POEMS OF THE CHASE 
 
 .ia!iW8i^>AK^\>v#^@i)Mf^^ 
 
 SIR REGINALD GRAHAM, BART.
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 POEMS OF THE CHASE
 
 POEMS OF THE CHASE 
 
 Collected and T^ecollected 
 
 by 
 
 SIR REGINALD GRAHAM, Bart. 
 
 LONDON 
 
 ARTHUR L. HUMPHREYS 
 187 PICCADILLY, W 
 1912
 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 THE MELTON HUNT, 1813 
 
 A LAMENT FROM TUE RUFFOKD UUNT, APRIL 18G1 
 
 ' ROUSE, BOYS, ROUSE ' 
 
 HUNTING WITH LORD LONSDALe's HARRIERS, 1850 
 
 THE QUORN HOUNDS, 1867 
 
 THE MIGRATION OF SPRING CAPTAINS INTO LEICESTERSHIRE, MARCH 1851 
 
 A LEGEND OF GAL\YAY ...... 
 
 MELTON IN 1830 ....... 
 
 ' WE HAVE SEEN A RUN TOGETHER ' . . . 
 
 IN MEMORIAM : TUE COTSWOLD HUNT, MAY 1871 . 
 
 THE COSTON RUN, AYITU TUE BELVOIR UOUNDS, JANUARY 
 
 THE GALLOPING \YHIP 
 
 A LEGEND OF THE QUORN COUNTRIE 
 
 TOM FIRR's song ....••• 
 
 OLD OULTON LOWE ....•• 
 
 THE DUKE OF GRAFTOn's HOUNDS: A RUN FROM UALSE COPSE 
 
 HUNTING SONG OF SIR HARRY GOODUICKE's TIME, 1832 
 
 THE DREAM OF AN OLD MELTONIAN 
 
 vii 
 
 17th, 1863 
 
 PAOB 
 
 1 
 
 7 
 9 
 
 13 
 
 16 
 
 17 
 
 22 
 
 25 
 
 35 
 37 
 
 39 
 
 43 
 
 45 
 
 50 
 
 54 
 
 58 
 
 72 
 
 75 

 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 MELTOXIAN SONG, 1831 81 
 
 THE TARWOOD RUN 83 
 
 HUNTING FROM A RAILWAY CARRIAGE 92 
 
 ODE TO ' NIMROD ' 94 
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF THE LATE DUKE OP DORSET, 1815 ... 96 
 
 THE HUNTSMEN, 1811 98 
 
 ODE TO JOHN WARDE 100 
 
 DEATH OF TOM MOODY .......... 105 
 
 THE BILLESDON COPLOW RUN, FEBRUARY 24tH, 1800 .... 107 
 
 OLD LEICESTERSHIRE HUNTING SONG 118 
 
 LOWESBY HALL 120 
 
 THE SCALFORD RUN WITH THE BELVOIB HOUNDS, JANUARY 4tH, 1862 . 130 
 
 THE LAMBTON HOUNDS 132 
 
 THE DAYS WHEN I RODE WITH THE QUORN 134 
 
 VU
 
 POEMS OP^ THE CHASE 
 
 THE MELTON HUNT. 
 1813. 
 
 I SING Fox-hunting, and the gen'rous rage 
 W'^hich spurs tlie nohle youth of this new age, 
 With careless toil, all for their country's good, 
 To rid us of those vermin of the wood 
 That nightly steal, and for their luncheon hoard 
 The poultry which should smoke upon our hoard. 
 Such feats advent'rous through the hard-run day, 
 From dull November to all-charming May, 
 Call for the poet's best and readiest rhyme 
 In strains at once familiar and sublime. 
 Oh ! could my muse resemble such a chase. 
 And with the riders keep an equal pace, 
 Though cautious, bold ; cool, yet with ardour fired ; 
 Free, without check ; impetuous, yet untired. 
 
 Ye knowing sportsmen, foremost of the lead. 
 Who keep no turnpike, and no fences heed ; 
 Who crack the echoing whip, go off in style. 
 Enjoy the sport, and pace through every wile, 
 
 1 a
 
 POEMS OF THE CHASE. 
 
 Now found, now lost, and now again in view, 
 
 The cunning fugitive ye close pursue! 
 
 Ye booted senators, who for me frank. 
 
 Claiming post after post an unpaid thank ; 
 
 Who, with yourselves, bring thousands yearly down 
 
 To glut the cravings of this sharp-set town, 
 
 Whose trickful tradesmen, farmers, rogues ingrain. 
 
 Thrive by your wants, and by your losses gain. 
 
 Scramble who most at sight your bills shall share, - 
 
 'Take in a hunter,' and the booty's fair! 
 
 Be candid, hunters, if, once framed in Greek, 
 
 Faintly your foreign dialect I speak. 
 
 Up to your phrases, if I'm found unable. 
 
 Not tutor'd in the science of your stable. 
 
 Besides our tribe, you know scarce hunt at all, 
 
 Save for preferment, and the well-cribb'd stall ; 
 
 Yet by your partial notice made thus rich. 
 
 Raised by your favours to my honours pitch, 
 
 I'll try to set the table whilst you quaff, 
 
 If not on roar, on a facetious laugh. 
 
 Whilst spice of Latin shall with harmless jest, 
 
 Like poignant Cayenne, give iny olio zest. 
 
 Not as their fathers erst ' with early horn,' 
 Our modern hunters now ' salute the morn.' 
 'Tis noon, ere these in scarlet bright array 
 Commence th' achievements of the dubious day, 
 
 2
 
 THE MELTON HUNT. 
 
 Each on his steed, sleek-coated and hi^h-fed, 
 
 From sire to dam in calendar well bred ; 
 
 For in the jockey's heraldry the stud 
 
 Must boast descent from ancestry of i)l()od ; 
 
 As well you might a hobby-horse bestride, 
 
 As mount a roadster of no lineal pride. 
 
 Here blacks, browns, bays, and chestnuts, most renown'd 
 
 For spirit, temper, shape, price, fill the ground ; 
 
 Each brags his favourite's prowess in the Held, 
 
 ' My grey mare to no better horse shall yield ; ' 
 
 But Forester's fine eye and single glance 
 
 Finds out the latent blemish as they prance ; 
 
 Deep skill'd to scan the solid worth that lies 
 
 In horses, men, and their true qualities. 
 
 Hear him but talk, what music on his tongue : 
 
 It cheers the old, it fascinates the young; 
 
 Look in his face, no doubt the counterpart, 
 
 The honest, liberal sentiment of heart. 
 
 Hark ! forward how they bear ; nor them restrains, 
 
 Or driving blast, or storm with drenching rains. 
 
 What springs they make, o'er ditches, post and rail. 
 
 And dash and plunge through Belvoir's stick-fast vale : 
 
 In at the death 'tis glorious to arrive ; 
 
 To claim the brush no mean prerogative : 
 
 Thrown out, and some thrown off", besplash'd with 
 
 mire, 
 A motley group — peer — parson — grazier — squire. 
 
 3
 
 POEMS OF THE CHASE. 
 
 Home safe return'd, how changed I Studious they dress, 
 
 In newest fashion for the sumptuous mess; 
 
 Set out with Lucry's complete bill of fare : 
 
 Fish by the mail — delicious, costly, rare; 
 
 High-season 'd dishes, — fricassees — ragouts. 
 
 All that the sav'ry pamp'ring art can do. 
 
 They eat like hunters, frequent bumpers drain 
 
 Of flavour'd claret and of brisk champagne. 
 
 Flush'd with the grape, like Persia's prince grown vain, 
 
 They thrice each bullfinch charge, and thrice ' they slay 
 the slain,' 
 
 Where Smith would draav, what lengths with fresh- 
 men go. 
 
 To break them into passing show ! 
 
 ' Saddle white Surrey for the field to-morrow.' 
 But, ah ! unlook'd for, to their spleen and sorrow. 
 The next day ' comes a frost, a killing frost,' 
 All's at a stand, and all their pleasure cross'd. 
 To town some scamper, and the odds are even. 
 Who first get seats in Chapel of St. Stephen, 
 To do their duty there, State flaws detect. 
 Invent new laws, and trespasses correct; 
 The frost now gone, they're down again in mind, 
 And motion quicker than the verging wind. 
 To sober whist, some soberly betake, 
 Though deep the rubber, deeper yet the stake, 
 
 4
 
 THE MELTON HUNT. 
 
 Fix'd as stjuinrli pointers to a practised set, 
 
 A Veil read in Hoyle, on every deal who bet : 
 
 And cards play'd out, what a confused din 
 
 Of blame, or praise, as the sets lose or win : 
 
 ' You played the Knave, you might have played the 
 
 Deuce.' — 
 ' You drew and forced my Queen.' — ' Pray, spare abuse.' 
 ' You cut my hand to pieces, threw away 
 Your highest diamond, and you call this Play ? ' — 
 ' There a cool fifty goes ! Hefore we part, 
 Take my advice, get Bob Short's rules by heart.' 
 So oft began the midnight conversation, 
 So closed as oft in mutual altercation. 
 
 But now a scene how brilliant hath ta'en place, 
 Where beauty, elegance, and softest grace, 
 Of highest female rank — resistless can 
 Charm and control that lawless creature, man : 
 Improve his morals, harmonise his heart, 
 And tenderness to fortitude impart : 
 School of I'oliteness, be our club hence named, 
 For kindest conjugal attention famed, 
 Each well deserving that pure bliss of life, 
 The sweet endearments of a lovely wife ; 
 Be Benedict of Beatrice possess'd. 
 Like Cavendish, Powlett, ^^^orcester, Plymouth bless'd, 
 
 Like P'orester 
 
 5
 
 POEMS OF THE CHASE. 
 
 .... I leave a lengthen'd space 
 Where bachelors forlorn may find a place ; 
 Aylesford and Dartmouth, gallant Craven, May, 
 All-polished JNIayler, and Sir Robert Gay. 
 
 This round of labour ruddy health insures. 
 To courage stirs, to hardiness inures ; 
 Thus train'd, my masters, you would meet the foe 
 Furious to battle, as to covert go. 
 A cavalry already form'd the French to rout, 
 And Tally-ho ! your frantic war-whoop, shout. 
 But hold ! our furrows in the blade look green, 
 Our burden'd ewes their tender lambs do yean, 
 Timely you cease, of damages afraid. 
 Nor injure lands for summer crops new laid ; 
 Pastures revive — foxes shall breed and rear 
 Strong and inviting cubs for next Leai' year. 
 
 This poem was composed in the year 1813, when Mr. Assheton 
 Smith was Master of the Quorn, by the Rev. Dr. Ford, Vicar of Melton 
 Mowbray for forty-five years, and very popular with the members of the 
 Melton Hunt on account of his wit and social qualities.
 
 A LAMENT FROM THE RUFFORD HUNT. 
 
 April 1861. 
 
 1'i' falls, that blow we first began to dread 
 When the foul primrose reared its monstrous head. 
 When first uprose from bank and mossy dell 
 The flaunting violet's disagreeable smell, 
 \\'^hen vicious lambs commenced their savage bleat. 
 Oh ! when they're roasted, won't revenge be sweet ? 
 When angry farmers first were heard to shout, 
 'Now then, "'ware wheat," where are your eyes, you lout?' 
 It falls that blow, and I of heart bereft 
 Feel as though Bendy ^ hit me with his left; 
 Hit me just after I had freely dined, 
 And in that spot which schoolboys call the wind. 
 
 The season's over, we have heard this morn 
 The last sweet note of gallant Percy's " horn ; 
 And sweeter still, the last melodious sound 
 Of deep-toned music from the eager hound. 
 All now is mute save one word whispered low 
 To horse and man alike, and that is ' \\'^oe.' 
 Oh, boots beloved, and must we meet no more, 
 Must se\'en sad sultry sunnuer months pass o'er 
 Ever your brown tops, lustrous with white of egg. 
 Shall clasp this slender but rejoichig leg ? 
 
 ^ BendifTo, the famous puf^ilist of those days. 
 
 - Captain Percy Williams, formerly of the 9th Liincers, wa.s Masiter 
 of the Rufford Hounds from 1841 to 1861.
 
 POEMS OF THE CHASE. 
 
 And ye, whose name would be from scruples weak 
 A breach of etiquette for lips to speak, 
 JMust we too part, must these unhappy knees 
 Wear the long garments of inglorious ease ? 
 For tiie last time thy buttons now I see, 
 (Mothers of many a pearl they've been to me). 
 
 And when shall we three meet again, I cry. 
 These buttons with their button-hook and I ? 
 Oh, for that time when he who for our chins 
 Brings boiling water, and 'puts out our things,' 
 AVith smiling face shall draw our blinds and say, 
 'John's just gone off, sir, with the white-legged bay.' 
 Oh, for the cantering hack, the genial weed. 
 The cheery friend who joins us as we speed ; 
 Oh, for that hour when once again we greet 
 That rosy visage at our merry meet — 
 Behold the sight with which none ever vied, 
 The hounds, the horses, and the men who ride ! 
 Oh, then once more in ringing words we'll thank 
 Those English squires whose coverts neer are blank, 
 While cap in hand across the heavy clay 
 Welfitt ^ once more shall cheer the pack away, 
 While our hearts leap with wild, exulting joy. 
 And all is happiness without alloy ! 
 
 1 Major Welfitt, Master of the Ruffbrd from 1861 to 1867. 
 
 8
 
 'ROUSE, BOYS, ROrSE/ 
 
 Bij Jf)HN C'ami'HKI.l of SdddcIL 1820. 
 
 ROUSE, boys, rouse, 'tis a fine lumting morning ; 
 Rouse, boys, rouse, and prepare for the chase ; 
 Let not the time Hy that's spent in adorning. 
 But on to cov^er hie at a good pace. 
 There when vou find, sir. 
 The country s divine, sir. 
 The fences are whackers, the brooks are not small ; 
 But were they larger, sir. 
 Boldly we'd charge em, sir. 
 Nor care a farthing, sir, how otl we fall. 
 
 Now for the fox, he is driven, sir ; 
 
 Hark how tlie valleys re-echo the call ; 
 'Tis Osbaldeston's ' voice reaching the heavens, boys. 
 Hallooing ' forrard ' loud as he can bawl. 
 
 Then there's such splutterijig. 
 
 Spurting, and sputtering. 
 Each one so anxious to be in the van ; 
 
 At the first rattling leap, 
 
 Ox-fence or field of deep. 
 Onward the good ones creep — catch them who can. 
 
 ^ Mr. Georjj;e OsbaUleston, Master of the Quorn from 1817 to 1821 
 and from 1823 to 1827.
 
 POEMS OF THE CHASE. 
 
 White ^ on the ' Wright,' sir, is in the first flight, sir, 
 
 And quite out of sight, sir, of those in the rear ; 
 And with him goes Neville, and Berkeley,"^ that devil 
 Who of good or evil knows no hope or fear. 
 
 INlolyneux^ strives at, 
 
 What horse scarce dare rise at, 
 Bold Plymouth * bullfinches close at his side ; 
 
 Musgrave^ on Antelope, 
 
 Baird^ upon Jenny Hope, 
 Over the grassy slope forward they ride. 
 
 Coke^ on the pony, sir, scarce has a crony, sir, 
 Standish ^ has distanced the crowd very far ; 
 
 * ' That well-known performer over a country or over a course, Mr. 
 John White," later on Master of the Cheshire Hunt from 1841 to 1855. 
 
 '^ Admiral Sir Maurice Berkeley, afterwards Lord Fitzhardinge, of 
 Berkeley Castle. 
 
 ^ Lord Molyneux. 
 
 ^ Lord Plymouth. 
 
 ^ Sir James Musgrave, Bart. 
 
 ^ Sir David Baird, Bart. 
 
 ^ Mr. William Coke, of Norfolk, owner of ' Advance." 
 
 ^ This was the gentleman of whom 'Nimrod' wrote: 'Among the 
 best of them was Mr. Charles Standish, who, I am sorry to say, preferred 
 the pleasures of the Continent to those of the Chase, of which at one 
 time he was both a lover and an ornament.' About the date of this 
 poem the Old Club at Melton was occupied by those celebrities, ' the 
 four M's '' : Maxse, Moore, Maher, and Musgrave. During his Melton 
 period (which evidently did not last for long) Standish lived a good deal 
 in the jovial society of the Old Club, but he seems to have been some- 
 
 10
 
 'ROUSE, ROYS, KOT^SE.' 
 
 AVhilst at a pace, sir, that few men dare face, sir. 
 Without checking pace, sir, drives \'alentine Maher. 
 
 Prince of the heavy-weights, Twecd(hile,' is hniising : 
 Maxse,-^ on Cognac, cannot be beat ; 
 
 what critirHl about the tailini^s (»f" those with whom he tviroiised, if we 
 may judge by the following stanzas, of which he wits the author : 
 
 Adieu to the land where the foxes are flyers, 
 
 Where the fences are bigger than anywhere else. 
 
 Where none value their necks, and if the horse tires 
 Decline for the animal, not for themselves. 
 
 Where the pace of each steed and his fencing is noted. 
 And the pride of all rural top-sawyei's condennied ; 
 
 Where the system is humbug, and a head that ne'er (|uoted 
 A sentence worth knowing sells a horse to a friend! 
 
 Let White, half a dandy, for fear of a failure. 
 Drink no wine after dinner on })urpose to bet; 
 
 Swear Brndeneirs n sportsman, Oshaldeston a tailor, 
 And cinse poor Cave lirown and his raseallv set. 
 
 Let Molyneux backbite the friends whom he flatters, 
 I-.et Standish persuade him this course will succeed; 
 
 Let them both talk of horses and Church and State matters, 
 And think they're top-sawyers in justice and breed. 
 
 Ijct Maher sell his horses at handicaj) auction. 
 Ride hard on a good one and well on a screw, 
 
 Hint that Catholics oidv (unlike our |)crsuasion) 
 
 Are sincere in their claims and in horse-dealing too. 
 
 Let Campbell convince us the Scotch are a nation 
 As rich as they're honest, as kind as they're brave. 
 
 Whose sons can drink whiskey and ride like damnation 
 
 With himself at their head — What more would you have ? 
 
 ^ Lord Tweeddale. 
 
 - Mr. Maxse rode ' Cognac ' nine seasons. 
 
 U
 
 POEIVIS OF THE CHASE. 
 
 Poor Johnny Campbell's^ horse long since refusing, 
 
 In struggling convulsion fits dies at his feet. 
 But our pace is the best, sir ; the fox is hard prest, sir ; 
 The hounds run with zest, sir, heads up and sterns 
 down ; 
 He can't reach yon cover ; no, no, 'tis all over — 
 Hark how the death-pealing tallies resound. 
 Dined — o'er our claret 
 We'll talk of the merit 
 Of ev'ry choice spirit that rode in this run ; 
 
 But here the crowd, sir, can be just as loud, sir, 
 As those who were foremost enjoying the fun. 
 
 Faster and faster they tell each disaster 
 Of bunglers and tumblers, and tailors who shun ; 
 While we drink round, sir. 
 And drink to these hounds, sir, 
 Who over such ground, sir, could show us such fun. 
 
