyond thy years, 
 Still sweetly echoes in my listening ears, 
 Before my eyes your winged footsteps fly, 
 And every place recalls thy memory ; 
 The river walk, the cottage bring to mind 
 Places where oft I could my Clermont find, 
 With the elastic ringlets of his hair 
 Waving at random in the healthy air ; 
 While the rich clusters of his locks unfurled 
 Profusely round his snow-white shoulders curled. 
 And then, the earliest violets of spring 
 He would, as trophies, to his mother bring 
 Unhurt. I never saw him hurt a flower, 
 Insect, or fly, o'er which his little power 
 Could use its force ; he was a cherished boy, 
 The fairest promise of parental joy.
 
 01 
 
 He lived beloved by all, too much admired, 
 
 Was prized too much, and oh ! too soon expired. 
 
 Midst friends and pleasure, thought will banish joy. 
 
 And memory sorrow o'er my sainted boy. 
 
 Yet why ? What tied him to this earthly sphere, 
 
 (For nought but care and sorrow wait us here,) 
 
 While the rich promises of endless love 
 
 Await the guiltless in the realms above. 
 
 And surely Innocence herself would bear 
 
 The wings to waft his kindred spirit there. 
 
 1HE SMILE OF YOUTH. 
 
 When, after an absence of many years, 
 Some friend of our youth again appears, 
 We find that age has fixed his throne, 
 Where youth and beauty were only known ; 
 But once when a look of identity takes 
 A hold of our senses, the spirit awakes, 
 And nought but the lustre of former days 
 Illumines the eye with its brightest blaze ; 
 The wrinkles of time draw their curtains back, 
 And we see not age's furrowed track, 
 But the smile the cheek of beauty wore, 
 Though faded a little, beams there once more. 
 If memory fails us in other things, 
 Love and affection has no such wings;
 
 62 
 
 As the smile that charm'd us in days gone by, 
 For youthful affection is ever nigh. 
 
 HOPE AND FEAR. 
 
 A DIALOGUE BETWEEN TWO HORSES THUS NAMED. 
 
 As Hope and Fear went on the way 
 
 To cover, on a winter's day, 
 
 It chanced that they to speak began, 
 
 And thus the conversation ran : 
 
 " I wonder how," says Hope to Fear, 
 
 " Your coat and eye both look so clear ; 
 
 How is't thy skin such polish takes, 
 
 And what such difference 'twixt us makes ? 
 
 I feel my hide is hard and tough, 
 
 My coat long, lanky, harsh, and rough. 
 
 My heart is light, and full of fire, 
 
 But want of health and strength conspire 
 
 To keep me back, when I would run 
 
 To be the foremost in the fun." 
 
 Says Fear, " I scarcely ever feel 
 
 The want of either whip or steel, 
 
 My willing spirit bears me o'er 
 
 All obstacles I meet before ; 
 
 And often have I turned my mind 
 
 To what made others lag behind,
 
 63 
 
 While I, in strength and vigour strong, 
 
 Am foremost of the hunting throng." 
 
 Hope thought a while, and thus began, 
 
 " Pray, Fear, what kind of gentleman 
 
 May be your master ? for I see 
 
 Great contrast between thee and me ; 
 
 'Tis not in make, my agile frame 
 
 Is equal, and to thine the same ; 
 
 An equal ardour in me glows, 
 
 And blood as good within me flows ; 
 
 My mane, I see, in truth, don't rest 
 
 Upon so firm and proud a crest ; 
 
 My pin bones, too, are rather high, 
 
 And quite deficient is my thigh ; 
 
 My legs and feet are good and sound 
 
 As ever echoed on the ground ; 
 
 My lungs are sound, but want of strength, 
 
 Curtails my gallop in its length. 
 
 My master is what great and small, 
 
 A sporting blade at races call ; 
 
 He keeps five others such as me 
 
 On forage scarce enough for three, 
 
 And works us all although we were 
 
 Unworthy of his thought or care ; 
 
 For when an accident befals, 
 
 Forthwith we're hurried from the stalls, 
 
 To till the ground and sow the oats, 
 
 To fill not ours, but other's coats.
 
 04 
 
 So thus, you see, I get the name 
 Of Hope, by struggling on to fame, 
 That I, by some good deed, may get 
 Among a sleeker ; happier set, 
 Where, if by any chance I be, 
 I'll hope to look as well as thee ; 
 And then shall Hope the contest try 
 With Fear, till one or other die." 
 " Well said," says Fear, " I like the tide 
 That runs in thee of noble pride, 
 And pray don't think I mean it rude, 
 In saying all you want is food ; 
 But, should you get into the place 
 You wish, by winning any race, 
 Be careful how you play each card, 
 To please the groom is very hard. 
 You must improve in look and air, 
 According to his anxious care ; 
 For know, the master learns too oft 
 Ideas from his servants' thought ; 
 Despises, where his praise should flow, 
 'Tis grooms that make us fit to go. 
 Both you and I have played a game, 
 And each has got by it his name, 
 You, though your pride aspiring (Hope) 
 To raise in fame with me to cope, 
 While I from fear still did my best, 
 Tried all my strength to beat the rest,
 
 65 
 
 As if I were not fit to go, 
 
 When in such vigour and such glow ; 
 
 The groom, alas, should only deem 
 
 Me fit to drag his master's team, 
 
 And thus from state and grandeur fall." 
 
 To straw -yard, from the box or stall, 
 
 Arrived at cover, mounted, started, 
 
 Both went, yet neither was faint-hearted, 
 
 And Hope, by some good fortune's chance, 
 
 Or deed, attracted many a glance ; 
 
 And so they both together got, 
 
 Hope being, by Fear's master bought ; 
 
 And often do they both appear, 
 
 But neither ever in the rear. 
 
 THE OLD FOXHOUND AND THE HARRIERS. 
 
 A foxhound, who from want of pace 
 Was deemed unfit to share the chace ; 
 His eye was bright, his scent was keen, 
 And fast, as any, had he been. 
 But work and years, we find, in truth, 
 Will fade the laurels of our youth ; 
 And those in youth most vigorous, may 
 Oft times the soonest fall away, 
 As oft we see a puny child, 
 Unused like others to run wild,
 
 66 
 
 Become a boy and then a man. 
 Nursed with all care a parent can. 
 His palid cheek and bloodless lip 
 Was ne'er allowed the grape to sip ; 
 He never joined the joyous throng 
 In chase or bacchanalian song, 
 But mop'd along, as he began, 
 A weak unhealthy gentleman. 
 While he, who foremost at each game, 
 As school-boy first acquired fame ; 
 Then would as man, with ardour dare 
 Some danger which but few wou'd share. 
 In hunting and field sports would try 
 With all the best at once to vie ; 
 Till in the prime of age his nerve 
 O'erstrung, will him no longer serve ; 
 And doom'd, alas ! the palm to give 
 To other hands, is forced to live 
 
 A life devoid of any toil 
 
 Save, sometimes, a domestic broil ; 
 
 While he perceives with wounded pride 
 
 Th' hypochondriac by his side. 
 
 Just much the same, tho' years had pass'd, 
 
 As he was when he saw him last. 
 
 But to the story, this said hound, 
 
 Whose praise I shall not now resound, 
 
 Instead of an untimely end 
 
 Was sent a present to a friend,
 
 G7 
 
 Who kept a pack of babb'ling curs, 
 Afraid to face a fox or furze, 
 But great amazement seem'd to share 
 In thoughts of vengeance on a hare ; 
 Upon whose scent when they do come, 
 Each coolly squats upon his bum 
 To raise a chorus, such as ne'er 
 Before saluted foxhound's ear. 
 He could not think what 'twas about 
 They made such wonder and such rout. 
 (Remembering how he got the lash 
 For looking at such worthless trash). 
 Yet still they seem'd amused, though he 
 No pleasure in such things could see. 
 So he stood still, and thought that all 
 Was practice for some Almack's ball. 
 As round and round, with anxious gaze, 
 He saw them threading ev'ry maze, 
 He thought it was some waltz, or dance 
 From dancing dogs, they learn'd to prance. 
 But why, the d 1 burst their lungs, 
 To give such chorus to their tongues ; 
 For if they meant to catch the hare, 
 What was the use of squatting there ? 
 As he could not define their reason, 
 He held his tongue till proper season. 
 But in the kennel he thus spoke, 
 And thus the accents from him broke :
 
 68 
 
 " Ye filthy scum, how can so vile 
 
 A race the sportsman's time beguile ? 
 