 ^ Mr. Campbell, of Saddell, the author. He was riding a friend's 
 horse, and the animal liaving unfortmiately died, Mr. Campbell, hoping 
 to conceal the disaster, begged the owner to put a price upon him ; but 
 that gentleman declining to do so, Mr. Campbell was obliged to reveal 
 the calamity. 
 
 12
 
 HUNTING WITH LORD LONSDALE'S 
 
 HARRIERS.' 
 
 THP^iRE was an Earl of ancient name 
 Who hnnted tlie fox, but preferred him tame ; 
 Though his sire had been a hunter free 
 As bold as e'er rode o'er a grass country. 
 
 This sire once mounted his high-bred horse, 
 And viewed the wild fox from the iiillside gorse ; 
 The son has come down by the second-class train, 
 Worried a bagman and home again. 
 
 Tis half-past twehe by the railway clocks, 
 
 And the Earl has called for Ins liorse and his fox ; 
 
 And behind the Earl there rides the Earl's groom, 
 
 And then comes a man with a big ])irch broom. 
 
 Clad in the Earl's discarded breeches, 
 
 A\^ho will tickle the fox when he comes to the ditches. 
 
 The Earl's admirers are ranged in Hrowns \'ard : 
 They all wear top-boots and intend to ride hard ; 
 
 ^ Tlie ^nd Earl of Lonsdale kept a pack of hanioi>. in the Vale of 
 Aylesbury about the middle of the last century, when the above rhymes 
 appeared in caricature of the proceedings. 
 
 13
 
 POEMS OF THE CHASE. 
 
 Whether wily fox or timid hare. 
 
 Be the game to-day, they none of them care. 
 
 Well was it the Earl had called for his fox 
 
 And brought him from Tring in a little deal box ; 
 
 For three hours and more they drew for a hare, 
 
 And drew in vain — ' all was blank despair.' 
 
 ' Then,' cried the Earl to the elder Brown, 
 
 ' Open your box and turn him down.' 
 
 So they turned him down in Aylesbury Vale, 
 
 In sight of a fence called a post and rail, 
 
 To suit the views of a certain gent, 
 
 Who rather liked rails and thought he ' went ' ; 
 
 Over that fence the first to fly 
 
 Was the gent, of course, but the fox was shy 
 
 And would have declined ; but the Earl and his groom. 
 
 The Huntsman and Whip and the man with the broom. 
 
 And two boys in the cart and the Browns, Sam and 
 
 John, 
 Wouldn't hear of his shirking and drove him on. 
 
 A pleasant line the captive took. 
 Wouldn't have doubles, avoided the brook ; 
 As you may imagine, he went by rule. 
 Only taking the leaps he learnt at school. 
 
 14
 
 T.ORD LONSDALE'S IIARRIEKS. 
 
 Two hounds of IJaron Rothschilds breed, 
 
 UnniJitclied for courage, strength, and speed, 
 
 Close on his flying traces came, 
 
 And all but won tlie desperate game — 
 
 When just as tlie Earl prepared to sound 
 
 Tlie dread ' Who-whoop ! ' lie ran to ground ; 
 
 So they dug liiin out — and tlie Earl and his groom 
 
 And the Browns and the gent and the man with the broom 
 
 And the fox and the hounds are at Tring again, 
 
 And the Earl lias gone back by the four o'clock train. 
 
 15
 
 POEMS OF THE CHASE. 
 
 THE QUORN HOUNDS. 
 
 1867. 
 
 WHEN will the Marquis^ come : who can tell ? 
 Half-past twelve oi- half-past one : who can tell ? 
 Is he sober, is he drunk ; nipping like Mynheer von 
 
 Dunk ? 
 Will he ride or will he funk : who can tell ? 
 
 Shall we have to wait again : who can tell ? 
 In the wind and in the rain : who can tell ? 
 While the Marquis, snug and warm, in the hall where 
 
 toadies swarm, 
 Leaves us to the pelting storm : who can tell ? 
 
 Where'U he draw by way of lark : who can tell ? 
 Gartree Hill, or Bradgate Park : who can tell ? 
 Sport regarding as a jest, which will suit his fancy best — 
 North or south, or east or west : who can tell ? 
 
 Where, oh where, rings Goodall's^ horn : who can tell ? 
 Why came I with this cursed Quorn : who can tell ? 
 Marquis, this is not a race ; can you look us in the face. 
 And declare you love the chase : who can tell ? 
 
 ^ The 4th and last Marquis of Hastings (born 1842, died 1868) was 
 Master of the Quorn Hounds from 1866 to 1868. 
 
 - Frank Goodall, huntsman to Mr. Tailby, who ^t that time hunted 
 
 the adjoining country. 
 
 16
 
 THE MIGRATION OF SPRING CAPTAINS 
 INTO LEKESTEUSHIRE. 
 
 March 1851. 
 
 B}j Rev. Geoiujf. Sloaxe Staxi.ey, 
 Hector of Brdustoue. 
 
 IN merry March, when east winds blow, and suns are 
 hot and glaring, 
 And everybody's nose is cold, and visage flushed and 
 
 staring, 
 Spring Captains wlio, in provinces, have hunted at their ease, 
 To Melton or to Leicester Town drop down by twos or 
 
 threes. 
 On horses long, lean, lank, and screw'd, with martingale 
 
 and snafHe on. 
 Which not a man on earth would buy, and very few 
 
 would raffle on. 
 
 They come from Chelt'nam's healthy springs, from Leam- 
 ington's hotels, 
 
 From garrison and watering-place, from York and Tun- 
 bridge \\''ells ; 
 
 From where old Thames flows proudly by \'ictoria's stately 
 bowers. 
 
 Or Severn rolls her mournful wave by Berkeley s feudal 
 towers ; 
 
 17 o
 
 POEMS OF THE CHASE. 
 
 From where Brighton by the sea extends her long parade. 
 From London's Crystal Palace, and the Burlington Arcade. 
 
 They come from Wiltshire's breezy downs, from Dorset's 
 
 grassy vales, 
 From wolds whence Beaufort's Duke looks forth o'er his 
 
 own hills of Wales ; 
 From combes and valleys clustering fair round Devon's 
 
 steep hillside. 
 From where the Trent, thro' many a shire, conducts his 
 
 silver tide; 
 From heaths and pastures scattered wide over our pleasant 
 
 land, 
 From forests not as yet profaned by Seymour's ruthless 
 
 hand. 
 
 E'en Scotland sends her gallant sons, and at a pinch none 
 
 harder, 
 And Erin's exports, full of fun and military ardour. 
 With horses which would race all ours and beat them in 
 
 a jiffy too, 
 But something always interferes, because there is an 'if 
 
 or two ; 
 If fences were but all stone walls, and were not high but 
 
 wide ones, 
 For at ditches they are novices, and at a brook but shy 
 
 ones. 
 
 18
 
 SPRING CAPTAINS. 
 
 Then how these gjillaiit lieroes ride, the clamour and con- 
 fusion, 
 
 The fuss they make, tlie rush tliey make — oh, dear ! how 
 they amuse one ; 
 
 How they press on each other's hacks, and crowd tlie gaps 
 and gateways, 
 
 And ride in circles round the field and any way hut 
 straight ways ; 
 
 And how thev let their horses loose, and call to folks to 
 catch 'em. 
 
 Their own legs being stiff, because horse soldiers never 
 stretch 'em. 
 
 And then the falls they get and gi\'e, the way they balk 
 and press one. 
 
 And cross one at one's fences, and in other ways distress 
 one. 
 
 How glad they'll be and so shall we, their hunting tour 
 being over. 
 
 When April ends their miseries and lays them up in clover ; 
 
 And how they'll bet at Croxton Park, and if their luck 
 won't pull them through. 
 
 They'll sell ' Old Pat ' and ' Limerick Lass,' and so con- 
 trive to pay their due. 
 
 Then o'er the strong mess claret, or fi'othy inn champagne, 
 When they get to country quarters, they'll sit and talk 
 again ; 
 
 19
 
 POEMS OF THE CHASE. 
 
 How charging at Lord Wilton's^ side they got of pace a 
 
 notion. 
 And where Lord Granby^ led the way, they seconded the 
 
 motion ; 
 How Forester admired, and Gilmour^ did not scout 
 
 'em, 
 And how their judgment helped the hounds, which could 
 
 not hunt without them. 
 
 They will not mention where the brook runs by the 
 
 covert's side, 
 How * one of theirs ' had in the mud his scarlet jacket 
 
 dyed. 
 They will not say how Whichcote's* grey, when once he 
 
 had made sail on him, 
 O'er hill and valley made such way they could not see the 
 
 tail of him ; 
 How one was by the stile deposed, and how the rail had 
 
 Hoor'd one. 
 Both taken coolly in their stride, by Newport and by 
 
 Gordon. 
 
 1 The 2nd Earl of Wilton (born 1799, died 1882), a famous horse- 
 man, who hunted from Egerton Lodge at Melton. 
 
 ■^ Marquis of Granby, afterwards 6th Duke of Rutland, and Master 
 of the Belvoir Hounds from 1857 to 1888. Lord Forester was Master 
 from 1830 to 1857. 
 
 ^ Walter Little Gilmour, a well-known Meltonian. 
 
 * Sir Thomas Whichcote, Bart., of Aswarby Park. 
 
 20
 
 SPRING CAPTAINS. 
 
 And now farewell to all brave youths, until another season, 
 To spin a longer rhyme than this would be quite out of 
 
 reason. 
 ISIind, when you come again next year, you come prepared 
 
 for going : 
 Come one — come all, Cioodall' will give your best of steeds 
 
 a blowing. 
 The Bel voir hounds will faster run, the fences will grow 
 
 larger, 
 And sport will satisfy your first as well as second charger. 
 
 * Will Goodall, the celebrated huntsman, so long nt Bclvoir. 
 
 21
 
 POEMS OF THE CHASE. 
 
 A LEGEND OF GALWAY. 
 By George Lawrence. 
 
 FROM the gorse of Ahascragh^ the hounds broke 
 away, 
 With the ' grey fox ' on foot and a warm scenting day. 
 The cracks of Roscommon are here, and they swear. 
 Come Ufe or come death, to beat \^alentine Maher." 
 
 He's last through the clay and the deep of the vale. 
 Not seen at the gap in the third post and rail ; 
 And, still with the lead, the Roscommons ask, 'Where 
 Is the pride of your country, bold Valentine Maher ? ' 
 
 Then, smiling aside, the old huntsman spoke low, 
 
 * With the grey fox on foot we've a day's work to do ; 
 
 You'll have nerves of the strongest, nor steel must you 
 
 spare 
 If you ride to the finish with Valentine Maher.' 
 
 All the while his hot chestnut was chafing in vain. 
 Till the foam from her nostrils speck'd breastplate and 
 rein ; 
 
 ^ Ahascragh, Lord Clonbrock's place in Gahvay. 
 
 2 Valentine Maher, of Turtulla, Co. Tipperary, and M.P. for that 
 county. Born 1780 ; died 1844, unmarried. 
 
 22
 
 A LEGEND OF GALWAY. 
 
 But cool, as at first, ' Take your time, never care ; 
 We'll catch em yet, Kathleen,' said Valentine Maher. 
 
 They near'd the Black Ri\er, they heard its dull roar — 
 They mark'd the thick mist-wreaths that brood on its 
 
 shore ; 
 When his laugh, close behind them, rang cheery and 
 
 clear — 
 * Here's food for the fishes,' quoth \'alentiiie iNlaher. 
 
 While they stood on the bank, and the boldest held 
 
 breath, 
 As he gazed on the torrent, three fathoms beneath ; 
 When the best of Roscommon drew rein in despair, 
 With a rush to the front came \^alentine Maher. 
 
 He called upon Kathleen — one snort and one spring. 
 She clove thro' the air like a swallow on wing. 
 He turned in his saddle — ' Now, follow who dare ! 
 I ride for my country,' quoth \ alenthie Maher. 
 
 The hounds left the valley — they strain'd up the hill — 
 But one rider remains, and he sticks to them still. 
 They check'd on the brow of Kilconnel, and there, 
 To turn them and cast them, was A'alentine Maher. 
 
 AVhere the coverts of pine o\'er Athenry frown, 
 
 AVithin one mile of home, the grey fox was pulled down : 
 
 23
 
 POEMS OF THE CHASE. 
 
 And rock, hill, and valley sent back the death cheer, 
 As they rang to the halloo of Valentine Maher. 
 
 So we'll drink with nine cheers to the old county's 
 
 breed — 
 To the blood in the veins of both rider and steed ; 
 And here's, ' The next time that Roscommon shall dare 
 Go straight across Galway with Valentine Maher.' 
 
 24
 
 MELTON Ix\ 1830.' 
 A Day with Lord SorTHAMPioNs Hounds. 
 
 Blf \\. BeRNAL OsB(JllNE, M.P. 
 
 Ml DwST lowering skies, o'ercast and tinged with red, 
 Sol, slowly rising, (juits his ocean bed ; 
 Chases the vapour of" the night away. 
 Illumines Melton, and proclaims the day ; 
 Far in the East his glorious orb appears, 
 And smiles at once on helpers and on peers. 
 O'er gorse and wood alike, o'er hill and plain, 
 On brooks, still bumpers from the recent rain, 
 His brightest rays he cast, a.s if he meant 
 To gladden nature, but to spoil the scent. 
 Though bright his rising, soon his face he shrouds, 
 Behind a mantle of o erspreading clouds ; 
 
 ^ This sparkling poem was no doubt written by Bernal C)slx)rne, 
 author of the 'Chaunts of Achilles,' published a few years later anony- 
 mously, in which I^rd Gardner is severely handled : 
 ' But lo I where following on chesnut dark 
 
 The grinning Gardner gallops down the Park ; 
 
 Slow in the senate, tho' not wanting sense, 
 
 Quick in retort, and (|uicker at a fence ; 
 
 With him no hunter ever dare refuse 
 
 His hand so perfect, damnable his muse ! 
 
 Strange, though for years Fve listened to the crowd 
 
 Who canvass character, the rich and proud : 
 
 Of him alone, as yet I never heard 
 
 One kindly action or approving word ; 
 
 Sparing of cash, he ne'er outruns his bounds. 
 
 And Suffield keeps whilst Gardner hunts the hounds.' 
 
 as
 
 i 
 
 POEMS OF THE CHASE. 
 
 And ere John Clod has drove afield his wain, 
 His jacket's moistened with a drizzling rain. 
 
 Now Melton sportsmen for the chase prepare : 
 Some curl their wigs — some merely curl their hair — 
 And curse that rashness which has brought them 
 
 down 
 So far from Crockford's, and the joys of town. 
 Tenacious of his toggery, Musgrave fears 
 To spoilt his garments worn for many years ; 
 And, though already mounted, back he goes, 
 And changes old ones for still older clothes : 
 (What's in a coat ? When hounds run, he is wont 
 To show its back much oftener than its front.) 
 Nowhere a youth who goes too fast to last. 
 On milk and soda-water breaks his fast ; 
 Here older hands, with stronger stomachs blest, 
 With tea and brandy lull their nerves to rest. 
 Now, trampling at the door, tlie pack appears, 
 Impatient of delay lie kicks and rears. 
 Away ! away ! once mounted, on they ride. 
 And soon are panting at the covert-side. 
 
 Hark to that cheering note ! they've found him, see, 
 The gorse is waving like a troubled sea ; 
 He's gone away ; hark, halloo ! to the cry : 
 Like swallows skimming, o'er the fields they fly. 
 
 26
 
 MELTON IN 1830. 
 
 ' Give them a moment's time — hold hard, sir, pray ; 
 
 You'll stop his pulling ere we've done to-day.' 
 
 Look at the gallant pack, away they sweep : 
 
 The pace is killing and the country deep. 
 
 l{()llcstone is tar hehind, and on oiu* riglil, 
 
 The house at Noseley just appears in sight ; 
 
 By Gloostou W^ood o'er Cranoe-field they pass, 
 
 \\'here many a horse declining missed the gi'ass. 
 
 On, on they go, and at a trinnning pace ; 
 
 See, Baird is racing for a tbremost place ; 
 
 Yet, much I do mistrust me if his steed 
 
 Can hold that pace, and always go full speed. 
 
 \Vhitc spurts and cranes, now skirting looks for balks. 
 
 And gallops faster than our Rokeby talks. 
 
 See Chesterfield ' ad\ ance with steady hand, 
 
 ' Swish at a rasper,' and in safety land ; 
 
 Who sits his horse so well ? or at a race 
 
 Drives four-in-hand with greater skill or grace? 
 
 And when hounds really run, like him can show 
 
 How fifteen stone should o'er the country go ? 
 
 If not in person monstrous, yet in weight, 
 Campbell conies crashing through a new-made gate ; 
 Now, ' by his fathers' gods ' you hear him swear, 
 And much you wonder who those fathers were. 
 
 ^ The IajixI Cliesterfiekl inentioiied was the Gth Earl, who died in 
 1866, Master of the IVtchley from 18138 to 1840, when Will Derry was 
 hii> hunti)Uiau. 
 
 27
 
 POEMS OF THE CHASE. 
 
 Now Plymouth, at a brook, with Gilmour crams, 
 
 While Drummond jobs his horse, and jobbing damns. I 
 
 AVith iron hand, and seat devoid of grace, 
 
 You see at once the counter is his place ; 
 
 Now on this side, and now on that he pitches, 
 
 Strikes all his timber, fathoms all his ditches. 
 
 Till, by a binder caught, a weight of lead 
 
 He comes at last to anchor on his head. 
 
 Quite at his ease, yet stealing o'er the gi'ass, 
 From out the struggling crowd see Wilton^ pass. 
 Here Goodricke, perfect in his hand and seat, 
 Rides like a sportsman who can do the feat ; 
 And Stanley, who in courage may not yield 
 To him of yore, who fought on Flodden-field, 
 Forgets his weight, and labours all he can 
 To show Perfection both in horse and man. 
 Carried beyond excitement's wildest bounds, 
 His horse forgetting, seeing but the hounds, 
 
 ^ In the ' Achilles ' lines Lord Wilton also comes under the lash of 
 Bernal Osborne : 
 
 * Whilst on his switch-tailed bay with wandering eye 
 Attenuated Wilton canters by ; 
 His character how difficult to know, 
 A compound of psalm tunes and Tally-ho ! 
 A forward rider, half inclined to preach, 
 Though not disposed to practise as to teach ; 
 An amorous lover with the saintly twist. 
 And now a sportsman, now an organist.' 
 
 28
 
 MELTON IN 1830. 
 
 Kinnaird — that dear enthusiast of tlie cliase — 
 Heeds not how deep the ground, nor slacks his pace; 
 Will nothing turn or stop him ( nothin*^- check 
 That form of riding hut a hroken neck { 
 
 Here Lowther^ follows slowly on the track, 
 
 And pines in secret for his ' tailing pack.' 
 
 (We speak of years gone by — for now we're told 
 
 Their style of hunting is not always cold, 
 
 And that they draw till one.) We therefore pray 
 
 ' That they, like other dogs, may have their day.' 
 
 Since Lambert's judgment has reformed the pack, 
 
 Improved their breeding, and dispensed with Slack,- 
 
 All head and legs no longer now they look, 
 
 But stoop to pick a leaf from Goosey's"' book. 
 
 The gallant Colonel, pottering at the gaps. 
 
 First damns, then envies ' those hard-riding chaps.' 
 
 Gardner, who then for raspers ne'er would swerve, 
 
 And thought all riding to consist in nerve 
 
 And swimming ri\'ers — owned the pace was good, 
 
 But still would ha\ e it faster if he could. 
 
 See Haycock Hies along ; and few there be, 
 
 Where all ride hard, can harder ride than he. 
 
 ^ The Colonel I.owHicr nieiiiioned was son of the 1st Earl of 
 Lonstlale, and lived at H.ii Icvtlioipe, in the Cottesmore country. 
 
 -' Slack was the fornar hinitsnian of the Cottesnioie, well worthy of 
 his name. 
 
 ^ Goosey was Lord Forester's huntsman at Belvoir. 
 
 29
 
 POEMS OF THE CHASE. 
 
 With spurs and hand-whip Matuzevic ^ plies ; 
 O'er ridge and furrow swiftly Zodiac flies : 
 But though his steed be made of gallant stuff, 
 * Tamnation, Zodiac, you will get enough.' 
 Lyne Stephens onward holds a steady course, 
 And Grantham gallops faster than his horse. 
 Greene,^ leaning slightly forward, passes by. 
 But quickly turning shows how good his eye. 
 Pinned in his shoulders, see old Johnny Moore — 
 A gate half open — Rokeby slips before, 
 Forgets his manners in his love of place. 
 And slams the swinging gate in Johnny's face, 
 Then, spurring onward with a graceful seat. 
 Unlike Camilla, gallops through the wheat. 
 
 Now some, alas I before their horses fail, 
 Flight after flight succeeds of post and rail. 
 Then T^angton-hill appears — the crowd decline, 
 And keep their riding till they've had their wine. 
 Now BrudenelP leads, and well does Lansfar show 
 'J'he rattling pace that strength with blood can go. 
 
 ^ Count Matu/evic was a Hungarian in great favour at Melton, and 
 is one of those depicted in the engraving of the ' Melton Breakfast,' by 
 Sir Francis Grant. 
 
 2 Mr. Greene, of Rolleston, Master of the Quorn from 1841 to 184T. 
 
 3 Lord Brudenell was in the 11th Hussars, and later on became the 
 7th Earl of Cardigan, the hero of the Balaclava Charge when in com- 
 mand of the Light Brigade. He lived at Deene Park in Northampton- 
 shire, and died in 1868, 
 
 30
 
 MET/rON IN 1830. 
 
 Wilton and Gardner next tlieir station took. 
 And Derry, following close on Hilly Coke. 
 Sloping to meet them stood, exposed to view. 
 An awkward piece of timber, stiff and new; 
 No other place will do but this alone: 
 No choice is letl — go at it, or go home. 
 Langar leaps short, and see, on high his tail. 
 Turned in the air, proclaims how strong the rail. 
 Over they go, together rise again. 
 For Brudenell tight in hand retains the rein. 
 
 Here Leporello fell ; a harder fate 
 Attends his falling — where he fell he sate. 
 Now Billy Coke, who never lost a chance, 
 Down the hill's side came rattling on Advance, 
 And though he saw the willows, still he took 
 His line, and crammed him straight at Laiigton Hrook 
 But vain the effort — gazing on the Hood, 
 Narcissus-like, upon the bank he stood. 
 Then struggling headlong fell ; and see, he's done — 
 He washed his master, but he lost the run. 
 More on the left, see Wilton kiss the plain ; 
 Then 'Time!' to Pugilist was called in vain. 
 Without a pause by Bowden now they Hy, 
 The pace so good you scarcely hear the cry. 
 \Vith speed unchecked, see bravely o'er yon liill 
 Brudenell alone maintains his station still. 
 
 31
 
 POEMS OF THE CHASE. 
 
 Here's Dingley Gorse : ' By jove, they run in view ! ' 
 On Reynard struggles, on the pack pursue : 
 The earths are open — will he reach the covert ? 
 Who- whoop ! he sinks exhausted — all is over. 
 
 How are the mighty fallen : lulled to rest 
 
 By fifty minutes of Southampton's ^ best I 
 
 Some deep in ditches lie, 'midst brambles toss'd ; 
 
 Others, more prudent, are by farmers cross'd ; 
 
 These lost their start, from those, the hounds had 
 
 turned, 
 Yet something still from Brudenell all have learned ; 
 And now for once a Melton field must own, 
 Fairly and cleanly, they were all ' cut down.' 
 
 The backward crowd are still the first to chide, 
 For all can censure where but few can ride. 
 Let those blame others who themselves excel. 
 And pass their judgment who have ridden well. 
 Each timid skirter thinks it is his right 
 To hurt your feelings and display his spite. 
 If blest with iron nerves, ' You ride for fame, 
 And seek in hunting nothing but a name ; ' 
 
 ^ Loifl Southampton (3rd Baron) was Master of the Quorn from 
 1827 to 1831, with Dick Burton and then George Mountford as his 
 huntsmen ; and Master of the Grafton from 1842 to 1861, with George 
 Beers as huntsman. He died in 1872.
 
 MELTON IN 1830. 
 
 If tender of your person in the chase, 
 
 * You love the hounds, but still refuse to race.' 
 
 * Look at him now,' on all sides it is said, 
 
 ' I always knew it, damn him, he's afraid ! ' 
 
 These blame the system, master, hounds, and all, 
 
 And swear the huntsman does not like a fall. 
 
 Not prone to cavil or to take offence. 
 
 Some in good nature pardon want of sense. 
 
 And think a smiling and unmeaning face 
 
 Can Ewart stop, or Willis, when they race. 
 
 On t'other tack some err, and make their boast, 
 
 Hounds run the hardest when they're damned the most. 
 
 Who to Southampton could in judgment yield ? 
 With a light hand he ruled a stubborn field ; 
 Now firm, now gentle, as occasion proved. 
 And on all sides alike both feared and loved, 
 (^ome then again, resume thy proper place : 
 Manage the kennel and direct tlie chase ; 
 An equal balance keep, the skirters chide. 
 And check Spring Captains * when they try to ride. 
 
 ^ The Spring Captains are alluded to in the 'Achilles'' verses as 
 follows : t pini^s at their buttons, simpers on their lips, 
 The thinnest bridles and the thickest whips, 
 Survey yon group, each mounted on a screw, 
 ITieir heads all bushy and their coats all blue ; 
 Spring Captains these, who with the whitebait come, 
 Then leave for " Stables " and a barrack-room I " 
 
 63 o
 
 POEMS OF THE CHASE. 
 
 For want of practice all our talent's lost; 
 Hounds never run, but still the same they cost. 
 What shall we do without thee? — for I hear 
 The country's vacant in another year. 
 Old times, old sport bring back, and once again 
 Melton shall flourish 'neath thy golden reign. 
 
 S4
 
 'WE HAVE SEEN A KUN TOGETHER:' 
 
 183;3. 
 By John Campbell, of SaddelL 
 
 WE have seen a run together, 
 We have ridden side by side ; 
 It binds us to each other 
 Like a lover to his bride. 
 We have seen a run together 
 When the hounds run far and fast, 
 We have liearkened by each other 
 To the liuntsman's cheering blast. 
 How gay they bustled round him, 
 How gallantly they found him, 
 And how stealthily he wound him 
 O'er each break and woody dell. 
 
 'Twas from Keithwisk Broom we \'iew'd him, 
 
 As he stole along the vale ; 
 
 Though we cheerily hallooed him, 
 
 'Twas to him a deadly wail ; 
 
 By Lintrose we did pursue him. 
 
 Despite each fence and rill. 
 
 Till his heart began to rue liim 
 
 On Hahburton Hill. 
 
 35
 
 POEMS OF THE CHASE. 
 
 Oh, how they sped together, 
 O'er the moor among the heather. 
 Like birds of the same feather, 
 And their music hke a bell. 
 
 By Auckter House we hied him, 
 Still haunted by their cry ; 
 Till in Belmont Park we spied him, 
 And we knew that he must die : 
 Through the hedge he made one double. 
 As his sinking soul did droop, 
 'Twas the ending of liis trouble. 
 When we gave the shrill Who-whoop I 
 Oh, now then let us rally. 
 Let us toast the joyous tally. 
 And a bumper to our ally. 
 The gallant John Dalyell. 
 
 The above was composed by Campbell, of Saddell, in Argyllshire, 
 on the occasion of a famous run with Mr. DalyelPs hounds in For- 
 farshire. 
 
 3tf
 
 IN MEAIORIAM: 
 
 THE COTS WOLD HUNT. 
 
 May 1871. 
 
 LOW moans tlie wind round Sudeley's walls, 
 And sighs through Ginting's grassy glades, 
 On every leaf a trembling falls, 
 In darker gloom the twilight fades. 
 O'er hill and dale the sad winds go, 
 And to each woodland, whispering low, 
 They tell the secret of their woe — 
 Colmore is dead ! 
 
 West Wood and Queen Wood heard the tale, 
 
 Through Dowdeswell passed the mournful cry ; 
 
 Chatcomb took up the wail. 
 
 And Hilcot sadly made reply. 
 
 Through Cowley's groves the message went, 
 O'er Birdlip's inn the news was sent, 
 And every beech in Cranham bent 
 Its lofty head. 
 
 Far spreads the wild lament around. 
 O'er Rendcomb's friendly tower it broke, 
 
 87
 
 POEMS OF THE CHASE. 
 
 Till Withington had caught the sound 
 
 And Chedworth mourns in every oak. 
 Round Hazelton was heard the moan, 
 O'er Puesdown's heights the words have flown, 
 Echo repeats in plaintive tone — 
 Colmore is dead ! 
 
 Cold the true heart, the generous spirit fled, 
 Low lies in earth the Master's manly frame ; 
 But memory, vainly sorrowing for the dead, 
 Long on the Cotswold hills shall cling to Colmore's 
 name. 
 
 Mr. Cregoe Colmore, formerly of the 7th Hussars, was Master of 
 the Cotswold Hunt from 1858 to 1871. On his death in that year, Sir 
 Reginald Graham, Bart., became the Master until 1873. 
 
 38
 
 THE COSTON RUN. 
 
 With the Belvoir Hounds, January 17th, 1863. 
 
 BUT little need was there to-day 
 By Coston Thorns awhile to stay ; 
 For scarce the eastern side we gain, 
 Scarce tighten girth and bridle-rein, 
 Ere Cooper's halloa sounds, away ! 
 A gallant fox brooks no delay. 
 Hold hard ! a pause — the eager pack. 
 Their bristles up, no courage lack, 
 But clear the covert at a bound, 
 And earnest seek the open ground. 
 A moment feather here and there, 
 A moment sniff the tainted air. 
 Then, dashing to the scent, they show 
 No common pace they mean to go. 
 \ Without a check they hold their own 
 Along the grass to Garthorpe town, 
 Then mount the hill, and quietly gain 
 The spinney crowning Saxby plain. 
 Away — at undiminished pace, 
 By Freeby village on they race ; 
 Then seek the heavy fields whicli lie 
 Left of the wood of Brentingby, 
 
 so
 
 POEMS OF THE CHASE. 
 
 Where many a rider, stayed perforce, 
 Was glad to breathe his faltering horse. 
 For thirty minutes now had stood 
 The fox before he reached the wood. 
 Will he its friendly shelter try ? 
 Not he, his motto s — do or die. 
 He leaves it boldly on the right, 
 And urges on his headlong flight. 
 Aspires to reach his own abode. 
 And crosses o'er the Melton road. 
 For now, on Melton spinney bent. 
 He shapes his course with best intent, 
 Descends the hill which thither leads, 
 And hastens o'er its molehill meads. 
 For distant now not many a rood, 
 That spinney can aloft be viewed. 
 But, ah I the wind is in his teeth. 
 A shift he tries to save his breath ; 
 He dare not, cannot onwards stay, 
 But tacks and holds another way. 
 For Waltham makes an effort bold. 
 And gains the village's stronghold. 
 A vain attempt to further fly, 
 Exhausted nature must deny. 
 A last retreat — last hope of all — 
 He seeks beneath a sheltering stall. 
 Must the brave beast, his labours o'er, 
 
 40
 
 THE COSTON RUN. 
 
 His blood upon the threshold pour ( 
 He died — us heroes oil liave done, 
 Fresh from the laiu'els tliey have won. 
 For few the foxes wlio could stay 
 Before the hoiuids who ran to-day, 
 Near fifty minutes, and the pace 
 From end to end, almost a race. 
 Those hounds, who first and foremost shone, 
 Old Rallywood would not disown. 
 For stoutness well might they aspire 
 To all the merits of their sire. 
 To hunt, to race, to hold the lead. 
 None eer can beat his matchless breed. 
 But if no fox they hunt — beware ! 
 They love to hunt the timid hare. 
 Yet only half my story's told, 
 If 1 forget the riders bold, 
 Who, starting from the covert-side. 
 Throughout the chase did foremost ride. 
 They scarce exceeded half a score ; 
 They might be less, they might be more, 
 For every one who hunts, we know, 
 Comes out with the intent to go ; 
 But when the fences bristle thick. 
 Looks out for squalls, and loves to pick. 
 The Melton men, ah I where were they, 
 With Tailby on the grass away ? 
 
 41
 
 POEMS OF THE CHASE. 
 
 Not here to criticise the plough, 
 
 And struggle through the holding slough ; 
 
 And so but half a score did see 
 
 As good a run as well could be. 
 
 No matter then to mention name, 
 
 Are they not known enough to fame ? 
 
 Suffice it — they enjoyed the fun, 
 
 Rode straight to hounds and saw the run. 
 
 And may they all again essay 
 
 To ride as well another day. 
 
 42
 
 THE GALLOPING WHIP. 
 
 IF life is a business, existence is fun 
 \\ lien duty and pleasure and sport are in one; 
 And so he wears ever a smile on his lip — 
 'Tis a Labour of love to the Galloping Whip. 
 
 The moon of September's his light in the morn, 
 When the cub's to be killed and they've carried the corn ; 
 The moon of December's his lamp for the trip, 
 As home with the pack goes the Galloping \Vhip. 
 
 For hours never vex him, and work cannot tire. 
 That dapper pink fits on a framework of wire ; 
 He'll go without sup, and hell go without sip 
 From daylight to dark, will the Gallophig Whip. 
 
 The phiz of bold Reynard is shaped on his mug, 
 JMouth wide as an oxer, as deep as a jug ; 
 That feature was fashioned to scream, not to nip, 
 And a bumper's no charm for the Galloping Whip. 
 
 The last to leave covert, he'll cheer on the pack ; 
 Twenty couples are out, then away with a crack ; 
 In a mile he has given the quickest the slip — 
 The wind from their sails takes the Galloping Whip. 
 
 id
 
 POEMS OF THE CHASE. 
 
 When we're jammed in a corner, the timber too strong, 
 The bullfinch too thick, and our courage all gone — 
 Hie ! give us a lead, and over he'll flip ; 
 But it's little improved by the Galloping Whip. 
 
 Does he ride for repute ? No ! his eye is ahead ; 
 He works for his huntsman, and works for his bread. 
 Wherever he steers men are glad of the tip : 
 The bruisers delight in the Galloping Whip. 
 
 Ever sparing of rate and indulgent of youth. 
 His cheer urges Faulty get forrard to Truth ; 
 But a rioter determined will never outstrip 
 The swift- venging thong of the Galloping Whip. 
 
 They've run twenty minutes as close as a wedge. 
 By .Jove ! they have split— two lines since the hedge : 
 Old Regent is right. Up the furrow they rip ; 
 And round swing the rest with the Galloping Whip. 
 
 A game fox is sinking. The Whip isn't here : 
 
 Look, a cap down the wind : ' Charles has him, I swear ! ' 
 
 And Reynard, poor devil ! is well in the gi*ip 
 
 Of Whitecollar Will and his Galloping Whip. 
 
 a
 
 LEGEND OF THE QUOKX COrJXTKIE. 
 
 Bij W. Davenpout Huomi.ev, M.P. 
 
 1852. 
 
 WHEN careful of his goods or spouse, 
 A strong nuui Hrnied doth keep his house ; 
 Tt may be termed for him a bore 
 To find a stranger at his door, 
 Who binds the strong man at his ease. 
 Pockets his cash and all he sees ; 
 And tho' he does not take his life. 
 Is far from civil to his wife. 
 The ex-strong man looks on the while, 
 AV^ithout the least desire to smile ; 
 At least, I take it, such would be 
 The case did such things chance witii me. 
 There lived, I do not deal in dates, 
 A champion of the heavy weights, 
 Who over Leicestershire had done 
 Great things, in spite of sixteen stone ; 
 For many years had been admired 
 For going when tlie rest were tired ; 
 Who feared no timber, liked a brook, 
 Could calmly at a bullfinch look ; 
 And thought himself in all his glory 
 Just at the period of my story ; 
 
 45
 
 POEMS OF THE CHASE. 
 
 But often, when we feel most sure, 
 
 Were apt to be the least secure; 
 
 And Gilmour, happy and content. 
 
 With long-estabhshed precedent, 
 
 By all men honoured and respected, 
 
 Was I'ivalled when he least expected. 
 
 'Twas in November's dreary sky. 
 
 Strange meteors were seen to fly ; 
 
 And rumour spread throughout the land, 
 
 That some convulsion was at hand ; 
 
 And presently the fact was known 
 
 That one, who weighed near seventeen stone, 
 
 Light of hand and firm of seat. 
 
 Arrived at Quorn, was hard to beat. 
 
 Well ! all men deemed the fact absurd. 
 
 And Gilmour laughed at what he heard ; 
 
 And not until he saw the man. 
 
 The sinking in his boots began. 
 
 When first he showed beside the gorse, 
 
 Colossal seemed his coal-black horse; 
 
 His frowning brow and deep-set eye. 
 
 His heart's resolve did not belie; 
 
 Not oft he smiled, but if a trace 
 
 Of mirth did flit across his face, 
 
 No joy, I ween, it did impart. 
 
 But chilled the shuddering gazer's heart; 
 
 And Gilmour, at that harrowing look,
 
 A LEGEND OF THE QUORN COUNTRIE. 
 