 Ye long-eared whelps, ye pottering fools, 
 
 Regardless of all hunting rules, 
 
 Instead of chasing, lose your time, 
 
 And on your hunkers raise a chime, 
 
 Just like the howling Irish crones 
 
 O'er some dead neighbour's useless bones. 
 
 How can your sitting chaunting there 
 
 Advance one inch upon the hare ? 
 
 Unless, like Orpheus, you can bend 
 
 All things by music to your end. 
 
 And then I'd spit upon the crew 
 
 Who on good horses follow you ; 
 
 For where's the use of jumping o'er 
 
 Again the fences jumped before, 
 
 When one could see from rising ground 
 
 Poor pussey go her daily round, 
 
 Requiring not a horse's aid 
 
 To see thy wond'rous gallopade. 
 
 In fact, men should, to see such fools, 
 
 Be seated upon music stools. 
 
 But men ! oh, bless the mark ! could they, 
 
 Healthy, athletic, strong, go play 
 
 Such boyish tricks, as should be aimed 
 
 At only by deformed or maimed. 
 
 The fox for men the noble fox, 
 
 Who flies o'er pasture, plough, or rocks,
 
 G9 
 
 Pursued by hounds and horses strong, 
 As ever brushed a foe along. 
 Such is the game for men to chase 
 My curse on thy ignoble race. 
 I'd far prefer myself being hung, 
 Than thus be pride and spirit stung 
 By every dog that sees me pass, 
 Who takes me for a full-grown ass, 
 And ought, in my opinion, to 
 Devour me as well as you ; 
 You for disgracing hunter's rules, 
 And me for lingering with such fools. 
 
 ALMAXACK, COURT GUIDE, AND REGISTER. 
 
 Let those who deem that time can bring no change, 
 O'er thy ancestral records deign to range, 
 And learn from them that titles, rank, and pla 
 Are got by interest, servitude, or grace ; 
 That honesty, integrity, or worth, 
 Are but component particles of earth ; 
 While art, well skilled in politics or trade, 
 Can raise mankind to competence and grade. 
 Yes, learn we must, the tide that fills our bay, 
 And sheds its healthful blessings here to-day, 
 This time to-night some other land will lave, 
 Distinct and distant, with its flowing wave.
 
 70 
 
 Marriage, to-day the happiest and best, 
 By parents favoured, and by fortune blest, 
 Recorded now we see ; yet let the year 
 Succeeding bring its tale, the record here 
 Untimely registers that fate or strife 
 Deprived the happiest in life of life. 
 Look o'er the records of the past, and see 
 If nought to grieve can touch thy memory ; 
 If worth, if honour, be they ere so great, 
 Have not been sacrificed to plots of State. 
 Years,- fortune, happiness, the moon and tide, 
 Change, like the widow, for the blooming bride ; 
 The banker, who to-day has wealth untold, 
 A bankrupt this day twelvemonth is enrolled ; 
 Andjnany are the people's choice to-day, 
 Who this day twelvemonth they would gladly slay. 
 So learn from this, that nothing certain lies 
 In trade, in politics, or woman's eyes. 
 
 THE VALUE OF A FRIEND. 
 
 When worldly cares the mind oppress, 
 And hasten pleasure's dream away, 
 
 'Tis pleasing, in a friend's caress, 
 To find a gladdening hope delay.
 
 71 
 
 Or when the wavering mind is tossed 
 By storms within the breast that roll, 
 
 To have a friend, if all is lost, 
 
 To make the passions know control. 
 
 But should that gladdening hope survive, 
 And care and sorrow be at rest, 
 
 To have a friend who would derive 
 A pleasure in your lightened breast. 
 
 Ah ! this is happiness indeed, 
 
 Which few of us on earth can say, 
 
 We have a friend, in wealth or need, 
 To cheer alike the hour away. 
 
 ON MY WIFE. 
 1815. 
 
 Friendship, they say, is but a name, 
 
 And love is said to be the same ; 
 
 Affection, taken in the roll, 
 
 Is part of what we learn at school, 
 
 Where every change of temper's hue, 
 
 Shews tint of colouring anew ; 
 
 Where the young mind, with doubt o'errun, 
 
 Is ignorant to trust or shun. 
 
 As youth grows up, we hear the same 
 
 Of friendship's ties and lady's flame
 
 72 
 
 Being fragile all, and to no end ; 
 
 That 'tis impossible to find a friend 
 
 Whose mind undoubtedly will prove 
 
 That love is friendship, friendship love. 
 
 To manhood grown, I might the same 
 
 Have found, but by another name ; 
 
 Yet flew, with anxious wish elated, 
 
 To find the being I in thought created, 
 
 With mind so pure, that friendship might admire, 
 
 And form as lovely as young love desire. 
 
 I've found that being strictly pure, 
 
 Whose love and friendship are secure : 
 
 With heart well suited to a face 
 
 Which mirth and beauty amply grace. 
 
 Her looks can soften, and bestow 
 
 A genial balm on others' woe ; 
 
 Affection, flowing through each vein, 
 
 Asserts in every place her reign ; 
 
 Friendship is found in every smile, 
 
 And love her actions all beguile. 
 
 To drive away each anxious care, 
 
 By always wishing to have share 
 
 Such is the friend I've found a wife 
 
 My star of happiness in life.
 
 73 
 
 ON JEALOUSY. 
 
 Child of mistrust, away ! nor stain the mind 
 Or blind the senses of man's frailer kind. 
 Away ! thou torment of the human race, 
 Nor dare on earth to shew thy livid face. 
 Emblem of confidence betrayed, from thee 
 What happy days conclude with misery. 
 See yonder man, whose care-worn brow 
 Shews all but pleasure reigns there now ; 
 His eye bespeaks a heart opprest, 
 With every hue of sorrow drest ; 
 His words, whenever uttered, prove 
 Suspicion takes the place of love. 
 He has a wife, as purely bright 
 As the moon shines on starlight night ; 
 As fair as Venus and her train, 
 And heart as boundless as the main ; 
 So full of love, that e'en the name 
 Of husband, kindles fresh the flame. 
 No cause she gives, or ever gave, 
 To this poor weak self-tortured slave ; 
 Yet still he pines, nor fights with sorrow, 
 Or wears a happier face to-morrow.
 
 74 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF J. L. J N. 
 
 Ah ! thou art gone, thou fair one, whither say ? 
 
 Cannot thy many virtues point the way 
 
 That thou hast ta'en ? If love, if virtuous youth, 
 
 If innocence, religion, worth, or truth, 
 
 Or charity, can claim a berth in Heaven, 
 
 Where only angels dwell, to thee 'twas given. 
 
 But oh ! the anguish other hearts must bear 
 
 To live without thee, where to turn, or where 
 
 To lay a widowed head, absorbed in thought. 
 
 Reason neglects its duty, and the blot 
 
 Of blighted love and happiness hangs o'er 
 
 The heart which misery strengthens in the core. 
 
 The mind at first can scarcely own thy sway, 
 
 O death ! triumphant o'er our mortal clay ; 
 
 But, overwhelmed, it sinks into a calm 
 
 And passive suffering, which rejects the balm 
 
 Of human skill. When all our hopes of past 
 
 And future joys are withered by thy blast, 
 
 Is it ordained that virtues such as thine, 
 
 Oh Lucy! glow- worm- like should only shine? 
 
 Forerunner of a dark sad lonely gloom, 
 
 Calm peaceful emblem of the silent tomb. 
 
 If so, the night has broke most darkly, and a cloud 
 
 Of misery hangs o'er the bosom, like a shroud. 
 
 Admired, sought, beloved, the bloom of health 
 
 Seemed to have shed o'er thee her store of wealth.
 
 75 
 
 None looked so gay, so happy, or so kind, 
 
 In manner pleasing, and in acts refined. 
 
 I once had charge of thee, that early care 
 
 Ne'er caused one moment's discontent, to sear 
 
 The friendship which I bore thee all through life, 
 
 As child, companion, sister, and as wife 
 
 And mother, equal traits were found to please, 
 
 While health smiled on thee, and when fell disease 
 
 Had swept from off thy cheek the glowing bloom, 
 
 Which seemed to rise triumphant o'er the tomb ; 
 
 Yet e'en though sickness wore that bloom away, 
 
 Still thou looked lovely, even in decay. 
 
 I saw thee, heard, but could not own that tone 
 
 As once it sounded, when all nature shone 
 
 Approving happiest of the happy wife 
 
 Of one who valued thee above his life ; 
 
 Who loved, watched, prayed, beside his Lucy's bed, 
 
 Till breathless nature owned her spirit fled. 
 
 WITH A BOUQUET. 
 