 Down to his very smiill-elothes shook, 
 AVhen towards lum with the hghtning's speed 
 The stranger spurred his fiery steed. 
 ' My name,' he said, is Peter Miles, 
 And there is none hke nie 
 From T^and's End to Nortiunnberland, 
 And all the North Countrie. 
 You Melton men, you I^eicestershire knaves, 
 Come ride with me, say 1, 
 Five minutes over Skeffington, 
 And then lie down and die. 
 I heard of you. Sir Gilemore, 
 1 know you're all my eye, 
 I'll cut you down, and hang you up, 
 Aye 1 hang you up to dry. 
 Yes ! funking wretch ! I know you, 
 How you shudder at a rail. 
 How you shun the bristling bullfinch. 
 And at a brook turn tail.' 
 But he who was not wont to brook 
 A hasty word or angry look. 
 Now, with a meek submissive face. 
 Yielded the trophies of the chase. 
 Without a blow resigned his sway, 
 And Miles, triumphant, leads the way ; 
 Thenceforth from gates and brooks he shrunk, 
 Thenceforth by all was called a funk ; 
 
 47
 
 POEMS OF THE CHASE. 
 
 Such is the fate of human glory, 
 Such the sad sequel to my story. 
 I cannot tell the year of grace 
 In which these things were taking place ; 
 But this T know, a portly Squire 
 Now bruises over I Leicestershire ; 
 Whom Sutton loveth to commend, 
 His guide, philosopher, and friend ; 
 And none with him dispute the right 
 To lead the field from morn to night. 
 But though among the thrusting train, 
 You seek for Gilmour's ^ face in vain ; 
 Wait till the second horsemen pass. 
 You see a form — 'tis his, alas ! 
 The heavy-weight who funks the stiles, 
 And trembles at the name of Miles.^ 
 
 ^ Mr. Walter Little Gilniour, a Scotch gentleman who hunted from 
 Melton for very many years ; heavy, tall, and an excellent horseman, he 
 remained undefeated in Leicestershire until the advent of Miles, many 
 years his junior. 
 
 ^ Colonel Charles Miles, formerly of the 17th Lancers and generally 
 known as Peter Miles, a famous sportsman and a welter weight ; he 
 came to Leicestershire as a youngish man, where he attracted the 
 admiration of Sir Richard Sutton (Master of the Quorn from 1847 
 to 1855) by the marvellous way in which he rode to hounds. Daven- 
 port Bromley was author of the above poem, also of a charming book 
 entitled Sport, published in 1885, in which Miles is depicted as the 
 hero, negotiating oxers and sailing over ridge and furrow. For many 
 years, later on in life, he lived at Burton Hill, near Malmesbury, in the 
 Beaufort country. Born 1823 ; died 1892. 
 
 48
 
 A LEGEND OF THE QUORN COUNTRIE. 
 
 Moral. 
 
 Such is the lot of mortal man, 
 Where Gilmour ended, Miles began ; 
 And Miles in turn must yield his sway, 
 For every dog will have his day 
 
 49 tt
 
 POEMS OF THE CHASE. 
 
 TOM FIRR'S SONG. 
 
 I'LL sing you a song, a fine new song, 
 Made by a mad young pate. 
 Of one of the present hunters 
 Of the present date ; 
 To see him oer a country go, 
 At such a slashing rate, 
 And some of his performances 
 To you I'll try and state. 
 'Tis that slashing horse called ' Iris,' 
 One of the present date. 
 
 He is second to none in England, 
 
 Which all of you must know, 
 
 Either in the hunting-field 
 
 Or at the hunter's show ; 
 
 Now, for instance, at Peterborough 
 
 To touch him there was none, 
 
 And likewise at Weatherby 
 
 He was there pronounced Al, 
 
 Was that slashing horse called ' Iris,' 
 
 One of the present date. 
 
 If you put him under the standard 
 You'll find him 16*2, 
 
 m
 
 TOM FIRRS SONG. 
 
 His superior shape and make 
 
 I'm sure you never knew ; 
 
 First go from his head to his tail, 
 
 And down to the fetlock, 
 
 I'ut fifteen stone upon his back. 
 
 He is firm as any rock, 
 
 Is that slashing horse called ' Iris,' 
 
 One of the present date. 
 
 To see him at the covert-side, 
 
 So quiet does he stand, 
 
 And when he hears a hound speak 
 
 He'll give his bit a champ ; 
 
 And when the hounds have found the fox. 
 
 And settled on him steady, 
 
 No matter in what country 
 
 To go he is always ready. 
 
 Is that slashing horse called ' Iris,' 
 
 One of the present date. 
 
 Hark ! there's a halloa away 
 On the other side ; 
 And now all you bruisers, 
 You'll have a chance to ride ; 
 But wait a bit, and let the hounds 
 Get fairly on his line. 
 And if you keep near the 'wall eye' 
 
 61
 
 rOEMS OF THE CHASE 
 
 It'll take you all your time. 
 
 'Tis that slashing horse called ' Iris, 
 
 One of the present date. 
 
 And now along the vale 
 
 Like pigeons they do fly ; 
 
 There is some timber in a corner 
 
 Nearly five feet high ; 
 
 Now, says one, the first who goes 
 
 Will come down with a crack — 
 But he is over like a pigeon, 
 With the Master on his back, 
 Is that slashing horse called ' Iris.' 
 One of the present date. 
 
 Still on they go like lightning. 
 
 Now there is no time to dwell, 
 
 The fence is big, the country's deep, 
 
 And the pace begins to tell ; 
 
 In another twenty minutes 
 
 A wager I will bet: 
 
 The cocktails they begin to stop, 
 
 And the swells begin to fret 
 
 At that slashing horse called ' Iris,' 
 
 One of the present date. 
 
 Now from scent to view they've raced him 
 He cannot longer wear — 
 
 m
 
 TOM FIKR'S SONG. 
 
 Who-whoop ! he dies, a plucked 'iin — 
 
 And the Master, he is there. 
 
 Now, here's success to Captain Thomson,^ 
 
 Wherever lie may go ; 
 
 His equal in the hunting-field 
 
 We never more shall know. 
 
 For he is king of all live sportsmen 
 
 Of the present date. 
 
 ^ Song composed and sung hy Tom Firr, the celebrated Quoin 
 huntsman, on February 10th, 1870, at a Hunt dinner given at the 
 George Hotel, Noithampton, to Captain J. Aiistruther Thonison, on 
 his giving up the Pytchley Hounds, of which he had been Master from 
 1864 to 1869. The testimonial consisted of a portrait, by Sir Francis 
 Grant, representing Captain Thomson on his famous horse Iris, sur- 
 rounded by two couples of hounds — Singer, llallywood. Bondsman, and 
 Dragon. 
 
 ftS
 
 POEMS OF THE CHASE. 
 
 OLD OULTON LOWE. 
 
 By R. Egerton Warburton. 
 
 BAD luck to the country I the clock had struck two, 
 We had found ne'er a fox in the gorses we drew ; 
 When each heart felt a thrill at the sound, ' Tally-ho ! ' 
 Once more a view-halloa from old Oulton Lowe. 
 
 Away like a whirlwind toward Calveley Hall, 
 
 For the first thirty minutes Pug laugh'd at us all; 
 
 Our nags cured of kicking, ourselves of conceit. 
 
 Ere the laugh was with us, we were most of us beat. 
 
 The Willington mare, when she started so fast, 
 Ah! we little thought then that the race was her last; 
 Accurst be the stake that was stain'd with her blood; 
 But why cry for spilt milk? May the next be as good. 
 
 'Twas a sight for us all — worth a million, 1 swear — 
 To see the Black Squire^ how he rode the black mare; 
 Tiie meed that he merits, the Muse shall bestow ; 
 First, foremost, and fleetest from old Oulton Lowe. 
 
 ^ The Black Squire was the Rev. James Tomkinson, of Davenhain. 
 
 54
 
 OLD OULTON LOWE. 
 
 How Delamere* went it were useless to tell, 
 To say he was out is to say he went well ; 
 A rider so skilful ne'er buckled on spur 
 To rule a rash horse, or to make a screw stir. 
 
 The odds are in fighting that Britain beats France;^ 
 In the chase, as in war, we must all take our 
 
 chance 
 Little Ireland kept up, like his namesake the nation, 
 By dint of ' coercion ' and great ' agitation.' 
 
 Now \'^ictor and Bedford were seen in the van ; 
 Cheer'd on by the Maiden who rides like a man. 
 He screech'd with delight as he wip'd his hot brow : 
 ' Their bristles are up, sir ! they're hard at him now.' 
 
 In the pride of his heart, then the Manager cried,^ 
 ' Come on, little l^owley boy ; why don't you ride ? ' 
 How he chuckled to see the long tail in distress. 
 As he gave her the go-by on bonny brown Bess. 
 
 ^ Delaniere was Lord Delamere of Vale Roval, 
 
 " Britain and France represent Mr. Brittan of Chester and Mr. 
 France of Bo-stock Hall. Little Ireland was Mr. Ireland Blackburne 
 of Hale. 
 
 ^ Sir Henry Mainwaring was ' Manager " of the Cheshire Hounds for 
 nineteen years, and Joe Maiden, the huntsman, from 1832 to 1845. 
 
 55
 
 POEMS OF THE CHASE. 
 
 The Baron^ from Hanover halloa'd 'Who-whoop!' 
 While he thought on the Lion that ate him half up; 
 Well pleas'd to have balk'd the wild beast of his dinner, 
 He was up in his stirrups, and rode like a winner. 
 
 Oh ! where 'mid the many found wanting in speed, 
 Oh ! where and oh I where was the Wistaston steed ? 
 Dead beat! still his rider so lick'd him and prick'd him, 
 He thought (well he might) 'twas the devil that kick'd him. 
 
 The Cestrian chestnut show'd symptoms of blood, 
 For it flow'd from his nose ere he came to the wood. 
 Where now is Dolgosh ? where the racer from Da'enham ? 
 Such fast ones as these ! what mishap has o'erta'en 'em ? 
 
 Two gentlemen met, both unhors'd, in a lane 
 
 (Fox-hunting on foot is but labour in vain) : 
 
 ' Have you seen a brown horse ? ' ' No, indeed, sir ; but 
 
 pray, 
 In the course of your ramble, have you seen a grey?' 
 
 As a London coal-heaver might pick up a peer. 
 Whom he found in the street, with his head rather queer, 
 So Dobbin v/as loosed from his work at the plough. 
 To assist a proud hunter, stuck fast in a slough. 
 
 ^ Baron Osten, a Hanoverian and an officer in the English Army 
 who had a perilous adventure with a lion when serving in India. 
 
 m
 
 OLD OULTON LOWE. 
 
 I advocate ' moAcment ' when shown in a horse, 
 But I love in my heart a ' conservative ' gorse. 
 Long IJfe to Sir riiihp!' we'll drink ere we go — 
 Old times! and old Cheshire! and old Oulton Lowe! 
 
 * This run took place with the Cheshire Hounds on rebrunry 16th, 
 1833, from a famous gorse covert belonging to Sir Philip Egerton, Bart. 
 
 67
 
 THE DUKE OF GRAFTON'S HOUNDS. 
 
 A Run from Halse Copse.^ 
 
 By Sir Herewald Wake, Barf. 
 
 NO worthier theme than hunting can a poet's soul 
 inspire, 
 The stirring music of the chase shall tune my Muse's 
 
 lyre ; 
 Men, hounds, and horses I will sing, and ever as you listen 
 Your pulses shall beat faster yet, your eyes with fire shall 
 glisten. 
 
 For you shall hear the story how Reynard fate defied, 
 And ran a gallant race for life, how gamely Reynard died ; 
 For with that day's achievements all the countryside 
 
 resounds. 
 And I will sing the praises of the Duke of Grafton's 
 
 hounds. 
 
 At Astwell Mill the fixture was, and to that fixture came 
 A company of sportsmen true, and not unknown to fame. 
 
 ^ This run took place when the 6th Duke was Master, and Frank 
 Beers the brilliant huntsman until about 1890, when his health gave 
 way and he died in the prime of life. 
 
 68
 
 THE DUKE OF GRAFTON S HOUNDS. 
 
 The Duke and Lord Charles Fitzroy,^ George Pennant,^ 
 
 too, was there, 
 St. Maur,^ with his hard-riding spouse, had come the sport 
 
 to share. 
 
 Campbell and Grosvenor,^ Byass, Hull, and F'uller to the 
 
 fore. 
 Wake and his Wife, the ^Visenians, too, Robarts,'' and 
 
 many more ; 
 And all of them well mounted were on nags of bone and 
 
 speed, 
 And well for them their horses could both leap and stay 
 
 at need. 
 
 Through Helmdon on to Stutchbury we wound a de\ious 
 
 way. 
 The Spinneys drawing blank, alas ! no fox lay there tliat 
 
 day. 
 Halse Cope in order next we drew, and every stout heart 
 
 sank, 
 When Beers' ' Come, come, come away,' proclaimed 
 
 another blank. 
 
 ^ Lord Charles Fit/roy, the present Duke. 
 
 2 George Pennant, afterwards the !^nd Lord Penrhyn, and Master for 
 many years. 
 
 ^ St. Maur, the present, Duke of Somerset. 
 
 * Grosvenor, now Lord El)nrv. 
 
 ^ Mr. A. J. Robarts, of Tile House, was joint Ma-ter with tlie Hon. 
 E. D. Pennant from 1891 to 1895. 
 
 59
 
 POEMS OF THE CHASE. 
 
 But scarce a bowshot off there yet one more coppice 
 
 stood — 
 Little Halse Copse, the cognomen of that now far-famed 
 
 wood, 
 Which held that day so stout a fox that had but fate 
 
 been kind 
 He might perchance have saved his brush and left us far 
 
 behind. 
 
 The hounds were soon upon his drag, old Rattler feathered 
 
 high, 
 Then gave his deep-tongued challenge and the others 
 
 scored to cry. 
 Full soon was Pug unkennelled when he heard the 
 
 warning notes. 
 That swift into a chorus swelled from five-and-thirty 
 
 throats. 
 
 Our fox soon showed himself to be bred of that right 
 
 good sort. 
 Erst wont to show our ancestors such rare old-fashioned 
 
 sport. 
 He scorned to run the covert long, but broke away in 
 
 style. 
 And gained a well-earned start, perhaps of nearly half « 
 
 mile, 
 
 eo
 
 THE DUKE OF GRAFTON'S HOUNDS. 
 
 Beers galloped round and gave his horn a spirit-stirring 
 
 twang. 
 The hounds streamed out of covert, then their diapason 
 
 rang 
 Both loud and deep as o'er the plough witli liglitning 
 
 speed they went. 
 And sportsmen saw with half an eye there was a burning 
 
 scent. 
 
 What racing and what bustling now was there to get a 
 place, 
 
 And lucky was the aspirant whose horse could go the pace ; 
 
 The hounds soon settled on the line, and then like wild- 
 fire ran ; 
 
 It now appeared to be a case of catch them if you can. 
 
 And fortunate it was that day, as well for horse as hound, 
 The ploughs rode light, the going good, the turf was firm 
 
 and sound, 
 Or else with such a holding scent and with a fox so stout 
 Before the finish every nag must fain have given out. 
 
 Ten minutes' burst, and then we thought we had a check 
 
 at last, 
 But Beers sat still and watched the hounds complete their 
 
 patient cast, 
 
 •1
 
 POEMS OF THE CHASE. 
 
 When down the fence they hit him off, the line was 
 
 turning now, 
 The fox, no doubt, had headed been by yonder man at 
 
 plough 
 
 A few short turns well puzzled out, they're off again at 
 
 score ; 
 Though going fast, yet 'tis a ring, a fact we much deplore. 
 Halse Copse again appears, which we had hoped to leave 
 
 behind, 
 Though thankful for the chance to give our nags a little 
 
 wind. 
 
 But with a crash the gallant pack fly o'er the opposing 
 
 fence. 
 And still maintain their dashing speed through blackthorn 
 
 thickets dense ; 
 Their blood-tipped sterns a moment wave, and then they 
 
 disappear, 
 And the fast-receding music of their bell-like tongues we 
 
 hear. 
 
 This is no time to loiter nor to think of drawing rein, 
 So spur we down the covert-side or from the chase 
 
 refrain ; 
 For he who took a pull that day, if but for half a minute, 
 To breathe his horse beside the wood, was never after in it.
 
 THE DUKE OF GRAFTON S HOUNDS. 
 
 For five- and -thirty minutes we'd been going well and fast ; 
 Apd thought the pace was much too good a longer time 
 
 to last ; 
 But, as it proved, a harder test for horses was in store, 
 Although the veriest glutton then had hardly asked for 
 
 more. 
 
 We barely reached the farther end, when, going down the 
 
 wind. 
 We viewed our fox, who had not dwelt for all too close 
 
 behind, 
 Beers and his beauties, swill of foot, poor Reynard stoutly 
 
 push 
 Through brier and brake, and clamouring make him 
 
 tremble for his brush. 
 
 The Whip's view-halloa now is heard, and Beers becomes 
 
 aware 
 Of Reynard's course, and lifts his voice and pipes both 
 
 shrill and clear ; 
 A louder pipe and shriller than that possessed by Beers, 
 Unless it be a whistle blown by steam, one never hears. 
 
 The hounds, their tongues still throwing, dash out, and by 
 
 that sign 
 Frank knows full well his steadfast pack has never left 
 
 the line.
 
 POEMS OF THE CHASE. 
 
 He cares not now to lift them, and indeed he has no need, 
 For as they run they try our panting horses' utmost speed. 
 
 And well for him it was just then whose nag had got 
 
 some breeding, 
 For those on cocktails saw with grief the chase was swift 
 
 receding, 
 And would-be thrusters urged and spurred their nags 
 
 without remorse, 
 Until they found themselves on foot, and crying * Catch 
 
 my horse.' 
 
 With dirty coats and broken hats the natty field was 
 
 fleckered. 
 And some found to their cost that day a sportsman's life 
 
 is chequered. 
 And not a few aspiring souls who needs must foremost be 
 Were scratched about the eyes and nose and chin most 
 
 piteously. 
 
 O'er ridge-and -furrow fields we flew as fast as we could go 
 The whitethorn fences in the Vale uncommon hairy grow ; 
 Nigh every fence a bullfinch is, and where the light of day 
 Peeps through a space most usually a lawyer stops the way. 
 
 Just here and there a flight of rails confers a fairer leap, 
 But such the pace that few can now afford to hold them 
 cheap. 
 
 m
 
 THE DUKE OF GRAFTONS HOUNDS. 
 
 The gates are few and far between, the seeming friendly 
 
 gap 
 As oft as not will prove a most uncompromising trap. 
 
 The biggest and the blackest place is often safer far 
 Than where the wide liiatus doth a fence's outline mai'. 
 Although of leaping ditches wide one's hunter may be fond, 
 But few in an emergency can clear the darkling pond. 
 
 Now Stuchbury's pleasant pastures lie stretched beneath 
 
 our feet, 
 The going on those headlands sound was really quite a 
 
 treat, 
 And well-bred horses caught their wind as swiftly on 
 
 they sped, 
 For by a field and more than that the flying pack now led. 
 
 By Allithorn and Weston and over Banbury I^ane, 
 And on towards iSIoreton Pinkney the pace we still 
 
 maintain, 
 A few red coats and habits and one or two in black 
 Are still seen popping up and down behind the fleeting 
 
 pack. 
 