 Accept this offering, laid on Beauty's shrine, 
 A tribute paid by earth to the divine ; 
 The sweetest things are all collected here, 
 Except their essence, that's thyself, my dear.
 
 HUNTING SKETCHES. 
 
 let not satire deem me worth a fall, 
 
 1 mean no satire, though I name you all. 
 
 NORTHAMPTON IN 1827, 1828, AND 1829. 
 
 The thaw has set in, let's prepare for the chace, 
 But first take a view of each fellow's grimace ; 
 How horses and riders in courage may fail, 
 From brooks go to bridges, at fences turn tail. 
 Tho' horses and men I may praise or abuse, 
 
 I'm d 'd if asperity tinctures my muse. 
 
 Suppose Crick the meet it deserves to be first 
 
 By many tho' lauded, by others 'tis curst ; 
 
 The fences are strong, which make men's faces wry, 
 
 A horse there no use is unless he can fly ; 
 
 For there the strong bindings turn over the best, 
 
 And brooks now and then set the creepers at rest. 
 
 Jack, Jem, and the Hounds, are all right Osbal- 
 
 deston 
 
 Is mounted on Gully, by some called his best one ; 
 Tho' Pilot could always, I think, in a run, 
 Have seen the black lengthy horse thoroughly done. 
 While Jack rides old Blucher, 'tis seldom the pace 
 (If a fox goes a head) keeps him out of a place ; 
 Yet with a long draw and a sharp evening run, 
 Old Blucher is always, or shams to be done ; 
 And if you were always as close to the tail 
 Of hounds as Jack is, yours would equally fail.
 
 77 
 
 Jem too is a good one, but his horse's eyes, 
 Despising the earth, are turn'd up to the skies, 
 And 'tis well if for mercy they sue, for I swear 
 The horse will his rider send there or elsewhere. 
 Jem goes well on him, but makes best of his play 
 On old chestnut Paddy or Miss Halliday. 
 But I hold the stargazer, tho' sound as a roach 
 At best ne'er too good for a Manchester coach. 
 The fox from the cover has broke see at speed, 
 Away goes Vere Isham as straight as a reed ; 
 His knowledge of riding is good, but his bent 
 Is forward, not caring a jot for the scent. 
 At score still he goes, over every fence bounds, 
 Till often he rides o'er both scent and the hounds. 
 The 'Squire you hear hollow, " for God's sake old 
 
 Vere 
 
 Hold hard, you o'er-rode it, the scent is not there ;" 
 Yet still unattending he heedless flies on, 
 And often is blamed for the loss of a run. 
 What Charles King once said, now as justly may be, 
 " He's deaf and can't hear, and I'm d 'd if he'll 
 
 see ;" 
 
 Let pace, scent, and country be good, and I swear 
 Few men will a triumph obtain over Vere. 
 The embryo parson of Ecton elate, 
 From Oxford comes up hunting laws to relate ; 
 Thinks we of hard riding or horses know nought, 
 So a grey and a bay private tutor he brought,
 
 78 
 
 In kindness to teach us, but ten minutes each 
 Was the longest of lectures that either could preach, 
 Tho' fluent and good were the lessons we need, 
 Must say they could never ten minutes exceed. 
 The grey has gone off, God knows where, but the 
 
 bay 
 
 OIF leader is seen in the Times ev'ry day, 
 From Lamport Sir Just * will each man duly task, 
 If his friend's a hard rider, and well he may ask, 
 He ne'er sees a run, and if oft seems that he 
 Had sent brother Harry out skirting to see. 
 Then Payne, as in racing, contends to be first, 
 Should hounds overcarry the scent he is curst. 
 The 'Squire,t tho' the prince of good fellows for fun, 
 Can't bear to have spoil'd by o'er-riding a run ; 
 Yet Payne nor no other man means to annoy, 
 Hard riding is always the Emblem of Joy. 
 If the hounds get away, we must own to a man, 
 Their motto to us is " You catch us catch can." 
 Sir Edward well mounted at cover appears, 
 His horses all fresh as to beauty and years, 
 Yet all don't avail, for the asthma contends 
 That he and his hunting should cease to be friends ; 
 'Tis a pity, say I, that such horses and wealth 
 Are seldom enjoyed by Sir Edward J in health. 
 
 * Sir Justinian. -f- Osbaldeston. 
 
 J Sir Edward Mostyn.
 
 79 
 
 From the island of Saints, with team rather light, 
 Gome's Fortescue o'er to enjoy the delight ; 
 By riding two* runs he quite ruin'd one mare, 
 Like most of the others whose horses were there ; 
 But to make up his loss, in a way rather new, 
 This season in buying one mare he got two.f 
 Tho' light his nags may be, yet if you are wise, 
 Don't bet he won't go over timber of size. 
 No Gaskell is counted as one of the few 
 If hounds go the pace which they oftentimes do. 
 'Gainst weight such as his is all horses rebel, 
 And few the minutiae of such runs can tell ; 
 Let a run be but steady, no fence can impart 
 One feeling of fear to o'ershadow his heart ; 
 He goes o'er or through, if his horse is not burst 
 By the pace, he is generally one of the first. 
 Then Isted prepar'd for the chase has no doubt, 
 To get a first place when he's mounted on Gout ; f 
 But he had been wrong to have back'd his good 
 
 luck, 
 
 As Gout and his rider fell slap in a brook ; 
 He wish'd, I've no doubt, to have had A. B. C. 
 And then from disasters he might have been free ; 
 Yet Wilmer Park run,* if November could speak, 
 Would say A. B. C. was both tired and weak. 
 
 Sywell and Wilmer Park runs in November 1827. 
 f By chance a mare in-foal. 
 His chesnut horse.
 
 80 
 
 Joe Nicol and Clutterbuck, both knowing men, 
 Got once o'er the brook but ne'er ventur'd again, 
 'Twas lucky the fox did not head t'other way, 
 Or both had been lost for the rest of the day. 
 Had Ramping Jack been for that run Nicol's horse- 
 He swore he had rode it or else been a corpse. 
 Tho' Nicol at times may ride each very bold 
 Yet which is his best he can only unfold ; 
 I only know one thing, that Berkeley and he 
 Are always contending who most hunting see ; 
 But friends cannot know, only judges can tell, 
 Both ne'er go the same line of country, tho' well. 
 While memory serves, of a stile I once heard, 
 Which Berkeley on White Jack went o'er like a bird 
 And Nicol declared that he knew very well, 
 If he did not follow that Berkeley would tell. 
 One man always comes up the end of December 
 To live where he should on the first of November 
 At Kelmarsh till he comes, to ground goes each fox 
 From Naseby, Blue Cover, or Oxendon Gorse. 
 If he don't think pleasing to be at his place, 
 He should not throw damp on the joys of the chace. 
 Yet softly, my muse, for perhaps, after all, 
 The fault by report on wrong shoulders may fall 
 That keepers, too idle, oft studying ease, 
 Let foxes go in or out as they please ; 
 'Tis probably so, as I think that a friend 
 To foxhunting once, should be so to the end ;
 
 81 
 
 And Hanbury once, in support of this hunt, 
 Came forward unsparing in person and blunt. 
 To Crick there once came a reverend Divine, 
 To take from Northamptonshire riders the shine, 
 The pride of the Gloucestershire riding was he, 
 A harder there could not, tho' better might be : 
 At Yelvertoft field side the vixen was found, 
 Who tho' often hunted had ne'er gone to ground. 
 The Winwick great earths were now open, but speed 
 And courage undaunted had oft serv'd her need, 
 So again o'er the country she flew, but the pace 
 To death put the vixen, but not to disgrace. 
 Poor Wyniard had gone like an arrow thro' eacli 
 Strong bullfinching fence, and ne'er looked for a 
 
 breach ; 
 