 Now on the broad and level sward we gallop while 
 
 we may, 
 For through these verdant meads a brook, the Tovy, 
 
 winds its way. 
 
 66 V
 
 POEMS OF THE CHASE. 
 
 The Tovy is both wide and deep, and should we chance 
 
 to fall, 
 No fear but what there's room enough to hold us, horse 
 
 and all. 
 
 Some willows mark its winding course, its rotten banks 
 
 and steep ; 
 Keen horses prick their ears and snort, all eager for 
 
 the leap ; 
 Now hustle horse and harden heart, cram firmly on your hat. 
 And straightway catch him by the head and go at it, 
 
 full bat. 
 
 And so the first flight over swing as if 'tis in their stride, 
 Not so, however, those who dare or know not how to ride ; 
 Some take a header off their nags and much amusement 
 
 yield 
 To those who with much caution form the rearguard of 
 
 the field. 
 
 Beyond some second horsemen and a farmer here and 
 
 there 
 Who comes to show a four-year-old or exercise his mare, 
 And some little boys on ponies, 'tis but just I should 
 
 explain. 
 There are not many out this day who actually crane. 
 
 m
 
 THE DUKE OF GRAFTON'S HOUNDS. 
 
 So stiff the line had been, in short, the field was soon 
 
 well weeded ; 
 From funkers and from skirters both the ehase had long 
 
 receded ; 
 Far back along the roads they come like bands of border 
 
 raiders 
 Who fly the justly angered foe and ply their cruel 
 
 persuaders. 
 
 The Squire on wheels,^ his pair of roans with smoki?ig 
 
 sides appear. 
 Has made his point right skilfully and now the hunt 
 
 draws near ; 
 He waits where we must cross the road, his chuckles are 
 
 immense 
 To see the ditch is deep that guards a stiff upstanding 
 
 fence. 
 
 Our horses blown, we looked about to choose the softest 
 
 place 
 Where if we fell we might repose with ease if not with 
 
 grace. 
 * There's nothing here to stop you," the observant Squire 
 
 said — 
 Two nasty falls ensued -laughed he, ' from going on your 
 
 head.' 
 
 ^ ' The Squire on wheels ' was the well-known Bob Oliver. 
 
 67
 
 POEMS OF THE CHASE. 
 
 The hounds had now been doing all that lay within 
 
 their power 
 Across a splendid country, mostly grass, for full an hour, 
 Yet captious critics, spite of that, would signally have 
 
 failed 
 To find a fault to cavil at, for not a hound had tailed. 
 
 They ran so well together and they carried such a head 
 That almost every hound in turn appeared to take the 
 
 lead. 
 They dwelt not at their fences, and though terrible the 
 
 pace, 
 Not less their tuneful voices they would now and then 
 
 upraise. 
 
 It could not last much longer; when we got upon the 
 
 plough 
 The pack were to their noses brought ; our fox was 
 
 sinking now. 
 The scent began to fail a bit, and though 'twas far 
 
 from dull. 
 Most of us were uncommon glad to take a little pull. 
 
 For light weights and for ladies too, although their nags 
 
 be blown, 
 'Tis possible to leap a fence or two and not come down; 
 
 68
 
 THE DUKE OF GRAFTON'S HOUNDS. 
 
 But welter weights, however big their horses, must look 
 
 out ; 
 Or at this juncture tliey would catch a purl beyond a 
 
 doubt. 
 
 Beers, who had ridden straiglit and well, now eyes each 
 
 favourite liound. 
 As puzzling out the line, they gain, but slowly gain, some 
 
 ground. 
 Content at having pressed his fox, sits as a statue still. 
 And takes no notice of the ' halloo forrard on the hill. 
 
 And well is he rewarded and patience wins that day, 
 For from the field the hounds again begin to slip away ; 
 And if they had been lifted, 'tis likely, 1 maintain. 
 They never would have settled on their fox's line again. 
 
 To Canons vVshby osier-bed we galloped fast and hard ; 
 Nor did that holding covert much the furious hunt retard, 
 For l{eynard when he reached it, all too hot to lie in hiding. 
 Nor turned nor stopped, but bustled through along the 
 centre riding. 
 
 Then up by Canons xVshby town for half-a-mile or more, 
 Our beaten fox we viewed at length still traveUing on 
 before ; 
 
 60
 
 POEMS OF THE CHASE. 
 
 Sterns down, heads up, the pack upon the line now cease 
 
 to stoop, 
 But course their fox, just one short turn, a snatch, and 
 
 then Who-whoop. 
 
 Thus died as good and stout a fox as ever stood in 
 
 front 
 Of fleetest hounds in England found, the Duke of 
 
 Grafton's hunt : 
 An hour and thirty minutes' ran, his fame shall ne'er 
 
 diminish, 
 For he was pressed, and sorely pressed, from find unto 
 
 the finish. 
 
 He made his point, but all too late, for on his footsteps 
 
 flying 
 Still pressed the pack so fleet of foot ; he never ceased 
 
 from trying 
 To shake them off; in vain he sought some refuge to 
 
 discover. 
 And in the open did his stout pursuers roll him over. 
 
 His race was run, his course was done, his gallant efforts 
 
 ended, 
 Whate'er his former life had been, his death was truly 
 
 splendid ; 
 
 70
 
 THE DUKE OF GRAFTON'S HOUNDS. 
 
 With tuneful tongue his requiem sung the pack that ran 
 
 and caught him, 
 And Beers will ever hug himself to hand that day he 
 
 brought him. 
 
 When home returning from the run which so much sport 
 afforded, 
 
 'J'hat day's achievements I resolved should not go un- 
 recorded ; 
 
 So pass the bottle round and let each sparkling glass be 
 filled, boys : 
 
 Here's to the fox the Duke's dog pack at Canons Ashby 
 killed, boys. 
 
 71
 
 POEMS OF THE CHASE. 
 
 HUNTING SONG OF SIR HARRY 
 GOODRICKE'S TIME. 
 
 1832. 
 
 THE lark forgets her summer song, 
 The rose forgets its bloom. 
 And murky clouds are borne along 
 To aid the wintry gloom. 
 
 The woods, where Nature hung her lute 
 To teach sweet birds her tone, 
 
 Are hush'd ; the sylvan groves are mute; 
 The hills are pensive grown ; 
 
 The dancing ripples of the lake 
 Are changed to sullen waves ; 
 
 The solitary water- crake 
 Its cheerless bosom laves. 
 
 But joy awakes the sluggish morn. 
 
 The mists now melt away ; 
 The huntsman blithely winds his horn, 
 
 The willing hounds obey. 
 
 72
 
 SIR HARRY GOODRTCKE'S TIME. 
 
 Sir Harry's ' forward in the field, 
 Greene," Gardner,^ sportsmen true : 
 
 And more to whom bright fame must yield 
 The praises justly due. 
 
 T.ord Wilton,^ Stanley,^ Errington," 
 Seem scarce to touch the rein, 
 
 As gallantly they rush along 
 O'er hill and grassy plain. 
 
 * There's Greene, as usual far before,' 
 Cries handsome Edward Thynne ; " 
 
 ' Kinnaird,^ and Rokeby," and Gilmour — ^'^ 
 By Jove ! I must nick in ! ' 
 
 He said, then urged his gallant steed, 
 
 No fence for him too liigh ; 
 He look'd the true bold hunter bred — 
 
 ' Yoiks, yoiks, the fox shall die ! ' 
 
 ^ Sir Henry Goodricke, Bart., Master of the Quorn Hounds from 
 1831 till he died in 1833. 
 
 - Mr. Greene, of Kolleston, afterwards Master of the Quorn Hounds 
 from 1841 to 1847. 
 
 3 Lord Gardner, died 1883. 
 
 * Lord Wilton, died 1882. 
 
 ^ Mr. Massey Stanley, Mr. Errington's brother. 
 
 ^ Mr. Errington, afterwards Master of tlie Quorn Hounds from 1835 
 to 1838. 
 
 "> Lord Edward Thvnne. 
 
 '^ Lord Kinnairtl. 
 
 ^ Lord Rokebv. 
 
 1° Mr. W. L. Gilmour. 
 
 73
 
 POEMS OF THE CHASE. 
 
 Maher^ and Moore ^ still take their stand 
 
 High in the list of fame, 
 And friendship wreathes the social band 
 
 With Musgrave's^ sporting name. 
 
 Melton again, that sportsman's town. 
 
 Boasts many a noble guest ; 
 Statesmen and heroes of renown 
 
 The exulting soil have pressed. 
 
 Long, long may we those names enrol, 
 And Goodricke's lend a grace, 
 
 For fame to waft from pole to pole 
 The triumphs of the chase. 
 
 ^ Valentine Maher, died 1844. 
 
 ^ Mr. John Moore, son of the Archbishop of Canterbury. 
 
 ^ Sir James Musgrave, Bart. 
 
 %
 
 THE DREAM OF AN OLD MELTONIAN. 
 
 By W. Davenport Bromley, M.P. 
 
 I AM old, I am old, and my eyes are grown weaker. 
 My beard is as white as tlie foam on the sea, 
 Yet pass me the bottle and fill me a beaker, 
 
 A bright brimming toast in a bumper for me I 
 Back, back through long vistas of years I am wafted. 
 But the glow^ at my heart's undiminished in force ; 
 Deep, deep in that heart has fond memory engi'afted 
 Those quick thirty mimites from Uanksboro' Gorse. 
 
 What is time ? The effluxion of life zoophitic 
 
 In dreary pursuit of position or gain. 
 What is life ? The absorption of vapours mephitic, 
 
 And the burning of sunlight on senses and brain ! 
 Such a hfe have I lived — though so speedily over, 
 
 Condensing the joys of a century's course. 
 From the find till we eat him near Woodwellhead Cover, 
 
 In thirty bright minutes from Ranksboro' Gorse. 
 
 Last night in St. Stephen's so wearily sitting 
 (The member for Boreham sustained the debate), 
 
 75
 
 POEMS OF THE CHASE. 
 
 Some pitying spirit that round me was flitting 
 Vouchsafed a sweet vision my pains to abate. 
 
 The Mace, and the Speaker, and House disappearing, 
 The leather-clad bench is a thoroughbred horse; 
 
 'Tis the whimpering cry of the foxhound I'm hearing. 
 And my ' seat ' is a pigskin at Ranksboro' Gorse. 
 
 He's away ! I can hear the identical holloa ! 
 
 I can feel my young thoroughbred strain down the ride, 
 I can hear the dull thunder of hundreds that follow, 
 
 I can see my old comrades in life by my side. 
 Do I dream ? All around me I see the dead riding. 
 
 And voices long silent re-echo with glee ; 
 I can hear the far wail of the Master's vain chiding, 
 
 As vain as the Norseman's reproof to the sea. 
 
 Vain, indeed I for the bitches are racing before us — 
 
 Not a nose to the earth — not a stern in the air ; 
 And we know by the notes of that modified chorus 
 
 How straight we must ride if we wish to be there ! 
 With a crash o'er the turnpike, and onward I'm sailing. 
 
 Released from the throes of the blundering mass, 
 Which dispersed right and left as I topped the high railing. 
 
 And shape my own course o'er the billowy grass. 
 
 Select is the circle in which I am moving, 
 Yet open and free the admission to all ; 
 
 79
 
 THE DREAM OF AN OLD MELTOXIAN. 
 
 Still, still more select is tliat company proving, 
 
 Weeded out by the t'unker, and thinned by tlie tall : 
 
 Yet here all are equal — no class legislation, 
 No privilege hinders, no family pride : 
 
 In the ' image of war ' show the phick of tlic nation ; 
 Ride, ancient patrician ! democracy, ride ! 
 
 Oh ! gently, my young one ; tlic fence we are nearing 
 
 Is leaning towards us — 'tis hairy and black. 
 The binders are strong, and necessitate clearing, 
 
 Or the wide ditch beyond will find room for your back. 
 W^ell saved I we are over I now far down the pastures 
 
 Of Ashwell the willows betoken the line 
 Of the dull-flowing stream of historic disasters ; 
 
 We must face, my bold young one, the dread Whis- 
 sendine. 
 
 No shallow-dug pan with a hurdle to screen it, 
 
 That cocktail imposture, the steeplechase brook : 
 But the steep broken banks tell us plain, if we mean it, 
 
 The less we shall like it the longer we look. 
 Then steady, my young one, my place IVe selected, 
 
 Above the dwarf willow 'tis sound I'll be bail, 
 With your muscular quarters beneath you collected. 
 
 Prepare for a rush like the ' limited mail.' 
 
 Oh ! now let me know the full worth of your breeding ; 
 Brave son of Belzoni, be true to your sires, 
 
 77
 
 POEMS OF THE CHASE. 
 
 Sustain old traditions — remember your leading 
 
 The cream of the cream in the shire of the shires ! 
 
 With a quick, shortened stride as the distance you measure 
 With a crack of the nostril and cock of the ear, 
 
 And a rocketing bound, and we're over, my treasure, 
 Twice nine feet of water, and landed all clear ! 
 
 What ! four of us only ? Are these the survivors 
 
 Of all that rode gaily from Ranksboro' ridge ? 
 I hear the faint splash of a few hardy divers, 
 
 The rest are in hopeless research of a bridge ; 
 Vce Victis I the way of the world and the winners ! 
 
 Do we ne'er ride away from a friend in distress ? 
 Alas ! we are anti- Samaritan sinners, 
 
 And streaming past Stapleford, onward we press. 
 
 Ah ! don't they mean mischief, the merciless ladies ? 
 
 AVhat fox can escape such implacable foes ? 
 Of the sex cruel slaughter for ever the trade is. 
 
 Whether human or animal — yonder he goes ! 
 Never more for the woodland ! his purpose has failed him, 
 
 Though to gain the old shelter he gallantly tries ; 
 In vain the last double, for Jezebel's nailed him ! 
 
 Who-whoop ! in the open the veteran dies ! 
 
 Yes, four of us only ! But is it a vision ? 
 
 Dear lost ones, how come ye with mortals to mix ? 
 
 78
 
 THE DREAM OF AN OLD MELTONIAN. 
 
 Methoiight that ye hunted the pastures Elysian, 
 And between us there rolled the unjumpable Styx ! 
 
 Stay, stay but a moment ! the grass Helds are fading. 
 And heavy obscurity palsies my brain : 
 
 Through what country, what ploughs and what sloughs 
 am I wading ? 
 Alas ! 'tis the member for Boreham again I 
 
 Oh, glory of youth ! consolation of age ! 
 
 Sublimest of ecstasies under the sun ; 
 Though the veteran may linger too long on the stage, 
 
 Yet he'll drink a last toast to a fox-hunting run. 
 And, oh ! young descendants of ancient top-sawyers ! 
 
 By your lives to the world their example enforce ; 
 Whether landlords, or parsons, or statesmen, or lawyers. 
 
 Ride straight as they rode it from Ranksboro' Gorse. 
 
 Though a rough-riding world may bespatter your breeches, 
 
 Though sorrow may cross you, or slander revile, 
 Though you plunge overhead in misfortune's blind 
 ditches, 
 
 Shun the gap of deception, the handgate of guile : 
 Oh, avoid them ! for there see the crowd is contending, 
 
 Ignoble the object — ill- mannered the throng ; 
 Shun the miry lane, falsehood, with turns never ending. 
 
 Ride straight for truth's timber, no matter how strong. 
 
 70
 
 POEMS OF THE CHASE. 
 
 I'll pound you safe over ! sit steady and quiet ; 
 
 Along the sound headland of honesty steer ; 
 Beware of false holloas and juvenile riot ; 
 
 Though the oxer of duty be wide, never fear ! 
 And when the run's over of earthly existence, 
 
 And you get safe to ground, you will feel no remorse, 
 If you ride it — no matter what line or what distance, 
 
 As straight as your fathers from Ranksboro' Gorse. 
 
 80
 
 MELTONIAN SONG. 
 1831. 
 
 # 
 
 THAT Sire of the Chase — our crack Nimrod, old 
 Meynell, 
 Once said to a famed brother sportsman at Quorn, 
 That ' the fame and the fun of a T^e'stershire kennel 
 
 Should cease — when the sun ceased to gladden the morn.' 
 He's gone, hut each year proves how true the prediction ; 
 
 Unmarred is our sport — undiminished our fame, 
 He's gone, and this day shows his words were no fiction, 
 For ' hunting ' and ' Le'stershire ' still mean the same. 
 
 Ch()Rt\s {(ifter each verse). 
 
 Then round with the bottle, and let it not tarry. 
 
 While we hail, while we honour the man of our choice ; 
 
 In a bumper, come pledge me — the gallant Sir Harry, 
 Whom we love in our hearts, as we hail with our voice. 
 
 Other masters we've had, in the days of our glory — 
 
 Osbaldeston, Sefton, Tom Smith, and 'The (rraeme,' 
 Southampton the last, not the least in our story. 
 
 Giving Melton its mainspring and Le'stershire fame. 
 And if for a season our joy has been clouded, 
 
 A day like the present's too happy for pain ; 
 In the prospect before us what pleasures are crowded. 
 
 For oh, in our Goodricke we've Meynell again. 
 
 81 a
 
 POEMS OF THE CHASE. 
 
 The Coplow again shall be famous in story, 
 
 And high be the deeds we shall do from Seg's Hill ; 
 And Melton once more, in the blaze of its glory, 
 
 Under Goodricke shall flourish — under Goodricke shall fill ; 
 Again shall our coverts like Courts be attended ; 
 
 Again shall our ' field days ' boast many a star. 
 The friends shall return who have Melton befriended, 
 
 Thynne, Forester, Kinnaird, Moore, Maxse, and Maher. 
 
 And Alvanley also — shall Melton forget thee ? 
 
 Oh, never — while wit and while wine have a charm ; 
 Thou too wilt return, blithe as ever we met thee, 
 
 And with joke, fun, and glee, still sad sorrow disarm ; 
 And Chesterfield too, and our honoured I)e Wilton, 
 
 With Plymouth and Stanley shall come in the train. 
 And the Lord of the Chase, and the Monarch of Melton, 
 
 Shall be Harry of Ribston, success to his reign. 
 
 This song was sung during the short reign of Sir Harry Goodricke, 
 who was Master of the Quorn from 1831 to 1833. Possessed of large 
 estates in Ireland, Norfolk, and the West Riding of Yorkshire, with 
 an invincible passion for hunting, and immense popularity, he was 
 welcomed as successor to Lord Southampton on his retirement. 
 Mountford was his huntsman and Will Deny one of his whippers-in. 
 Everything promised a long and brilliant career with the Quorn, but in 
 the sunmier after his second season he went over to Ireland for otter- 
 hunting on his property there ; he contracted a chill and died very 
 suddenly. He was buried at Ribston in Yorkshire on the 4th of 
 September, 1833, aged 33. 
 
 Meynell, Osbaldeston, Sefton, Assheton-Smith, and Southampton are 
 mentioned as former Masters ; ' The Graeme ' is an allusion to 
 Sir Bellingham Graham, who also hunted the Quorn country from 
 1821 to 1823. 
 