 His coat into shreds was nigh torn, and his mug 
 Proved thorns will assault the pursuers of pug. 
 At last his blown nag was quite done, and no check 
 Had help'd to preserve his hard rider's straight neck, 
 For slap through a fence he ran, quite out of breath, 
 And left poor old Wyniard apparent in death. 
 'Twas long ere his senses returned, but to ground 
 He went not that time, and is now safe and sound. 
 The Captain from Sywell enjoys a good run, 
 And well he deserves it for services done. 
 When Britain demanded his skill on the wave, 
 Hope, valour, or life, to his country he gave ; 
 
 p
 
 82 
 
 But some gentle seraph in pity must beg, 
 As he was let off with the loss of a leg. 
 In warfare he took many vessels by pace, 
 And now he o'ertakes many men in the chace. 
 O Hungerford ! why should you, be fast asleep, 
 True fox-hunting spirits, no harriers keep ; 
 The Pytchley and Quorn are each day within reach, 
 Then why let hare-hunting thy vigour impeach ; 
 Old age comes too fast on us all, and 'tis well 
 By noble amusements to keep off its spell. 
 From Delapre Bouverie partakes of each fun, 
 He likes both the pleasure of hunting and gun ; 
 His covers are good, and 'tis certain his aim 
 That hunters should always find plenty of game : 
 Of riding he brags not, yet often is found 
 The first at a sewer when a fox goes to ground ; 
 Some wish that at times he at home was, quite snug, 
 He never approves of old reynard being dug. 
 And all would alike join in wish they were there 
 At sharp six o'clock there is no better fare. 
 The Abingdon Squire is quite up to a go 
 With any man out, when he hears Tally-ho ! 
 He rides over gates when a leader he find,| 
 And then goes a pace that leaves many behind ; 
 He hammers away without spurs, and 'tis clear, 
 He certainly ranks 'mongst the best of his year. 
 From Duston see Davy in knee-caps come out, 
 A man who well knows what he's going about ;
 
 83 
 
 When Pytchley was high in the annals of fame. 
 Among its best riders was counted his name ; 
 And now, if his horses were equal, his blood 
 Would prove that his science was equally good. 
 With ease o'er a country he goes, and I say, 
 'Tis well such example remains of his day. 
 My pen is gone wrong, but if I wrote a quire, 
 I could not too much say in praise of the Squire. 
 And O ! if it was not that sometimes is flung 
 Some speech that should never escape from his 
 
 tongue, 
 
 And that at a check he rates men as too fast, 
 Instead of sufficiently minding his cast, 
 There would not in England be found, it is clear, 
 A place such as Brixworth, six months in a year. 
 His judgment in kennel, and breeding his hounds, 
 As much to his science as credit redounds ; 
 You don't view at cover an unsightly scene, 
 Of hounds large and little, fat, narrow, and lean, 
 But all in condition and spirits appear, 
 Quite equal in flesh, bone, beauty, and year. 
 When reynard breaks cover, 'tis like to a race, 
 Each anxiously straining to gain a first place ; 
 'Tis vain tho' the Squire by his culling takes heed, 
 That each shall be equal in hunting and speed, 
 Close together they go, and those who will ride, 
 Require strange horses to keep by their side.
 
 84 
 
 MOTTOS IN PEERAGE TRANSLATED, 
 Dukes. 
 
 MORFOLK. 
 
 Sola virtus invicta. 
 His virtue only can unconquered be 
 Who neither takes nor offers any fee. 
 
 RICHMOND. 
 En la Rose je fleurie. 
 
 Let various flowers other's wreaths compose, 
 I, a true Briton, glory in the Rose. 
 
 BEAUFORD. 
 
 Mutare vel timer e sperno. 
 Spurning all changes, change not I; 
 And as to fear I'd rather die. 
 
 LEEDS. 
 Pax in bello. 
 
 I like to sit at home in ease, 
 And those may go to war who please. 
 
 DEVONSHIRE. 
 
 Cavendo tutus. 
 
 While o'er my head so many threatenings penci. 
 I hold celibacy my firmest friend.
 
 85 
 
 SOMERSET. 
 
 Foy pour devoir. 
 
 Faith should the leading star of duty be ; 
 How shall I keep it so ? I'll think and see. 
 
 GRAFTON. 
 
 Et decus etpretium recti. 
 Say nought of Barbara Villiers, and 
 Your grace an emblem of what's good will stand. 
 
 ST ALB AN *S. 
 
 Auspicium melioris cevi. 
 This looks like better times, and suits 
 My pocket to put up with Coutts. 
 
 BEDFORD. 
 
 Che sara sara. 
 
 What will be, will be; where's the use of sighing ? 
 My Duchess is enceinte though I am dying. 
 
 MARLBOROUGH. 
 
 Dieu defend le droit. 
 That God defends the right I don't deny, 
 But right or wrong I gained the victory. 
 
 RUTLAND. 
 
 Pour y parviner. 
 
 In order to accomplish, I say Pshaw ! 
 You should not be the cat to lend your paw.
 
 8G 
 
 MANCHESTER. 
 
 Deponendo me non mutando me. 
 You may remove me and be very kind, 
 But ne'er, I tell you, can you change my mind. 
 
 NEWCASTLE. 
 
 Loyalte n'a honte. 
 
 What, loyalty ashamed ! in thee, I say, 
 It shines most brilliant at the present day. 
 
 BRANDON. 
 
 Through. 
 
 Saw, sawing you will yet get through, 
 All Scotchmen work like sawyers till they do. 
 
 PORTLAND. 
 
 Craignez honte. 
 
 I'd rather die than a foul action face, 
 And so I fairly say, I fear disgrace. 
 
 DORSET. 
 
 Aut nunquam tentes autperfice. 
 Either make perfect what you ought, 
 Or, acting wisely, try at nought. 
 
 NORTHUMBERLAND. 
 
 Esperance en Dieu. 
 
 With hope in God, and riches such as thine, 
 A creed thus formed would make this earth divine.
 
 87 
 
 Marquises. 
 
 WINCHESTER. 
 
 Aymez layalte. 
 
 He who loves loyalty better will fare, 
 Than he who makes radical studies a care. 
 
 LANSDOWNE. 
 
 Virtute non verbis. 
 Valour I want, not words. Adieu, 
 O'Connell there's a kick at you. 
 
 BATHE. 
 J'ay bonne cause. 
 
 CORNWALLIS. 
 
 Virtus vincit invidiam. 
 Where innate Virtue takes her wonted seat, 
 Envy falls conquer'd prostrate at her feet. 
 
 BUCKINGHAM. 
 
 Templa quam delecta. 
 
 How fine those temples which I yonder see, 
 They all assuredly belong to me.
 
 88 
 
 STAFFORD. 
 
 Frangas sed nonflectes. 
 Break if you wish, my spirit will not bend ; 
 I stand unaltered by a foe or friend. 
 
 SALISBURY. 
 Sero sed serio. 
 
 ABERCORN. 
 
 Sola nobilitas Virtus. 
 Valour alone ennobles those 
 Who chance to fight with many foes. 
 
 HERTFORD. 
 
 Fide et amore. 
 
 By faith and intrigue I hold what I got ; 
 What others with money, with love I have bought 
 
 BUTE. 
 
 Avito mvit honore. 
 My ancestor's glory enobles a name, 
 Which else would have sunk in the annals of fame. 
 
 EXETER. 
 
 Cor unum, una via.
 
 89 
 
 Earls. 
 
 SHREWSBURY. 
 
 Pret d'accomplir. 
 I'm ready to accomplish what I ought. 
 
 PEMBROKE. 
 
 Unje seri'ira. 
 
 One I will serve, not two who can 
 Do this is something more than man. 
 
 BRIDGEWATER. 
 
 Sic donee. 
 
 So it has been in ages past, 
 And so 'twill be while Time does last. 
 
 DERBY. 
 
 S(t)is changer. 
 
 A stubborn mind no argument can change, 
 No lessons alter, and no doubts derange. 
 
 SUFFOLK. 
 
 Non quo sed quomodo. 
 Ask not from whom I got my birth, 
 But how it happens I'm on earth. 
 
 NORTHAMPTON. 
 
 Je ne cherche qu'une. 
 One love is quite enough for those 
 Who do not like seraglios.
 
 DENBIGH. 
 
 Virtus sub ponder e crescit. 
 Valour when pressed by many foes, 
 In noble hearts, but doubly glows. 
 
 PETERBOROUGH. 
 
 Necplacida contenta quiete. 
 Bustle and change delight the wayward breast, 
 Which none know to be content with rest. 
 
 WINCHESTER. 
 
 Nil conscire sibi. 
 Nought of reproach can on my actions lay. 
 
 BURKE'S NEW PEERAGE. 
 
 " Pity the sorrows of a middle-aged man." 
 
 Burke ! he must be some kith or kin 
 To Burke who Burked Daft Jamie 
 
 Has sent his precious volume in, 
 Arrayed in folds of chamois. 
 
 This peerage will cause growls *bout town, 
 
 And nobles well may tremble, 
 To see their days of birth marked down, 
 
 That age may not dissemble.
 
 91 
 
 Just now I saw a word 'bout self, 
 Which I, Jack Harvey, am hit by ; 
 
 I suppose it was that silly elf 
 
 My nephew, young Lord Whitby, 
 
 Who sent the day and date of all 
 
 The births of our family 
 Tom, John, Jane, Thomasine, and Paul, 
 
 Kate, Peg, Bill, Nell, and Emily. 
 
 Already I foresee my grief, 
 
 When in this work they sift me, 
 
 And rank me, in the town belief, 
 Between two score and fifty. 
 
 One says, Jack Harvey is how old ? 
 
 Thirty, but not exceeding ; 
 No, perhaps not ; but Burke, I've been told, 
 
 Keeps Registry of breeding. 
 
 They seek and find that I was born 
 
 In Eighty-nine, at Bister; 
 I then find out the woeful thorn 
 
 Stuck in the Whitby blister. 
 
 I -;i ! Forty-four ! ! ! you make me start ; 
 
 Is Harvey quite so old a 
 Bachelor ? upon my heart 
 
 You make me laugh ha, ha, ha '.
 
 92 
 
 'Tis thus he wears his whiskery wood, 
 To hide his many wrinkles ; 
 
 La ! ! ! upon honour it is good 
 It keeps from view his crinkles. 
 
 Now I suppose some saucy jade, 
 
 Whom I am patronizing, 
 And gently drawing from the shade, 
 
 Is thus soliloquizing : 
 
 Oh ! what a bore men of his years 
 With chaprons should be flirting ; 
 
 And not in our youthful ears 
 His gallantry exerting. 
 
 Yet I feel older is it, look ? 
 
 I'm neither sore or sorry ; 
 No it is that infernal book 
 
 'Tis my memento mori. 
 
 Full three weeks sooner I this year 
 Took to my flannel vestment ; 
 
 That I am larger, that fool Meyer 
 Declares without a jest meant. 
 
 He says my winter clothes can't fit, 
 So large has grown my corpus ; 
 
 'Tis strange ! the rascal used to fit 
 By Burke, I'm grown a porpoise.
 
 93 
 
 No, Whitby's Lord the blame must take 
 His English cook's gross dishes, 
 
 Would swell George Forster out to break, 
 In six weeks, Meyer's best stitches. 
 
 I think I'll go to Melton for 
 A month or two good hunting ; 
 
 But then I have no horses nor 
 Have I my groom, Tom Buntin. 
 
 Then horses are so wond'rous dear, 
 That for my weight are able ; 
 
 And should I drop asleep 'twere queer, 
 When wine is on the table. 
 
 For always I (to tell the truth), 
 
 Even as a beginner, 
 Both as a boy and as a youth, 
 
 Felt sleepy after dinner. 
 
 Than early hours, and tight wet boots, 
 With fast long rides to cover ; 
 
 Much better Green or Gardner suits 
 I'll pad the park on Rover. 
 
 That horrid fool Delcroix, to York 
 Sent me such curst hard brushes ; 
 
 I'm sure instead of hairs from pork, 
 They made them of boar's tushes.
 
 94 
 
 The fellow no more scruple makes, 
 
 Nor does he care one penny, 
 Whether the brush, in brushing takes 
 
 Out all your hair, or any. 
 
 I have a notion too, that his 
 
 Vanille is strong pomatum ; 
 I mean not fancy, fun, or quiz 
 
 Experience is my satum. 
 
 It made a leetle spot on top 
 Bald, and my grief's excessive ; 
 
 I take all means to make it crop, 
 But feel decay progressive. 
 
 I hate a woolly, wiggy sumph, 
 
 Or man that's wiggy looking ; 
 But Tisdall's wig (called Smith's triumph) 
 
 Is worthy of your booking. 
 
 For such a wig I'd rather close, 
 
 Than bald be, like Tom Beecher's ; 
 
 And Tisdall swears, that no one knows 
 That art adorns his features. 
 
 But people may say what they will 
 And this has grown a queer age 
 
 I ne'er felt fat, old, bald until 
 I saw this burking Peerage.
 
 95 
 
 The other day, at White's, Sir Joe 
 Called out to a new member, 
 
 " Don't take that chair, my dear fel-low, 
 'Tis Harvey's since November. 
 
 These sixteen years at least has he, 
 
 A sole possession taken ; 
 And when he goes to sleep you see, 
 
 We find him there to 'waken ." 
 
 'Tis vast impertinence, I think 
 
 For tho' I take my pleasure, 
 Is it to be supposed I shrink 
 
 From marrying at my leisure ? 
 
 'Tis so old bachelor-like, they might 
 As well say, crows-feet traces 
 
 Had swept all smoothness from the sight, 
 By harrowing up our faces. 
 
 Mem ! ! ! as to crows-feet yesterday 
 I saw some squib from Paris, 
 
 About the famous Magendie 
 I'll just step down as far as 
 
 Howell and James's they have got 
 This " Oil for skin preserving" 
 
 Against decay, and buy a pot 
 Or two, if 'tis deserving.
 
 96 
 
 For tho' my skin is smooth and fine, 
 My face quite free from wrinkling, 
 
 Yet London living takes the shine 
 From Beauty in a twinkling. 
 
 And who can stand the heat and cold, 
 
 Green Tea and Roman Ices 
 'Tis not that I am growing old, 
 
 And want for oil or spices. 
 
 For men of twenty I have seen, 
 
 (So much a London life fades) 
 Who look as tho' they long had been 
 
 With Nelson at his blockades. 
 
 Old Lady Raffle's card I see, 
 
 And what ! ! ! as I'm a sinner ; 
 The stupid, dunderheaded B. 
 
 Invites me there to dinner. 
 
 I have a mind to burn her note 
 
 T'insult me in this manner ; 
 But no, the poor old fool must doat, 
 
 Or death be close upon her. 
 
 She must be Eighty Zounds ! I'll look 
 Where age cannot dissemble 
 
 Come down, thou monstrous wondrous book- 
 No don't you make me tremble.
 
 07 
 
 Last season she'd as soon have thought 
 
 (She must be quite imbecile) 
 Of asking me to join her knot, 
 
 As Forrester or Cecil. 
 
 Then brother Paul, the parson, sends 
 
 (Oh ! reader don't you pity) 
 His son, with notes to all my friends 
 
 He's quartered in the city. 
 
 A tall long gawk of seventeen, 
 
 An Emu-looking creature, 
 A something that's composed between 
 
 The opposites of nature. 
 
 His name is Jack oh worse and worse, 
 Old Jack and Young Jack Harvey ! 
 
 Burke's Peerage is to me a curse 
 Tom, go and call a jarvey. 
 
 " Oh ! how d'ye do" the other night 
 At Arthur's, said Dick Sharvey, 
 
 Seeming to speak with much delight, 
 " I've seen your son, young Harvey. 
 
 " He's in the Guards so, how the deuce 
 " So, all this time you're married ; 
 
 " That is the way you came to reuse, 
 " And all affections parried."
 
 98 
 
 I was struck dumb, to think the brute 
 A son of mine was thunder, 
 
 My suffocated rage was mute 
 Dick started off in wonder. 
 
 Look to the Peerage, Dick halloo ! 
 
 'Twas wrong in me to blunder ; 
 He finds poor Paul turned forty-two, 
 
 Just two from me and under. 
 
 I may as well give up the thought 
 Of Brighton it is hellish ; 
 
 A raw-boned boyish set have got 
 Encircled round Miss Mellish. 
 
 Lord D. advised me t'other night, 
 To take up with Miss Wyndham ; 
 
 I got in attitude to fight, 
 
 And fairly meant to blind him. 
 
 'Tis four o'clock I never can 
 (I time so lose in dawdling) 
 
 Get out before the muffin-man 
 Down Regent Street is toddling. 
 
 But then the weather don't invite 
 
 A man of sense to go a 
 Yard from home 'tis closing night, 
 
 And Meyer has got my boa.
 
 I'll go and have a jelly hot, 
 I once liked ice of ginger ; 
 
 But now it shivers every spot, 
 Head, feet, teeth, toe, and finger. 
 
 Heigho ! how many joys we find, 
 When time has made us sages, 
 
 That suit the impulse of our mind, 
 But not our Middle Ages. 
 
 SUPPOSED ANSWER OF THE HONOURABLE 
 JOHN HARVEY TO M. F. BY A LADY. 
 
 JANUARY 1834. 
 
 Thanks, fellow-sufferer, for the feeling verse, 
 In which you sing our miserable state : 
 
 Ours, I may say, for ah ! who could rehearse 
 Those woes so well, unless he felt their weight. 
 
 Yes, it is certain, Middle Age has pangs, 
 
 Known but to those who've forty winters borne 
 
 To see old time approach, with ruthless fangs, 
 And one by one our youthful honours torn. 
 
 To see the flesh erewhile so firm and fair, 
 Now hanging loose in wrinkled skinny bags, 
 
 As if the bones some useless relic were, 
 Or antique mummy wrapt in faded rags.
 