 82
 
 THE TARWOOD RUN. 
 
 HE waited not — he was not found — 
 No warning note from eager hound, 
 Rut echo of the distant horn. 
 From outskirts of the covert borne, 
 Where Jack the Whip in ambush hiy, 
 Proclaimed that he was gone away. 
 
 Away ! ere yet that bhist was blown, 
 The fox had o'er the meadow Hown ; 
 Away ! away ! his tliglit he took, 
 Straiglit pointing for the Windrush brook ! 
 
 The Miller, when he heard the pack, 
 Stood tiptoe on his loaded sack. 
 He view'd the fox across the Hat, 
 And, needless signal, wav'd his hat; 
 He saw him clear with bounding heel 
 The water that had wash'd his wheel ; 
 Like phantom fox he seem'd to fly, 
 With speed unearthly flitting by. 
 
 The road that leads to AVitney town 
 He travell'd neither up nor down ; 
 Rut straight away, like arrow sped 
 From cloth-yard bow, he shot ahead. 
 
 b3
 
 POEMS OF THE CHASE. 
 
 Now Cokethorpe on his left he past, 
 Now Duckhngton behind him cast, 
 Now by Bampton, passing Lew, 
 Now by Clanfield, on he flew. 
 At Grafton first his course inchn'd. 
 And Kehnscote now is left behind : 
 
 Where waters of the Isis lave, 
 The meadows with their classic wave, 
 O'er those meadows stealing on 
 Toward the Bridge of good St. .John, 
 He near'd the stream as if to swim. 
 Then schem'd a feint to puzzle Jem ; 
 His footsteps in the margin sink. 
 And taint the sedges on the brink. 
 Then springing back, he seem'd to say, 
 * Those who like to cross it may.' 
 
 Now clamorous on the tainted track 
 Close follow the deluded pack ; 
 Each hound impetuous stems the tide, 
 And shakes himself on t'other side ; 
 But .lem, who view'd him, wide awake 
 To every dodge a fox can make ; — 
 His wily tricks to circumvent 
 Recall'd them to the missing scent. 
 Nor aid save that, throughout the day, 
 From Huntsman or from Whip had they. 
 
 84 
 
 i ,
 
 THE TARWOOD RUN. 
 
 Away ! but with abated speed. 
 O'er fallow brown, o'er verdant mead. 
 O'er soil deep t'urrow'd by the plough, 
 No child's play is the struggle now ; 
 Now over paled park he bounds, 
 A trespasser on Milward's giounds. 
 To Lechlade now the pack he leads, 
 Now close by Little Heinniel speeds ; 
 To Fairfbrd thence he wended straight, 
 Still struggling to the last with Fate, 
 'I'hough now the pack approaching nigh 
 He heard his death-note in the cry. 
 'I'hey view him now, — now seem'd their race 
 The very lightning of the chase : 
 The fox had reach'd the Southropp lane ; 
 He strove to cross, but strove in vain ; 
 The pack roll'd o'er him in his stride, 
 And onward struggling still — he died ! 
 
 This gallant fox in Tarwood found, 
 Had cross'd full twenty miles of ground. 
 Had sought no shelter for his flight 
 In covert either left or right ; 
 But nigh two hours the open kept 
 As stout a fox as ever stept I 
 
 That morning, in the saddle set, 
 A hundred men at Tarwood met ; 
 
 80
 
 POEMS OF THE CHASE. 
 
 Though rumour says of that array 
 Scarce ten liv'd fairly through the day. 
 Till midday's sun had made the ground 
 Fit treading for the foot of hound, 
 Compell'd their pastime to delay, 
 They whil'd in chat an hour away : 
 How bitter overnight the frost ! 
 How many a joke without it lost ! 
 
 Ah ! how shall I in song declare 
 The riders who were foremost there ? 
 A fit excuse how shall I find 
 For every rider left behind ? 
 
 It seem'd while passing Cokethorpe by, 
 As though there was no fence to fly ; 
 Though slash'd and sluic'd with many a drain, 
 Yet seemingly one open plain ; 
 And he who clears those ditches wide 
 Must needs a goodly steed bestride. 
 From Bampton to the river's bounds, 
 The race was run o'er pasture grounds ; 
 Yet many a nag of blood and bone 
 Was heard to cross it with a groan ; 
 For blackthorns stiff the fields divide 
 With watery ditch on either side. 
 
 86
 
 THE TAKWOOD RUN. 
 
 By Leclilade's village fences rise 
 Of every sort and every size, 
 And rotten bank and tottering wall 
 Were crinnbled by the frequent fall. 
 Some planted deep in cornfield stand, 
 A fixed incumbrance on the land : 
 While others prove o'er post and rail 
 The merits of the sliding scale. 
 
 Ah ! much it grieves the INIuse to tell 
 At Clanfield how Valentia fell ; 
 He rode, they say, like one bewitch'd, 
 Till headlong from the saddle pitch'd ; 
 There, reckless of the pain, he sigh'd 
 To tliink he might not onward ride ; 
 Though fallen from his pride of place, 
 His heart was following still the chase ; 
 He bade the Huntsman to forbear 
 His proffer'd aid, nor tarry there ; 
 ' Oh ! heed mc not, but ride away ! 
 The Tarwood fox must die to-day ! ' 
 The rear pulled up with one accord, 
 Assiduous to assist a Lord ; 
 Some say their steeds were sorely blown, 
 Such idle falsehoods I disown. 
 
 87
 
 POEMS OF THE CHASE. 
 
 Valentia fell — nor he alone, 
 Here Jem in mid-career was thrown ; 
 His heels they in the breastplate swung. 
 His head low down on earth it hung ; 
 While Spangle on a blackthorn lay, 
 I^ike dewdrop quivering on the spray ; 
 Soon man and horse regained their feet, 
 And struggling up, Jem reach d his seat. 
 Poor Spangle's lustre worn away — 
 
 * Thou laggard groom ! why this delay ? 
 
 * Oh ! Juliet ! where are thou ? where ? 
 A thousand guineas for the mare ! ' 
 
 With words more touching, grief more true. 
 Could Romeo her absence rue ? 
 Those meadows by the I sis bound, 
 Jem reach' d ere he his Juliet found ; 
 Well thence, with such a prompter's aid, 
 Till Reynard's death her part she play'd. 
 
 Fair Beatrice ! as yet 1 ween 
 But little sport that mare had seen ; 
 Now guided by the hand of Jack 
 She never lost again the pack. 
 Charles, brought to sorrow in the run, 
 Came struggling up ere all was done ; 
 In dyke o'erflowing 'Fungus' fell, 
 A plant that loves the water well ; 
 
 88
 
 THE TARWOOD RUN. 
 
 For minutes ten, or thereabout, 
 
 He bath'd — and then he Hounder'd out — 
 
 By appHcation of spur rowel 
 
 Charles rubbed liiui dry without a towel. 
 
 As on the pack hy Kelmscote flew, 
 What meant those coats of scarlet hue ? 
 Who were they by the neighb'ring wood, 
 Who heedless of the scurry stood i 
 The Valley of the White Horse pack, 
 While idle steeds their riders back. 
 Impatient range the covert round. 
 Their morning fox as yet unfound. 
 That huntsman's horn and echoing cheer 
 Was music sweet to straggler's ear ; 
 And they who felt the pace too hot 
 Sought gladly there a resting-spot. 
 
 Thus Fleets, when they no more can bide 
 The fury of the wind and tide. 
 If chance some tranquil port they spy, 
 Where vessels, safe at anchor, lie. 
 There seek a shelter from the gale, 
 With helm revers'd and slackened sail. 
 Thus patriots, faint of heart, who deem 
 Some honest measure too extreme. 
 No longer to their colours true, 
 Take refuge in the 'juste milieu.' 
 
 80
 
 POEMS OF THE CHASE. 
 
 The speed of horse, the pluck of man, 
 They needed both, who led the van ; 
 This Holmes can tell, who through the day 
 Was ever foremost in the fray ; 
 And Holloway, with best intent, 
 Still shivering timber as he went ; 
 And Williams, clinging to the pack 
 As if the I^eague were at his back ; 
 And ToUit, ready still to sell 
 The nag that carried him so well. 
 When younger men of lighter weight 
 Some tale of future sport relate. 
 Let Whippy show the brush he won, 
 And tell them of the Tarwood run ; 
 While Rival's portrait, on the wall, 
 Sliall oft to memory recall 
 The gallant fox, the burning scent. 
 The leaps they leapt, the pace they went ; 
 How Whimsey led the pack at first ; 
 When Reynard from the woodside burst, 
 How Pamela, a puppy hound. 
 First seized him, struggling on the ground ; 
 How Prudence shunn'd the taint of hare, 
 Taught young in life to have a care ; 
 How Alderman, a foxhound staunch, 
 Work'd well upon an empty paunch ; 
 How Squires were following thee, upset,
 
 THE TARWOOD RUN. 
 
 Right honourable Haronet ; 
 
 How, as the pack by Leclilade Hew, 
 
 Where close and thick tlie fences grew. 
 
 Three Hitches led the tuneful throng. 
 
 All worthy of a place in song ; 
 
 Old Fairplay, ne'er at skirting caught. 
 
 And Pensive, speeding quick as thought ; 
 
 While Handsome prov'd tlie adage true. 
 
 They handsome are that handsome do ! 
 
 Then long may courteous Redesdale live ! 
 And oft his pack such gallops give ! 
 Should fox again so stoutly run 
 JNlay I be there to see the fun. 
 
 This ran took place on December 24th, 1845, with the Heythrop 
 hounds, of which the 2n(l l^nd Redesdale was at that time the Master, 
 Jim Hill the Huntsman, Jack Goddard and Charles the Whips. With 
 the exception of touching one coiner of Hoys Wood, the fox ran in the 
 open for one hour and forty-two minutes, distance about twenty miles. 
 * The Tarwood Run ' stands alone among the histonc runs of the last 
 centiu-y, some of which lacked a satisfactory finish. This descriptive 
 poem was from the delightful pen of Mr. R. I'.r^eiton Warburton, of 
 Arley Hall, in Cheshire, born 1804, and died 1891. 
 
 01
 
 POEMS OF THE CHASE. 
 
 HUNJ ING FROM A RAILWAY CARRIAGE. 
 
 I FORGET where we found — I've a bad head for 
 names, 
 
 It was somewhere 'twixt Rugby and Maiion, 
 Tliere were all sorts of fences, and very few lanes ; 
 
 But I felt we were after a smart 'un. 
 Like a shot we passed over the Harbury road. 
 
 In the gateway I just missed a cow, 
 And beyond the next railing, as o'er it we strode, 
 
 I was ten paces clear of a plough. 
 Down that furrow with water, 'tis soundest I know, 
 
 On yon headland I'll save my horse trouble ; 
 I don't like the look of this fence, though it's low ; 
 
 Thank goodness, we're over that double ! 
 The ditch with a rail, near that oak-tree, was wide, 
 
 But the pace is too good to look round ; 
 He extended himself, and took off in his stride, 
 
 And went on to the next stake and bound. 
 Now I fancy I see Tom catch hold of his hounds. 
 
 As we head for the wood in the hollow; 
 Where we know we shall find on our afternoon rounds, 
 
 Yes ! they've hit off the line, and I follow 
 Towards the branch line from Daventry now well in sight. 
 
 Marked plainly by telegraph wire, 
 
 02
 
 HUNTING FROM A RAILWAY CARRIAGE. 
 
 But the crossing is nejir at tlie gates, painted wliite ; 
 
 Thank goodness I just what we require. 
 Hello ! here's a teaser, without a weak place, 
 
 And a dike on far side, hrings our ride to a check, 
 We are down, a real purler, the (juads run his race. 
 
 And 1 hear myself nnu-niur, ' Tve hroken my neck !' 
 * # # # * 
 
 There are gallops each season we love to think o'er, 
 
 And we price them at ten pounds a minute ; 
 liut this harmless attempt at the Image of War 
 
 Costs a penny a mile, while you're in it. 
 
 93
 
 POEMS OF THE CHASE. 
 
 ODE TO 'NIMROD; 
 
 OF Nimrod's fame, in days of old, 
 Full many a poet's verse hath told ; 
 Oh ! for an abler pen to praise 
 The * Nimrod ' of our modern days — 
 ' Nimrod,' unrivall'd in the chase ; 
 Unequall'd with the pen to trace 
 The deeds of many a day gone by, 
 Which else would wither, fade, and die? 
 What ardour fires each sportsman's breast, 
 When hunters summer 'd, hounds at rest. 
 Thy pages cheat the tedious day. 
 And lull the chase-less hours away ; 
 While memory sweetly feeds on all 
 Those scenes thou only canst recall. 
 See we each well-known covert's side, 
 Each favourite hound, the huntsman's pride ; 
 Each friendly voice, each note, each cheer, 
 Again with thrilling ardour hear. 
 And picture still, in fancy's glow, 
 The wild, the maddening Tally-ho ! 
 Thus o'er and o'er again we trace 
 The various pleasures of the chase — 
 Those fleeting moments, which, though past,
 
 ODE TO 'NIMROD.' 
 
 Described by tbee, shall ever last. 
 Health to thee, ' Nimrod ' ! niay'st thou live, 
 Enjoying all that health can give : 
 May many a run and many a glass 
 Enrich the years thou'rt doom'd to pass ; 
 Ne'er may misfortune, ne'er may care 
 Thy nerves luistring, thy spirits wear : 
 May'st tliou, midst good ones' jovial mirth, 
 Live long, before thou'rt run to earth ! 
 
 Charles James Apporley was ])oi-ii near Wrexham in 1778 ; married 
 early in life, lived at BiUon, near Rugby, for some years, then took to 
 farmiii<^, and for tliat purpose moved to Ik-aurepaire, near Basintrstoke. 
 His writinj^s under the name of ' Nimrod ' became celebrated in the 
 hunting worhl from about 1820 to 1840. It was in I83ii that he awoke 
 one morning to find himself for ever famous as the writer of a 
 ' Ijcicestershire Uini '' in the Qiiarfcrh/ Jit'i'icrc — a production which has 
 never l)een surpassed in sporting literature. No doubt in his jjarticular 
 line lie was without a rival at that period, long before * the Druid,' 
 Surtees, or AV'^hyte Melville appeared on the scene. Flattering notices 
 of various hunting establishments procured for him many patrons among 
 the Masters of Hounds, some of whom ceitaiidv were not averse to lx;ing 
 comj)limented in print : in return, ' Ninn'od ' enjoyed the hospitality 
 of the huntinj'' celebrities in that dav, and abundant evidence on the 
 subject is to be found both in his VorLshitr Tour and Xorthcni 'J'our. 
 AVliether he was much of a customer across country is not quite clear, 
 but there can be no doubt that he alwavs went well over the mahogany ! 
 At one time his literary contributions biought him an ample income ; 
 but when at last difliculties drove him from England, he went to live at 
 Calais for some time. Eventuallv he returned to London, where he 
 died on the 19th of May, 1843. 
 
 95
 
 POEMS OF THE CHASE. 
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF THE LATE 
 DUKE OF DORSET. 
 
 1815. 
 
 BRIGHT beaming the sun is, and fresh the spring 
 morn, 
 And sweetly the thrush pours his notes from the thorn ; 
 The cry of the hounds, as it swells on the gale, 
 Awakes the blithe echoes of hill and of vale ; 
 The game is uprous'd, and begun is the chase — 
 O ! who is that Hunter whose skill and whose grace, 
 As swiftly o'er plain and o'er barrier he flies, 
 Engages unrivall'd all hearts and all eyes. 
 
 'Tis Dorset's young Lord, of a race as renown 'd 
 As ever to hunter or warrior sound, 
 To chase or to battle rush'd forth to the field, 
 To make or the game or the foeman to yield : 
 And mark you his steed, o'er the fallow so deep, 
 111 pace with his rider's proud spirit can keep. 
 All weary and fainting, he totters — he falls : 
 And the death-cry of sorrow is heard in our halls. 
 
 Weep, Lord of fair Powerscourt, weep in the shade. 
 Thy noble young guest on his death-bier is laid ; 
 
 98
 
 THE LATE DUKE OF DORSET. 
 
 From the chase of KiHiney he ne'er will return, 
 
 And Erin's soft maids long shall sigh o'er his urn : 
 
 No more on thy hills shall be heard the gay sound 
 
 Of merry- toned bugle or cry of the hound, 
 
 But the raven shall scream, and the sea-mist abide 
 
 Cold and dark o'er the spot where the young Dorset died.' 
 
 ^ The Duke's horsemanship was the subject of nuich lulniiratiuii. 
 While on a visit to Lord Powersoouit, at his l)eautiful seat in the 
 county of Wicklow, and hunting with his Lordship's hounds, his horse, 
 after leaping a wall, fell, and rolling over the Duke caused his death. 
 The 4th Duke of Dorset, born November 15th, 179S, and dierl 
 February Uth, 1815, aged HI. 
 
 97
 
 POEMS OF THE CHASE. 
 
 THE HUNTSMEN. 
 1811. 
 
 SEE, seated round the winter's fire, 
 The heroes of the chase ; 
 See, many an honest heart is there, 
 And many a cheerful face. 
 
 Friendship, amidst the jolly throng. 
 Their generous ardour leads. 
 
 And tunes the rustic huntsman's song. 
 Or tells of former deeds. 
 
 For now, when toils of chase are o'er. 
 
 With many a near escape, 
 To Bacchus, jovial god, they pour 
 
 The nectar of the grape. 
 
 For Bacchus gives fresh strength to all, 
 
 Fresh vigour to the mind. 
 And fills the wearied huntsman's hall 
 
 With luxury refined. 
 
 And while the bottle passes round. 
 
 Or jug of sparkling ale, 
 Each joins the merry, jovial sound. 
 
 Each tells his fav'rite tale : 
 
 98
 
 THE HUNTSMEN. 
 
 How Reynard pass'd the river's flood, 
 
 The valley and the mead ; 
 How Basto check'd him at the wood, 
 
 Or Tartar took the lead. 
 
 Each tongue relates with ardent breath, 
 
 'Midst loud, applauding cries, 
 AVho came the foremost to the death, 
 
 And gain'd the noble prize. 
 
 How Dick, the parson, jolly soul. 
 Did dash through thick and thin ; 
 
 And Tom, the huntsman, reach'd the goal, 
 With Jack, the whipper-in. 
 
 But now they fill their glasses high, 
 While mirth lights every face. 
 
 And toast with many a joyful cry, 
 ' The champions of the chase.' 
 
 99
 
 POEMS OF THE CHASE. 
 
 ODE TO JOHN WARDE. 
 
 By Mr. S. Nicoli., Master of the New Forest Hounds. 
 
 A BIRTHDAY ode to Britain's King 
 The Poet's paid each year to sing ; 
 To celebrate each patriot's name, 
 Each hero's warhke deeds proclaim : 
 Could 1 but in heroic verse 
 My country's glories thus rehearse, 
 My muse addressed should ever be 
 To thee, fair land of liberty ; 
 But bad's my metre, worse my rhyme, 
 To read it were a loss of time ; 
 But he'll excuse to whom I sing. 
 For I'm no poet — he no king. 
 On this the birthday of John Warde,^ 
 Let me in humble verse record 
 How high he stands in sporting fame ; 
 How great his skill, how great his name ; 
 How in the kennel and the field 
 To none, since Meynell's death, he'll yield 
 
 ^ John Warde, of Squerries, Kent, a well-known M.F.H. for fifty- 
 three years. Born 1752, and died 1838. This ode was dedicated to 
 hiui by his admirer, Mr. Nicoll, who was Master of the New Forest 
 Hounds from 1814 to 1828 ; also celebrated for a witty tongue and 
 caustic pen. 
 
 100
 
 ODE TO JOHN WARDE. 
 
 His knowledge of the noble sport ; 
 How well to choose the pack, the sort 
 Of every hound ; how nice he breeds, 
 And how the pack with judgment feeds. 
 The large and lengthy dog he seeks, 
 One on the scent who truly speaks, 
 And leaves from power far behind, 
 The small * Pygmalion ' scjueaking kind. 
 To kill their game, full well he knows, 
 As well as pace, they must have nose. 
 To take a lesson from his book, 
 And at his system fairly look, 
 Would Quorndon's hero* only deign, 
 He would not hunt his fox in vain ; 
 But no, with him 'tis all the pace. 
 His hounds stand staring in his face. 
 And seem to say, ' My noble Master, 
 You cannot have us go much faster. 
 For we, on flying all intent, 
 A mile behind have letl the scent.' 
 You, Pytchley's Lord,- with pack unsightly, 
 Listen no more to Squire Knightley ;^ 
 Skim from your lot all scum and froth, 
 Too many cooks lia\ e spoilt your broth ; 
 
 * T. A. Smith, Master of the Quorn. 
 
 ■^ Lord Althorp, Master of the Pytchley. 
 
 3 Sir C. Knightley, Bart., of Fawsley, Ma:3ter of the Pytcliley. 
 
 101
 
 POEMS OF THE CHASE. 
 
 Use your own judgment in the chase, 
 
 And breed from nose as well as pace. 
 
 And you, great Lord of Warwickshire,^ 
 
 To this my counsel lend your ear, 
 
 You'll ne'er acquire a sporting name, 
 
 Whilst in a bag you find your game. 
 
 You, too. Great Duke," dressed all in blue, 
 
 A word in time I'd have with you : 
 
 Your fields are wild, your Huntsman slack ; 
 
 In no condition is your pack ; 
 
 The proudest peer in all the land, 
 
 The science you don't understand. 
 
 Why then your thoughts on hunting fix ? 
 
 You'd better stick to politics. 
 
 To Bicester now my muse takes flight, 
 
 For Mostyn's^ hounds are my delight, 
 
 And Stephen's* system in the kennel. 
 
 Borrowed from the school of INIeynell, 
 
 Brings hounds so nobly to the post. 
 
 That if by chance in chase he's lost. 
 
 Or at a check he does not come, 
 
 No fault's in him, but in his bum : 
 
 But, IVIostyn, now the pack's your own, 
 
 * Lord Middleton, Master of the Warwickshire. 
 
 2 Sixth Duke of Beaufort, Master of the Beaufort Hunt. 
 
 3 Sir T. Mostyn, Master of the Bicester. 
 
 * Stephen Goodall, his huntsman, who rode twenty stone. 
 
 102
 
 ODE TO JOHN WARDE. 
 
 Why don't you have them left alone ? 
 
 Nor let the parson and Sir Ned 
 
 Thus screech, and whoop, and ride ahead ; 
 
 Exert yourself, your judgment's sound, 
 
 Draft from your pack each silent hound ; 
 
 Breed from the hounds that you like best. 
 
 And Chanticleer among the rest ; 
 
 Then, if Griff Lloyd don't interfere, 
 
 You'll perfect be another year. 
 
 A Forester to be so bold ! 
 
 In such contempt these hounds to hold ; 
 
 Unusual quite, but condescend 
 
 To come down here and learn to mend, 
 
 And then with me you must agree, 
 
 More perfect hounds can never be ; 
 
 ^Vhether in open or in cover, 
 
 They hunt so true, they're never over ; 
 
 For, as we wisli our pack Lo shine, 
 
 AVe've only those who hold the line ; 
 
 Good scent or bad, to them the same. 
 
 They never fail to kill their game. 
 
 To you, John Warde, our thanks are due, 
 
 For all our sport we owe to you ; 
 
 Blest with your superior science, 
 
 AV^e bid the sporting world defiance. 
 
 This day you're in your sixtieth year, 
 
 And scarcely forty-five appear;
 
 POEMS OF THE CHASE. 
 
 And what you say, I hope is truth, 
 The ladies think you quite a youth. 
 May we for many years attend 
 In this same house, our worthy friend 
 In this same social, friendly way, 
 Thus celebrate his natal day : 
 Then fill a bumper to the Squire, 
 And put piy poem in the fire. 
 
 104
 
 DEATH OF TOxM MOODY. 
 
 The noted Whippek-in, \\e\a. known to the 
 Sportsmen of Shropshire. 
 
 By William Shields. 
 
 YOU all know Tom Moody, the whipper-in, well ; — 
 The bell just done tolling was honest Tom's knell ! 
 A more able sportsman ne'er follow'd a hound 
 Thro' a country, well known to him, fifty miles round ; 
 No hound ever open'd, with Tom near the wood, 
 But he'd challenge the tone, and could tell if 'twas good ; 
 And all, with attention, would eagerly mark. 
 When he cheer'd up the pack — ' Hark ! to Rock wood, 
 hark I hark ! 
 
 Hie ! wind him, and cross him ! 
 Now Rattler Boy !— Hark ! ' 
 
 Six crafty Earth-stoppers, in hunter's-green drest, 
 Supported poor Tom to an ' Earth ' made for rest : 
 His horse, which he styld his Old Soul,' next appear d, 
 On whose forehead the brush of his last fox was rear'd ; 
 AVhip, cap, boots, and spurs, in a trophy were bound, 
 And here and there follow'd an old straggling hound. 
 
 105
 
 ,! 
 
 POEMS OF THE CHASE. 
 
 Ah ! no more at his voice yonder vales will they trace, 
 Nor the Wrekin resound his first burst in the chase I 
 
 With ' Hie-over ! — now press him ! 
 
 Tally-ho !— Tally-ho ! ' 
 
 Thus Tom spoke his friends, ere he gave up his breath- 
 ' Since 1 see you're resolv'd to be in at the death, 
 One favour bestow — 'tis the last 1 shall crave, 
 Give a rattling View-hallo thrice over my grave ! 
 And unless at that warning I lift up my head. 
 My boys, you may fairly conclude I am dead ! ' 
 Honest Tom was obey'd, and the shout rent the sky, 
 For ev'ry voice join'd in the Tally-ho ! cry. 
 ' Tally-ho !— Hark forward! 
 ' " ' Tally-ho !— Tally-ho ! ' 
 
 This ballad was composed in allusion to the death and burial of 
 Tom Moody, the celebrated whipper-in. He was in the service of 
 Mr. P'orester, of Willey, in Shropshire, for about forty yeai"s, and died 
 at the close of the eighteenth century in 1796. 
 
 108
 
 THE BILLESDON COPLOW RIJ-S. 
 
 Februauv 24th, 1800. 
 
 By the Rev. Robert Lowih. 
 
 WITH the wind at north-east, forbiddingly keen. 
 The Coplow of Hillesdon ne'er witness'd, I ween, 
 Two hundred such horses and men at a burst — 
 All determined to ride, each resolvd to be first. 
 But to get a good start over-eager and jealous, 
 Two-thirds at the least of these \ery tine i'ellows 
 So crowded and hustled, and jostled and crossed. 
 That they rode the wrong way, and at starting were 
 
 lost. 
 In spite of the unpromising state of the weather 
 Away broke the fox and the hounds close together ; 
 A burst up to Tilton so brilliantly ran, 
 Was scarce ever seen in the mem'ry of man ! 
 What hounds gained the scent, or which led the way, 
 Your bard, to their names quite a stranger, can't say ; 
 Tho' their names, had he known, he is free to confess 
 His horse could not show him at such a death pace. 
 Villiers, Cholmondelcy, and Forester made such a sharp 
 
 play, - 
 
 107
 
 POEMS OF THE CHASE. 
 
 Not omitting Germaine, never seen till to-day; 
 
 Had you judged of these four by the trim of their pace, 
 
 At Bibury you'd think they'd been riding a race. 
 
 But these hounds with a scent how they dashed and they 
 
 fling, 
 To o er-ride them is quite the impossible thing I 
 Disdaining to hang in the wood, thro' he raced, 
 And the open for Skeffington gallantly faced ; 
 Where, headed and foiled, his first point he forsook. 
 And merrily led them a dance o'er the brook. 
 Passed Galby and Norton, Great Stretton and Small, 
 Right onwards till sweeping to old Stretton Hall, 
 Where two minutes' check served to show, at one ken. 
 The extent of the havoc 'mongst horses and men ! 
 Such sighing, such sobbing, such trotting, such walking, 
 Such reeling, such halting, of fences such baulking ; 
 Such a smoke in the gaps, such comparing of notes, 
 Such quizzing each other's daub'd breeches and coats. 
 Here a man walked afoot who his horse had half killed, 
 There you met with a steed who his rider had spill'd ; 
 In short, such dilemmas, such scrapes, such distress 
 One fox ne'er occasion'd, the knowing confess. 
 But, alas ! the dilemmas had hardly begun ! 
 On for Wigston and Ayleston he resolute ran, 
 Where a few of the stoutest now slacken'd and panted, 
 And many were seen irretrievably planted. 
 The high road to Leicester the scoundrel then crossed, 
 
 108
 
 THE BILLESDON COPLOW RUN. 
 
 As Tell Tale^ and Beaufremont - found to their cost; 
 And \^illiers esteem'd it a serious bore 
 That no longer could Shuttlecock^ Hy as before. 
 Even Joe Millers^ spirit of fun was so broke 
 That he ceased to consider the run as a joke. 
 Then, streaming away, o'er the river he splashed ; 
 Germaine, close at hand, off the bank Melon' dashed! 
 AV^hy 'I'he Dun proved so stout in a scamper so ^^\]d — 
 Till now he had only been rode by a C'hild.*^ 
 After him plung'd .loe Miller, with Musters so slim. 
 Who twice sank, and nearly paid dear for his whim, 
 Not reflecting that all water Melons must swim. 
 Well soused by their dip on they brushed o'er the bottom, 
 With liquor on board enough to besot 'em. 
 But the villain, no longer at all at a loss, 
 Stretched away like a devil for Enderby Gorse, 
 Where, meeting with many a brother and cousin. 
 Who knew how to dance a good hay in the furzen. 
 Jack Raven' at length, coming up on a hack 
 Which a farmer had lent him, whipp'd off the game 
 pack, 
 
 1 Tell Tale— Mr. Forester's horse. 
 
 2 Beaufremont — Mr. Maddock's horse. 
 
 3 Shuttlecock — Lord Villiers'' horse. 
 * Joe Miller — Mr. Musters' horse. 
 
 ^ Melon — Mr. Gerniaiue's horse. 
 
 ° The Dun — fonuerly the property of Mr, Child, 
 
 " Jack Raven, the huntsman. 
 
 toe
 
 POEMS OF THE CHASE. 
 
 Running sulky old Loadstone^ the stream would not swim, 
 
 No longer sport proving a magnet to him. 
 
 Of mistakes and mishaps, and what each man befell, 
 
 Would the Muse could with justice poetical tell ! 
 
 Bob Grosvenor, on Plush ,^ tho' determin'd to ride. 
 
 Lost at first a good start, and was soon set aside ; 
 
 Tho' he charg'd hill and dale, not to lose this rare chase, 
 
 On Velvet, Plush could not get a footing, alas ! 
 
 To Tilton sail'd bravely Sir Wheeler O'CufF, 
 
 Where, neglecting thro' hurry to keep a good Luff, 
 
 To Leeward he drifts— how provoking a case I 
 
 And was forc'd, tho' reluctant, to give up the chase. 
 
 As making his way to the pack's not his forte, 
 
 Sir Lawley,^ as usual, lost half of the sport I 
 
 But then the professed philosophical creed, 
 
 That ' All's for the best ' of Master Candide, 
 
 If not comfort, Sir R. reconcile may at least. 
 
 For on this supposition his sport is the best. 
 
 Orby Hunter, who seem'd to be hunting his fate, 
 Got falls to the tune of no fewer than eight. 
 
 ^ The huntsman's horse. 
 
 ^ Mr. Robert Grosvenorls horse. 
 
 ^ Sir Robert Lawley. 
 
 no
 
 THE RILLESDON COPI.OW Ki:X. 
 
 Basan's King^ upon Glimpse," sadly out of condition, 
 
 PuH'd up, to avoid of being tired the suspicion. 
 
 He did right, for Og \'ery soon found 
 
 His worst had he done, he'd have scarce glimpsed a hound. 
 
 Charles Meynell, who lay very well with the hounds, 
 
 Till at Stretton he nearly arrived at the bounds. 
 
 Now discover 'd that \V^aggoner^ rather would creep 
 
 Than exert his great prowess in taking a leap ; 
 
 But when crossing the turnpike he read, ' Put on here,' 
 
 "Twas enough to make any one bluster and swear. 
 
 The Waggoner, feeling familiar the road, 
 
 Was resolv'd not to quit it, so stock still he stood. 
 
 Yet prithee, dear Charles, why rash vows do you make, 
 
 Thy leave of old Billesdon ^ to finally take ( 
 
 Since from Seg's Hill, for instance, or perhaps Melton 
 
 Spinney, 
 If they go a good pace you are beat for a guinea. 
 'Tis money, they say, makes the mare to go kind — 
 The proverb has vouched for this time out of mind ; 
 But tho' this truth you admit the full force, 
 It may not hold so good of every horse. 
 
 ^ Mr. Oglander, familiarly known as Og. 
 
 - Glimpse, Mr. Oglander's horse. 
 
 ^ Waggoner, Mr. Charles Meynelfs horse. 
 
 * He had threatened never again to follow the liounds from 
 Billesdon, as no horse could carry his weight up to them in that part 
 of the country. - - 
 
 111
 
 POEMS OF THE CHASE. 
 
 If it did, Ellis Charles need not hustle and hug 
 By name, not by nature, his favourite Slug.^ 
 Yet, Slug as he is, the whole of this chase 
 Charles ne'er could have seen had he gone a snail's pace. 
 Old Gradus," who's fretting and fuming at first, 
 Disqualified strangely for such a tight burst, 
 Ere to Tilton arriv'd ceas'd to pull and to crave, 
 And tho' freshish at Stretton he stepped a Pas grave. 
 Where, in turning him over a cramp kind of place. 
 He overturned George, whom he threw on his face ; 
 And on foot to walk home it had sure been his fate, 
 But that soon he was caught, and tied up to a gate. 
 
 Near Wigston occurred a most singular joke : 
 Captain Miller avow'd that his leg he had broke. 
 And bemoaned in most piteous expressions how hard. 
 By so cruel a fracture, to have his sport marr'd. 
 In quizzing his friends he felt little remorse. 
 To finesse the complete doing up of his horse. 
 Had he told a long story of losing a shoe, 
 Or of laming his horse, he very well knew 
 That the Leicestershire creed out this truism worms, 
 
 1 Slug, Mr. Charles Ellis's horse. 
 ^ Gradus, Mr. George Ellis's horse, 
 
 112
 
 THE BILLESDON COrLOW RUN. 
 
 * Lost shoes uiid dead beat are synonymous terms.' 
 
 So a horse must here learn, whatever lie does, 
 
 To die game, as at Tyhurn, and ' die in his shoes.' 
 
 Bethel Cox and Tom Smith, Messieurs Bennet and Ilawke, 
 
 Their nags all eontrived to reduee to a walk. 
 
 Maynard's Lord, who detests competition and strife 
 
 As well in the chase as in social life ; 
 
 Than w^hom nobody harder has rode in his time, 
 
 But to crane now and then now thinks it no crime. 
 
 That he beats some crack riders most fairly may crow. 
 
 For he liv'd to the end, tho' he scarcely knows how. 
 
 With Snaftte and Martingale kept in his rear, 
 
 His horse's mouth open half up to his ear, 
 
 Mr. ^Vardle, who threatened great things over- night. 
 
 Beyond Stretton was left in most terrible pligiit ! 
 
 Too lean to be pressed, yet egged on by compulsion. 
 
 No wonder his nag tumbled into convulsion. 
 
 Ah ! had he but lost a fore-shoe, or fell lame, 
 
 'Twould only his sport have curtail'd, not his fame. 
 
 Loraine,^ than whom no one his game plays more safe, 
 
 Who the last, than the first, prefers seeing by half; 
 
 VV^hat with nicking and keeping a constant look-out. 
 
 Every turn of the scent surely turn'd to account. 
 
 The wonderful pluck of his horse surprised some. 
 
 But he knew they were making point-blank for his home. 
 
 ^ Mr. Loraine Smith. 
 
 113 I
 
 POEMS OF THE CHASE. 
 
 * Short home ' to be brought we all should desire 
 Could we manage the trick like the Enderby Squire.^ 
 
 Wild Shelley,^ at starting, all ears and all eyes, 
 Who, to get a good start, all experiments tries ; 
 Yet contriv'd it so ill as to throw out poor Gipsy ,^ 
 Whom he rattled along as if he'd been tipsy 
 To catch them again, but tho' famous for speed, 
 She never could touch them, much less get a lead. 
 So dishearten 'd, disjointed, and beat, home he swings, 
 Not much unlike a fiddler hung upon strings. 
 
 An H.H.,* who in Leicester never had been, 
 
 So, of course, such a tickler ne'er could have seen. 
 
 Just to see them throw off, on a raw liorse was mounted, 
 
 Who a hound had ne'er seen, or a fence had confronted. 
 
 But they found in such style, and went off at such score, 
 
 That he could not resist the attempt to see more : 
 
 I 
 
 ^ Where Mr. Loraine Smith lives. 
 
 ^ Sir John Shelley. 
 
 ^ Gipsy, Sir John Shelley's mare. 
 
 ■* H.H., a member of the Hampshire Hunt.
 
 THE BILLESDON COl^I.OW RUX. 
 
 So with scrambling and dasliino-, and one rattling fall, 
 
 He saw all the fun up to Stretton's white Hall. 
 
 There they anchored — in plight not a little distressing, 
 
 The horse being raw, he, of course, got a dressing. 
 
 That wonderful mare of Vanneck's, who till now 
 
 By no chance ever tir'd, was taken in tow : 
 
 And, what's worse, she gave Vtm such a de\'ilish jog 
 
 In the face with her head, plunging out of a bog. 
 
 That with eye black as ink, or as Edward's famed Prince, 
 
 Half blind has he been, and quite deaf ever since ; 
 
 ' But let that not mortify thee, Shacaback.' ' 
 
 She only was blown, and came home a rare hack. 
 