 100 
 
 To stretch out what was once a leg and foot 
 Of stout proportions, and, alas ! discern 
 
 Nought but a shrunken spindle in a boot, 
 Just like a dash-stick resting in a churn ! 
 
 To see but ah ! my friend, I grieve thee more, 
 And 'twas to comfort thee I took the pen ; 
 
 And there is comfort for us yet in store, 
 Even for us, wretched middle-aged men. 
 
 What, if we can no longer rise at morn, 
 
 And dash, by starlight, o'er the frosty plain 
 
 Gallop all day with huntsman, hound, and horn, 
 And home at night, through tempest, snow, and 
 rain. 
 
 Why, let that pass 'twas shivering work at best 
 Now we can roll to cover snug and warm, 
 
 Tucked in a chay, like swallow in his nest, 
 Safe from the ravages of wint'ry storm. 
 
 And then, we mount a solemn kind of brute, 
 (How unlike thee, renowned Fuzileer) 
 
 Steady and cautious, and most sure of foot, 
 
 Though gout unnerve the hand that ought to steer. 
 
 Then, lest some accident your course should check, 
 Jack Wilson always at your elbow rides 
 
 Poor devil! he must not think of his own neck, 
 But stick close to you, whatsoe'er betides.
 
 101 
 
 He sounds the fords, and leads you up and down 
 Wlien no one's looking, helps you over ditches ; 
 
 If there's less glory in this sort of fun, 
 Sure it must save a quantity of breeches. 
 
 Ye mighty dead ! ye noble quadrupeds ! 
 
 Who carried Fortescue in seasons past, 
 Say, does it grieve you in your Hounhym shades, 
 
 To know your Nimrod's fall'n to this at last. 
 
 But hark ! I hear a loud approving neigh 
 The judgment of the Equine race proclaim ; 
 
 Rejoicing, though the outward man decay, 
 To find their ancient master still is game. 
 
 So have I seen a fox break forth at morn, 
 
 Hold on for many a league with swiftest pace ; 
 
 Till fagged and breathless, wearied nature worn, 
 Yet still persisting in the hapless race 
 
 He onward limps death follows in his track, 
 Fainting and weary still to move he tries ; 
 
 They pull him down, the hounds are on his back 
 He fights and struggles, and unyielding dies ! 
 
 Adieu ! my boy I'm well, except a cough ; 
 
 I go each night to Crockford's in a jarvey 
 Pray, let me recommend you Hendric's stuff 
 
 For dying whiskers I'm your friend, 
 
 JOHN HARVEY.
 
 102 
 
 TO MRS C LD D, 
 
 TOR A NAVAL FRIEND, WHO HAD A SHIP OF WAR WORKED 
 FOR HIM IN WORSTED. 
 
 As I compare the present with the past, 
 The pride with which I first espied the mast, 
 So richly wing'd to brave the boisterous breeze, 
 To storm the fortress, or the foe to seize ; 
 How my young heart, unused to kindness then, 
 Saw nought but tyrants in my fellow-men, 
 Nor hoped the solace of one happy hour 
 Would ever cheer me in a lady's bower. 
 Thy present bears the image of the past, 
 But far too tender for the surge or blast ; 
 Thy fairy hands that made these bulwarks rise, 
 That raised those sails and pennant to the skies ; 
 Thy tongue's soft accents, and thine eyes appear 
 More likely far to govern here than there ; 
 Yet you, to fill the charmer's cup brim high, 
 Make days long since remembered with a sigh, 
 This emblem of the past you give to me 
 To cherish recollections of the sea. 
 
 Yet oh the contrast of those days with these 
 When I nor hear the battle nor the breeze, 
 But calmly feel the interest of friends 
 For all my former sorrows make amends, 
 And no contrasted cares need meet my heart 
 To make me doubly own how kind thou art.
 
 103 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 Is it fair, fairest lady, to freshen the past 
 
 With the scenes you portray of the battle and 
 
 blast? 
 
 Do you think it requires an emblem thus true 
 To make me feel fully more thankful to you ? 
 Must the sailor's great hardship, his only birthrights 
 Be thus everlastingly brought to his sight ; 
 Or can this, your emblem, be meant to contrast 
 The bliss of the present with cares that are past ? 
 Does the light of thine eyes, or thy tongue's accents 
 
 flowing, 
 
 Resemble dark skies or the boatswain's pipe-blow- 
 ing? 
 
 Believe me, no contrast is wanting to please 
 Where nature and elegance seem at their ease. 
 
 GIVEN TO A LADY, 
 
 /ITU HER PROFILE ON A LEAF, THE REMAINDER OF THE 
 LEAF DECAYED. 
 
 While all around is subject to decay, 
 Thy beauty only bows not to its sway ; 
 And like the memory of pleasure past, 
 Maintains its innate sweetness to the last.
 
 104 
 
 THE SAME, 
 
 WITH A CUPID HOVERING OVIR A HIART. 
 
 Mid all the ravages of time and art, 
 Still Love will flutter o'er his fav'rite heart. 
 Thus Love, tho' some may doubt it, here is seen 
 In all the freshness of an evergreen. 
 
 THE PEACOCK'S PETITION TO F Y M N, 
 
 TO WHOM IT WAS SENT, SHE WISHING ITS PLUMAGE. 
 
 Oh happy state, 
 
 When I of late 
 'Bout fields or gardens pleasured, 
 
 Nor thought that ray 
 
 Of plumage gay 
 By woman's eye was treasured; 
 
 But I mistook 
 
 For gaudy look, 
 By woman always sought for, 
 
 Decreed that I 
 
 Poor wretch should die 
 For plumage I ne'er sought for.
 
 105 
 
 So here content 
 In stable pent, 
 
 To wait the dreadful hour, 
 
 n 
 
 When savage hand 
 With sharpened brand, 
 O'ercomes me with its power. 
 
 My neck she'll pick, 
 
 On ribband's stick 
 My bosom's purple down ; 
 
 'Twill then appear 
 
 In full career 
 Adorning fashion's crown. 
 
 If you'd compose 
 
 Of crape or rose 
 A wreath your head to bind, 
 
 And let me range 
 
 This place so strange, 
 'Twould ease thy noble mind ; 
 
 But if it still 
 Remains thy will, 
 
 To kill me for my feathers, 
 I pray you be 
 Shut up like me, 
 
 Or well tied down with tethers.
 
 106 
 
 DAY AND NIGHT AMUSEMENTS OF LOUTH. 
 
 Some through the world at easy gait, 
 
 With plodding footsteps go ; 
 Some meddle with affairs of state, 
 
 And pleasures all forego ; 
 
 Some to detach, will fondly sue 
 Their neighbour's child or wife ; 
 
 And some, though they no business do, 
 Yet lead a busy life. 
 
 Some o'er the fields, with gun in hand, 
 
 Will shoot to scare the crows ; 
 But Clement's coasts along the strand, 
 
 The sea birds are his foes 
 
 And e'en the barnacle from high 
 
 Beneath his shot must fall 
 He calls it pleasure, you or I 
 
 Bad sport or none at all. 
 
 Then Woolsy has theatricals, 
 
 And merry go the pipes ; 
 And some men like the Radicals, 
 
 I wish they had the gripes. 
 
 And Woolsy makes the strongest ale 
 
 A tripple X 'tis said, 
 Which, if you drink, it will not fail 
 
 To make a dizzy head.
 
 107 
 
 Port, claret, hock, and such like things, 
 
 E'en porter makes us sad ; 
 Champaigne and ale give spirit wings, 
 
 But whisky sets us mad. 
 
 Sweet is the precious juice of grapes, 
 
 May it never sour prove, 
 Since wine, they say, gives angel shapes 
 
 To every lass we love. 
 
 The girls, who do such sunshine fling 
 
 O'er all our joys, may brag, 
 That in the dizzy waltz's swing, 
 
 Their spirits never flag. 
 
 The nimble foot and sylph-like air, 
 As round and round they fly 
 
 The rounded arm, and bosom fair, 
 Where hangs man's destiny. 
 
 Were I to paint the many charms, 
 O waltz, thy twistings bring, 
 
 My name would raise the world to arms, 
 So you may have your fling. 
 
 Each maid so many charms can boast 
 Which must man's sense enthrall ; 
 
 To other's part I leave that coast, 
 And lead you to the hall 
 
 Where dance and flirt still keep it up, 
 The major sings his song,
 
 108 
 
 They all are happy when they sup, 
 And form a joyous throng. 
 
 Thus, through the livelong winter's night 
 
 The village folks are gay ; 
 They dance and revel in delight, 
 
 And turn the night to day. 
 
 But some, who work it through the day, 
 
 In chase of buck or fox, 
 At home on downy pillows lay, 
 
 Till crow the merry cocks. 
 
 The maids may dance, the village sound, 
 
 With jocund revelry, 
 I like the music of a hound, 
 
 And first-rate sillery. 
 
 Champaigne away drives every care, 
 And cheers the moody mind, 
 
 Unlike the glances of the fair, 
 It leaves no sting behind. 
 
 Yet some will hunt, dine, dance, and sup, 
 
 Take any thing that's going, 
 As Brabazon takes a drain when up 
 
 In spirits, like a Blowen : 
 
 To see him hunt, you'd think that he 
 No heavier was than feathers ; 
 
 And on the floor he's like a flea, 
 When he's not bound in leathers :
 
 109 
 
 He is the pick amongst the girls, 
 
 He waltzes it so neatly ; 
 And many, e'en the one with curls, 
 
 Smiles on his honour sweetly. 
 
 And Filgate, too, though big he is, 
 
 Rides hard as any boy ; 
 We like his kind, good-natured phiz, 
 
 It all betokens joy. 
 
 But should it not ? the reader asks, 
 
 His fancy queen he got, 
 And, full of happiness, he basks 
 
 Upon his chosen lot. 
 
 He joins not now the merry train, 
 
 As jig and country dance 
 Are banished from each fiddler's brain 
 
 For fashions brought from France. 
 
 When Blunt,* within Lessrenny halls, 
 
 With pipes did once parade, 
 He played a lilt would make the walls 
 
 Curse waltz or gallopade. 
 
 Then he, with lovely Kate or Sue, 
 
 In wriggle, heel or toe, 
 With Louth and others whom we knew, 
 
 O'er sod or cloth would go. 
 
 Blunt, a famous player on the bagpipes.
 
 110 
 
 But those were merry times indeed 
 We were at war with France ; 
 
 And, though our countrymen might bleed, 
 Our maids could country dance. 
 
 Then B. D. Shiels, of much renown 
 
 For luncheon and colcannon, 
 Would dun a man for half-a-crown* 
 
 From Newry to Stabannon ; 
 
 Yet 'tis not for himself he ask, 
 
 On this we're all agreed, 
 Goodnature's self imposed the task, 
 
 Earth-stoppers must be feed. 
 
 The cover drawn, and reynard found, 
 
 See Straton leads the field, 
 Except, perhaps, a single hound, 
 
 Wont to his prowess yield. 
 
 Away he goes, with spur and voice 
 He drives his well-tried steed, 
 
 Who'd rather take a nap for choice 
 Than such display of speed. 
 
 Yet at the death, when up the fun, 
 
 The stout dun nag is seen, 
 He shakes it through as he begun, 
 
 As though he'd beaten been. 
 
 * Earth-stoppers' money.
 
 Ill 
 
 Thos. Norman, too, on his Cigar, 
 
 Is eager for the chase, 
 Though lately Keapoch's jaunting car 
 
 Conveyed him to his place. 
 
 'Twas not the gout is very true, 
 Though he inherits such, 
 
 I would not hint that Fortescue 
 Or he e'er had a touch. 
 
 Yet what avails such slight event, 
 When we the past review, 
 
 Of four who youth together spent, 
 There now remain but two. 
 
 Macan and Ruxton both have passed 
 Though equal years all knew, 
 
 All four were friends unto the last 
 Though now are left but two. 
 
 Then, if those two surviving, can 
 
 In pleasure lessen care, 
 The devil take the selfish man, 
 
 Who envies them their share. 
 
 Barneath, Lessrenny, Moortown, all 
 
 Our covers have a claim 
 Beneath the muse's pen to fall, 
 
 To hand them down to fame ;
 
 112 
 
 But then, the men who hunting go, 
 
 If well or ill betide, 
 Shall, as the goosequill's couplets flow, 
 
 Be sung as they do ride. 
 
 Amongst the men who would be first, 
 
 Is Garstin (when he can) ; 
 And should his horse but go a burst, 
 
 He'll talk 'gainst any man. 
 
 His horse beats others out of sight, 
 
 His very words you'have, 
 And if he finds a neighbour bite, 
 
 He crams it down with salve. 
 
 Though he may boast it rather oft, 
 
 Yet still he goes it well ; 
 Try him, and t if you find him soft, 
 
 You may a story tell. 
 
 And Brabazon, too, the seafield man, 
 
 Being anxious for the fray, 
 His mare at Greenmount river ran, 
 
 But fell into the spray, 
 
 High plunged the mare, and like a buck, 
 She shook her haughty head, 
 
 Until her rider she did chuck, 
 Into a watery bed,
 
 113 
 
 They strove and struggled each their share, 
 
 And many had a doubt, 
 If both, or either man or mare, 
 
 Should ever more get out. 
 
 At length we had on either side 
 
 The river, man and mare. 
 Do you, who rivers choose to ride, 
 
 Of such like feats beware. 
 
 The green horsemen are sporting blades, 
 
 As any of the crew. 
 And tho' in riding there are shades, 
 
 Apparent to our view ; 
 
 Yet still we must allowance make, 
 
 Our county banks are tough, 
 And English horses well may quake, 
 
 The stones are very rough. 
 
 The Colonel, that's Sir James, ye ken, 
 
 On Scarlett's horse goes fast, 
 On Garstin's mare sits Hoffinden, 
 
 Who scorns to be the last. 
 
 But tho' Sir'James rides hard enough, 
 
 It don't his pleasure mar, 
 In giving you a pinch of snuff, 
 
 To ask for a cigar.
 
 114 
 
 Then Hunter, when last quarter'd here. 
 
 ShowM us hew we could ride ; 
 But now about this time of year, 
 
 He's going to take a bride. 
 
 There's Hampton too, of hunting fame, 
 Has hounds that never flag ; 
 
 He rides not for a rider's name, 
 But always saves his stag. 
 
 Yet we have those who go it too, 
 
 Full bang at any thing, 
 As Richardson upon stiff toe, 
 
 Like stool upon the wing 
 
 She on the brink of drains will stand, 
 
 However brisk the pace, 
 And on the further brink will land 
 
 It seems an awful case. 
 
 But now my muse you must awake, 
 The hounds old reynard find, 
 
 See how the bristling gorses shake, 
 Like aspens in the wind 
 
 He turns again, for at his heels, 
 
 Old Majesty is tough, 
 And if he breaks he justly feels, 
 
 The hound has speed enough.
 
 115 
 
 Thus baffled he the dog and pack, 
 
 A moment's silence reigns, 
 Old reynard knowing well the knack, 
 
 Flies quick across the plains. 
 
 Pat* 1 1 ;il loos and the crash begins, 
 Like lightning come the hounds ; 
 
 Men casting to the de'il their sins, 
 Each o'er the country bounds. 
 
 Some at the first or second fence, 
 Are doom'd to stop their ride, 
 
 And some ride in the future tense, 
 Nor care what ills betide, 
 
 Away they go, not as the hounds, 
 
 Together close and fast. 
 Not every horseman knows the bounds, 
 
 To which his horse will last. 
 
 But this I know let scent be good, 
 
 A fox to save his pate, 
 Must eke'be healthy, strong and shrewd, 
 
 And go an awful rate. 
 
 The vixen's dead, peace to her shade, 
 By pace not stealth she died ; 
 
 Had she but lived, the legal trade, 
 In cunning might have vied, 
 
 Pat Creevey the huntsman.
 
 116 
 
 Against her there were rumours spread, 
 
 Of dire and sad events, 
 And many cases I've heard said, 
 
 Of desperate mal-contents. 
 
 They say that Clements lost a horse, * 
 
 The inquest Jury tell, 
 That on examining the corpse, 
 
 The guilt on vixy fell ; 
 
 That Woolsey too had lost his breath, 
 
 That Garstin lost a shoe, 
 And Marron's horse supposed to death, 
 
 Had put been by this schrew. 
 
 I need not tell the many tales, 
 
 The lawyers could make out ; 
 Or tell the many falls or fails, 
 
 To riders hard and stout, 
 
 But this I say, that hounds or men, 
 
 Cannot have better tact, 
 And ye who wish the truth to ken, 
 
 Why come and try the fact. 
 It is not always oldest folks, 
 
 Who make the best of hits, 
 And Forster, tho' he has his jokes. 
 
 Seems now to have his wits f. 
 
 Epitaph by W. P. M 1 C 
 
 Too far I urged thy high undaunted pride, 
 
 Or else poor Morbus thou would'st not have died. 
 
 -f- We suppose the author means in giving up the hounds.
 
 117 
 
 He spares not trouble or expense, 
 Tho' it his purse may gall, 
 
 He takes our smiles as recompence, 
 And drinks a health to all. 
 
 NORTHERN RANGERS- 
 
 OCTOBER 1835. 
 
 Dr Clements, in giving a toast t'other night, 
 Which, midst all your many, gave me much delight, 
 Twas my " Health, and the Hounds," and tho' I 
 
 did speak, 
 
 My feelings were only expressed in a squeak ; 
 For the pride that I felt at your satisfaction 
 Completely upset me, and caused a reaction. 
 However allow me to thank you and those 
 Who viewed my exertions in Coleur de Rose ; 
 And allude to one part of your eloquent diction, 
 To prove that our sport is beyond contradiction. 
 You said that "the seed which last winter was sown," 
 Had now to maturity's height nearly grown ; 
 Perhaps you alluded to speed in the hounds, 
 Perhaps to the grass-seed now seen in the grounds, 
 Yet I cannot think (hunting vigorous aid is) 
 But you must have meant it regarding our ladies. 
 To prove what I say (and the ladies themselves 
 Don't like to be quietly laid on the shelves),
 
 118 
 
 They ne'er tell their lords not to hunt, though they 
 
 beg 
 
 Them not to run risks with their back or their leg, 
 By which it strikes me they feel parties concerned 
 In the health which the votaries of hunting have 
 
 earned. 
 
 The crop I allude to is sportsmen some born, 
 But none to true sportsmen, I hope by the horn, 
 Some embryo sportsmen some girls, else the joys 
 Of the future were more than half lost to the boys. 
 'Mongst the crops I have seen, the result of last year 
 Is heir of Lessrenny for him we should cheer. 
 The seat of his ancestors always has been 
 The home of the hunter in red or in green ; 
 And may it continue its shelter to those, 
 While men can find friends, or foxes have foes. 
 I yesterday cast my eye over his holding, 
 And think that another young sportsman is moulding. 
 J. S., too, can boast of a sportsman his heir, 
 And an embryo sister or two will appear : 
 So Woolsey declares, do you think him a judge ? 
 I hope it may half turn out to be fudge ; 
 He still will persist, and declares it is true 
 That Straton may justly expect to see two. 
 R. Haig has a something to prove that a fox 
 Well hunted, don't lay up a man on the stocks ; 
 I know he is pleased, and I also have reckoned 
 His wife, as his stud, has increased jn. a second.
 
 119 
 
 J. H., though his wife, after marriage, declared, 
 The risk of fox-hunting she dreadfully feared, 
 I hope may return to the sport, as an heir 
 Will bless his exertions in hunting last year. 
 I cannot enlarge on the subject much more, 
 Yet hope that this season may heighten the score, 
 And feel some regret that a couple who married 
 Last year, should away from this county have tarried. 
 But no doubt exists that a fox-hunting life, 
 Much more than a quiet one, pleases a wife ; 
 And those who are knowing in such things, declare 
 The Eniscoe property will have an heir. 
 John Woolsey with tears in his eyes and all that, 
 Still hears his wife say he is getting too fat ; 
 She says he's too heavy some others too old, 
 And Humbug,* alas! is eventually sold. 
 I ne'er knew his horse of his weight to complain, 
 And strongly advise him to purchase again ; 
 But this I do know that he says he so well 
 Was, never, since Humbug he forced was, to sell ; 
 We cannot find out, but I trust in my life 
 The secret may quickly appear to his wife. 
 Enough has been said of those who have leases, 
 Of tenants-at-will I don't know the cases ; 
 But strongly suspect that the hunting this year, 
 Will crown the ambition of many a pair. 
 
 " A famous old horse.
 
 120 
 
 Do you think I am right ? I believe there is no man 
 A mucli better judge in Louth, Meath, or Cavan, 
 Than you, my Dr C. at the pleasures of life, 
 You equal the Cooper, the pride of Kilsythe. 
 Yours truly, 
 
 EUCSETROF WEHTTAM. 
 
 P.S. A friend peeping over my shoulder, " declares 
 The President's wife you've forgot unawares, 
 You know there is no one who hunting makes better 
 Than he to whom you are inditing this letter." 
 I hope you don't think so the Cooper so blythe 
 A full Highland company bred at Kilsythe, 
 And you as his prototype I by the manual 
 Consider quite certain to give us your annual. 
 Four marriages I shall just now mention here, 
 Which have taken place or will do so this year, 
 To shew that our hunting is not all a bubble, 
 But tends oft to make the single man double. 
 The first was a peer who braved Cupid's darts 
 At archery meetings, while shooting for hearts, 
 Little thinking that he, while pulling the bow, 
 Would quickly with Love's softish sentiment glow. 
 He hit the bull's eye, and up popped a lady, 
 
 Say could he dojess he married Miss G y. 
 
 'Twas midst all those present with jealousy seen, 
 That his prowess had carried the archery queen.
 
 121 
 
 The next is residing in Dublin this year, 
 He gave up this county for hunting red deer 
 And the garrison hounds; you can't think him rash 
 To take choice of sporting with plenty of cash. 
 The next, by St George, and by Jove it was game. 
 May his Dardistown foxes oft show us the same ; 
 The cover was good, and the' morning was bright, 
 The hounds in the vision appeared in the night, 
 And the morn after wedlock young Harry appears 
 At cover, 'midst plaudits from all his compeers. 
 The next is in embryo may no mishap 
 'Twixt the cup and the lip occur to Delap; 
 Yet tho' 'tis in embryo still, the bridesman 
 Declares it as bold and as loud as he can ; 
 We all must admit that his joy had no bounds, 
 And ye can vouch for it, ye horses and hounds; 
 He cares not one jot if report reached to Glo'ster, 
 That he will be married forthwith to Ann Forster. 
 I'll give you a toast, tho' 'tis long after dinner, 
 May a wife never be by our hunting made thinner ; 
 May maids before dinner and after it find 
 Their sweethearts more lively, more pleasant, and 
 
 kind; 
 
 May all the unmarried be made happy wives, 
 And spend 'midst us hunters the rest of our lives.
 
 122 
 
 ENGLISH, ITALIAN, SCOTCH, FRENCH, IRISH 
 LEGS, 
 
 WERE GIVEN AS A SUBJECT, AND APPROVAL WAS TO BE PRO- 
 CLAIMED WITH OTHER FEMALE BEAUTIES. 
 
 Men on all points, affecting to be wise, 
 
 Some paint a favourite's beauty in her eyes, 
 
 While some more, philosophically use 
 
 The mind for beauty, and admire for blues. 
 
 Another says, the snow-white beating breast 
 
 Of woman's charms, by far surpass the rest ; 
 
 With him I quite agree, there is no part 
 
 So quick conveys a meaning to the heart. 
 
 I like a bosom, cast with beauty's form, 
 
 Unknown to vice, and yet with tact to charm ; 
 
 Swelling as impulse may direct to give 
 
 A hope that tells us we may love and live. 
 
 How oft beneath thee swells th' enamoured heart, 
 
 With smothered feelings words could not impart ; 
 
 While whispering fancy, which is never blind, 
 
 Draws the idea that it could be kind. 
 
 Still I must add three things, or I am wrong, 
 
 The eye must perfect what the breast begun : 
 
 Her breath must be, if rightly I portray, 
 
 The morning zephyr of the mildest May ; 
 
 And oh ! her teeth must be, like ocean's gem, 
 
 Clear, white, and regular ; I doat on them.
 
 123 
 
 Enough of teeth, eyes, bosom, all above, 
 
 Each has a natural rivalship in love ; 
 
 But I am plain, and think there's something neat 
 
 And quite enamouring in pretty feet. 
 
 I like a pretty foot it to my mind conveys 
 
 A recollection of my former days. 
 
 E.'s feet were neat and beautifully small, 
 
 In G go y*s shop her shoe was least of all ; 
 
 But now my muse, the subject if you please 
 
 The legs below, but not above, the knees ; 
 
 And hard the task to give to those the prize, 
 
 Whose real shape has never met my eyes. 
 
 English, Italian, Scotch, French, Irish legs 
 
 Have charms to boast, my muse in pity begs. 
 
 I should not tell the merits each possess, 
 
 Or which men should admire, more or less ; 
 
 Yet for myself I'll let the secret go, 
 
 I like their centre that's the Scotch, you know.
 
 T'RINTED BY NEILL AND CO., OLD FISHMARKET, EDINBURGH.
 
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