 There Craven, too, stopp'd, whose misfortune, not fault, 
 His mare unaccountedly vexed with string-halt ; 
 And when she had ceased thus spasmodic to prance, 
 Her mouth 'gan to twitch with St. Vitus's dance. 
 But how shall described be the fate of Rose Price, 
 Whose fav'rite white gelding conveyed him so nice. 
 Through thick and through thin, tliat he vow'd and 
 
 protested, 
 No money should part them as long as life lasted ? 
 
 ^ A nickname given to Mr. Vanneck by his Melton friends. 
 
 115
 
 POEMS OF THE CHASE. 
 
 But the pace that effected which money could not, 
 For to part, 'and in death, was their no distant lot : 
 In a fatal blind ditch Carlo Khan's ^ prowess failed, 
 Where no lancet, nor laudanum either, availed. 
 More care of a horse than he took could take no man, 
 He'd more straw than would serve any lying-in woman. 
 Still he died ! Yet just how, as nobody knows. 
 It may truly be said, he died ' under the Rose.' 
 At the death of poor Khan, Melton feels such remorse. 
 That they've christen'd that ditch, ' The Vale of White 
 Horse.' 
 
 Thus ended a chase, which for distance and speed 
 
 Its fellows we never have heard of or read ; 
 
 Every species of ground every horse does not suit — 
 
 What's a good country hunter may here prove a brute ; 
 
 And unless for all sorts of strange fences prepared, 
 
 A horse and his rider are sure to be scared. 
 
 This variety giv^es constant life to the chase. 
 
 But as Forester says, ' Su-, what kills is the Pace.' 
 
 In most other countries they boast of their breed, 
 
 For carrying, at times, such a beautiful head ; 
 
 ^ Carlo Khan, Mr. Rose Price's horse. 
 
 110
 
 THE RILLESDOX COPLOW RUN. 
 
 But these lioiinds to carry a Head cannot fail. 
 And constantly too, for by George there's no Tail. 
 Talk of horses and hounds, and system of kennel, 
 Give me [-.eicestershire nags and the hounds of Old 
 JNIeynelL* 
 
 The run celebrated in tlie.se veise> took place on Fehiiiarv S^^tli, 
 1800, in the last year of Mr. Meyneirs rei^i. They found in the 
 Coplow al>oiit two oVlock, and lost him at Enderby Gorse, a chase of 
 two hours and fifteen nn'nntes, tlie distance said to Ix* Iwcntv-ei^ht 
 miles. The poem was written by the Rev. Hol)ert Ix)wtli, son of the 
 Bishop of Ix)ndon of that day, who was one of the field, having come 
 from Hampshire on a visit to Melton at the time. 
 
 ^ Hugo Meynell, the Master of the whole Quorn countiy (as it then 
 %vas) hunted Ix-'icestershire from 175,'i to the spring of 1800, when he 
 gave up upon the death of his eldest son. Me\niell lived on until 
 December 14th, 1808, when he died in I^ndon at the age of seventy- 
 four, and was buried at Bradley, in Derbyshire. Thus ended the life 
 of a Master of Hounds whose name will be rememlx'red so long as fox- 
 hunting continues to exist. 
 
 117
 
 POEMS OF THE CHASE. 
 
 OLD LEICESTERSHIRE HUNTING SONG. 
 
 V I ^WAS on a dark day in December, 
 
 X T'he face of all nature looked black ; 
 'Twas a day I shall ever remember, 
 
 As I cantered away on my hack, 
 Alike dirt and danger defying, 
 
 Contusions, and bruises, and knocks. 
 For sure there's no pastime on earth 
 
 To be mentioned with hunting the Fox. 
 
 'Twas a nice bit of gorse that we drew. 
 
 Each man on his best horse was there ; 
 ' Hark ! a whimper " — oh ! that will not do, 
 
 'Tis a puppy, not steady from hare. 
 Hark ! another, ' Yooi at him, my lads ' — 
 
 Now, gentlemen, pray keep behind ; 
 That's old ' Bridesmaid,' who never spoke false, 
 
 And I'll bet ten to one it's a find ! 
 
 Cigars are thrown down in a hurry, 
 
 And bridle-reins gathered up tight ; 
 See, all are prepared for a scurry, 
 
 And each is resolved to be right ; 
 ' Tally-ho ! ' cries a clod from a tree, 
 
 See the knowing ones gently creep on, 
 And a terrible burst it will be, 
 
 For right o'er a fine country he's gone. 
 
 118
 
 OLD LEICESTERSHIRE HUNTING SONG. 
 
 Now the fences make luaiiy ' look blue ! ' 
 
 And there's no time to crane or to creep, 
 O'er the pastures hke pigeons they Hew, 
 
 And the ground rides uncommonly deep. 
 ' My stars, what a fall ! — are you hurt ^ ' 
 
 *()h, no, sir! I thank you — are you?' 
 But who to enjoy such a burst 
 
 Would be grudging an odd rib or two? 
 
 Now the pace is })eginning to tell, 
 
 And the field's getting mighty select; 
 While those who rode horses ' to sell ' 
 
 Had already let out their defects. 
 O'er the grass at a terrible pace 
 
 For fifty-five minutes he'd stood, 
 AVhen we ended this regular race, 
 
 And ' who-whooped ' him, one field from the wood. 
 
 Now the stragglers begin to come up : 
 
 ' And where, my dear fellow, were you ? ' 
 ' Oh, sir 1 in the midst of the run, 
 
 My poor little mare threw a shoe.' 
 'And where was that gentleman in pink, 
 
 AVho swore at his tail we should look ? ' 
 • Not in the next parish, I think. 
 
 For he never got over the Brook I 
 
 IIQ
 
 POEMS OF THE CHASE. 
 
 LOWESBY HALL. 
 By W. Davenport Broimley. 
 
 GILMOUR, leave me here a little, and when John 
 O'Gaunt is drawn, 
 If you find the raw material, let Jack Morgan blow his 
 horn. 
 
 'Tis the place, and all about it, as of old the magpies call, 
 Boding evil to 'the lad,'^ and flying over Lowesby Hall. 
 
 Lowesby Hall that in the distance overlooks the grassy 
 
 plain, 
 Swamp'd from Twyford to the Coplow by the everlasting 
 
 rain. 
 
 Many a day from yonder spiimy, in November moist and 
 
 chill, 
 Have I seen the wily animal steal slowly up the hill. 
 
 Many a night I've watched the vapours of my last remain- 
 ing weed, 
 AVhen my spurs had ceased to animate my apathetic steed. 
 
 1 * The Lad ■" was the nickname of Colonel Hon. Henry Forester. 
 
 120 
 
 I
 
 LOVVESBY HALL. 
 
 Here in search of sport I've wandered, nourishing a verdant 
 
 youth 
 With the fairy tales of Gallops, ancient runs devoid of 
 
 truth ; 
 
 When T dipped into my prospects far as ever T could get, 
 And felt the wild delirious joy of running into debt. 
 
 In the Spring the pink no longer clothes the sad Mel- 
 
 tonian's breast, 
 In the Spring his stuniped-up horses are at last allowed to 
 
 rest. 
 
 In the Spring, too, he must settle for the cursed corn 
 
 and hay. 
 In the Spring the dire conviction comes upon him — he 
 
 must pay. 
 
 Then my tradesmen all about my door most obstinately 
 
 clung. 
 And their eyes on all my motions with a mute observance 
 
 hung. 
 
 So 1 said, ' My faitliful tailor, do a bit of stiff for me ; 
 Trust me yet — my uncle's shaky, all his coin shall flow 
 to thee.' 
 
 131
 
 POEMS OF THE CHASE. 
 
 O'er his greasy cheek and forehead came a colour and a 
 
 Hght, 
 As I've seen the nimble lamplighter turn on the gas at 
 
 night. 
 
 And he said, ' I'm proud to serve thee, sir, as any gent 
 
 in town ; 
 If so shaky be thine uncle, thou shalt have the money 
 
 down.' 
 
 Credit seized the glass of time, and dribbled out the 
 
 golden sand ; 
 Every day became more valueless my frequent note-of- 
 
 hand. 
 
 Health revived my hardy uncle ; now, alas ! he coughed 
 
 no more. 
 And the day of his decease appeared more distant than 
 
 before. 
 
 Many a morning have I waited, with my hopes upon the 
 
 rack ; 
 Vainly waited for the postman, and a letter sealed with 
 
 black. 
 
 Oh, my tailor ! shallow-hearted ; oh, my tailor ! mine no 
 more ; 
 
 Oh, the dreary, dreary Bond Street ! oh, the Strand's un- 
 happy shore I 
 
 122
 
 LOU ESBY HAJ.L. 
 
 Is it well to use me thus, sir ; having known me, to decline 
 Any further cash advances with security like mine '. 
 
 But it shall be : thou shalt lower to the level of a dun. 
 Seeking custom with acrostics, like tiie Moseses and Son. 
 
 As the tradesman so the customer, and thou shalt measure 
 
 clowns ; 
 Tiiey shall pay thee, for thy cordmoys, in ignominious 
 
 browns. 
 
 I would use thee, if my passion might expend its real 
 
 force, 
 Little better than my dog, and something worscr than my 
 
 horse. 
 
 What is that which 1 can turn to '. Can a gentleman 
 
 descend 
 To dig the gold which nature had intended him to spend '. 
 
 Every ship is filled with footmen, and Australia overflows 
 ^Vith the Piccadilly porters and the butlers whom one 
 knows. 
 
 1 had been content to perish on the sandy Sussex shore, 
 A V here Militiamen are marshalled and the Minie rifles roar. 
 
 123
 
 POEMS OF THE CHASE. 
 
 But the gentle voice of Cobden drowns the fierce 
 
 invaders' drum, 
 And the Frenchmen do not bluster, and Napoleon funks 
 
 to come. 
 
 Can I but regain my credit ? Can I spend spent cash again ? 
 Hide me from my deep emotion, O thou wonderful 
 champagne ! 
 
 jMake me feel tlie wild pulsation 1 have often felt before, 
 When my horse went on before me, and my hack was at 
 the door. 
 
 Yearning for the large excitement that the coming sport 
 
 would yield. 
 And rejoicing in the cropper that I got the second field. 
 
 And at night along the highway in November dark and 
 
 chill, 
 Saw the lights of Melton shining from the top of Burton 
 , Hill. 
 
 Then my spirit rushed before me, and I felt the ' thirty-four ' 
 Percolating through my system — noble vintage ! now no 
 more. 
 
 Brother sportsmen and protectionists rejecting aught that's 
 
 new, 
 Oh ! the future that's impending is a queerish one for you ; 
 
 124
 
 LOWESBV HALL. 
 
 For T look'd into its pages and I read tlie hook of fate ; 
 And saw Fox Hunting abolished l)y an order of the St«ite. 
 
 Saw the Heavens filled with guano, and the clouds at 
 
 Man's command, 
 Raining down unsavoury li(|uids for the henefit of land. 
 
 Saw the airy Navies earthward hear the planetary swell, 
 And the long-projected railway made from Hanover to Hell. 
 
 Saw the I^andlords yield their acres after centuries of 
 
 wrongs. 
 To the Cotton Lords, to whom, it's proved, all property 
 
 belongs. 
 
 Queen, Religion, State abandoned, and all flags of party 
 
 furled 
 In the government of Cohden and the dotage of the world. 
 
 Then shall exiled common sense espouse some other 
 
 planet's cause, 
 And the rogues shall thrive in • 'i'ellus,' bonneting the 
 
 slumbering laws. 
 
 Hark ! my merry comrades call me, and Jack Morgan 
 
 blows his horn, 
 1 to whom their foolish pastime is an object of my scorn. 
 
 125
 
 POEMS OF THE CHASE. 
 
 Can a sight be more disgusting, more absurd a paradox, 
 Than two hundred people riding at a miserable fox ? 
 
 Will his capture on the morrow any satisfaction bring ? 
 1 am shamed through all my nature to have done so flat 
 a thing. 
 
 Weakness, to be wroth with weakness, I'm an idiot for 
 
 my pains. 
 Nature made for every sportsman an inferior set of brains. 
 
 Here at least I'll stay no longer; let me seek for some 
 abode 
 
 Deep in some provincial country, far from rail or turn- 
 pike road ; 
 
 There to break all links of habit, and to find a secret 
 
 charm 
 In the mysteries of manuring and the produce of a farm. 
 
 To deplore the fall of barley, to admire the rise of peas, 
 Over flagons of October, giant mounds of bread and cheese ; 
 
 Never company to dinner, never visitors from town, 
 Just the Parson and the Doctor (Mr. Smith and 
 Mr. Brov/n). 
 
 Droops the heavy conversation to an after-dinner snort. 
 And articulation dwindles with the second flask of port ; 
 
 126
 
 LOWESBV HALL. 
 
 There methinks would ])e enjoyment nnoie than at the 
 
 festive board 
 At the luinger-mockin^, kicksliaw-covered table of a Lord. 
 
 There my heart shall beat no longer with my passion's 
 
 foolish throbs, 
 I will wed some vulgar woman, she shall rear my race 
 
 of snobs ; 
 
 Double-jointed, mutton-fisted, they shall run. for they 
 
 shan't ride. 
 Hunting witli the York and Ainsty, or the Harriers 
 
 of Brookside. 
 
 Fool, again the dream, the fancy ! but I know my words 
 
 are stuff, 
 For 1 count the swell provincial lower than the Melton 
 
 Muff. 
 
 I to hunt with fustian jackets ! my remaining years to 
 
 pass 
 With the refuse of Protection, in a land devoid of grass. 
 
 Tied to one perpetual woman, what to me were soil 
 
 or clime < 
 I who never could endure the same for ten days at a time. 
 
 127
 
 POEMS OF THE CHASE. 
 
 I who held it better to pursue the patriarchal plan 
 Than tamely to submit to a monopoly of man ? 
 
 Not in vain the distance beckons— what's that skirting the 
 
 hillside ? 
 'Tis The Fox ! I'll bet a hundred— forward ! forward I let 
 
 us ride. 
 
 I'm before them and they curse me, but no matter, go 
 
 along ; 
 Better fifty yards before the hounds than ten behind the 
 
 throng. 
 
 Oh, I hear you ! you may holloa ! but my spirit knows 
 
 no bounds ; 
 Curse the scent and hang the huntsman, rot the master, 
 
 damn the hounds. 
 
 Oh, I see the crescent promise of my spirit hatli not 
 
 set. 
 You set of tailors ! I can ride across the country yet ! 
 
 Ha ! ha ! ha ! was that an oxer ? What ? old Rambler, is 
 
 he dead ? 
 What of that ? pick up the pieces ; he was mortal ; go 
 
 ahead ! 
 
 1^
 
 LOWESHV HALL. 
 
 They've lost tlie scent — I did it ! oli I ot couise ; 1 
 
 always do ! 
 Here's the Master black as thunder — I'll evaporate, adieu I 
 
 Plough the grass ; erect wire fences ; shoot the foxes ; 
 
 freeze or snow, 
 I can catch the train at Leicester ; so to Euston Square 
 
 I go. 
 
 12U
 
 POEMS OF THE CHASK 
 
 THE SCALFORD RUN AVITH THE BELVOIR 
 
 HOUNDS. 
 
 January 4th, 1862. 
 
 From a young Farmer's letter to his Friend. 
 
 MY lad, have you heard of the run t'other day 
 We had with the Belvoir, when you were away ? 
 From Scalford our fox, before ever a hound 
 Had entered the covert, went off with a bound. 
 
 We raced him by Goadby, and oh ! such a lark, 
 How we rattled along nearly up to the Park, 
 But turning by Stonesby to Coston he took 
 Us along at a terrible pace to the Brook. 
 
 Then over the meadows by Garthorpe he flew, 
 To live with the hounds took us all that we knew, 
 Till done to a turn at the end of an hour 
 We reckoned bold Reynard we had in our power. 
 
 But a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. 
 From the Spinney a fresh one went off with a rush. 
 And great was the grief and the tailing of horse 
 Ere at Barrow he gave us the slip near the gorse. 
 
 130
 
 THE SCALFORI) RUN. 
 
 But few of the riders wlio started so brave 
 
 W^ere able at last their credit to save ; 
 
 And none could be there but the straif]^ht-g()iii<>- men, 
 
 So fast was the pace that I counted but ten. 
 
 To those who rode through the whole run T can swear 
 The Duke and his huntsman were certainly there ; 
 I can tell you, my lad, too, that I did not lag, 
 I got to the end, but I finished my nag. 
 
 131
 
 POEMS OF THE CHASE. 
 
 THE LAMBTON HOUNDS. 
 
 THO' midnight her dark, frowning mantle is spreading, 
 Yet time flies unheeded where Bacchus resides ; 
 Fill, fill then, your glasses, his power ne'er dreading. 
 And drink to the hounds o'er which Lambton ^ presides ; 
 Tho' toast after toast with great glee has been given, 
 The highest top-sparkling bumper decides 
 That for stoutness, pace, beauty, on this side of heaven. 
 Unrivalled the hounds o'er which Lambton presides ! 
 
 Then drink to the foxhounds. 
 
 Those high-mettled foxhounds ; 
 \\^e'll drink to the hounds o'er which Lambton presides. 
 
 Let Uckerby boast of the feats of the Raby, 
 And Ravenscar tell what the Hurworth have done, 
 But the wide-spreading pastures of Sadberge can swear to 
 The brushes our fleet pack of foxhounds have won ! 
 Then that Sedgefield, our country, all countries outvies, sir. 
 The highest top-sparkling bumper decides, 
 
 ^ The County of Durham was hunted by the celebrated Ralph John 
 Lambton from 1804 to 1838. He died on July 29th, 1844. 
 
 132
 
 THE LA.MBTOX HOUNDS. 
 
 That we foxes can Hy, sir, or sinking must die, sir. 
 When pressed by the hounds o'er which Lambton presides ! 
 
 Then drink to the foxhounds, 
 
 Those high-mettled foxliounds ; 
 We'll drink to the hounds o'er whicli Lambton presides. 
 
 Of their heart-bursting ' flys ' let the T^eicestershire tell us, 
 Their plains, their ox-fenees, and that sort of stuff; 
 15ut give me a day with the Sedgefield brave fellows. 
 AVhere horses ne'er flineh, or men cry, ' Hold, enough ! 
 AMiile the blood of Old Caesar our foxes can boast, sir. 
 May Lambton their only dread enemy be ; 
 And the green waving whins of our covers may toast, sir — 
 Oh ! the hounds and the blood of old Lambton for me ! 
 
 Then drink to the foxhounds, 
 
 Those high-mettled foxhounds : 
 We'll drink to the hounds o'er which Lambton presides. 
 
 133
 
 POEMS OF THE CHASE. 
 
 THE DAYS WHEN I RODE WITH 
 THE QUORN. 
 
 OH, bright are the fancies, and sweet the regrets. 
 That arise at the sound of the horn ; 
 The friends of my youth, and the years of my fun, 
 The days when I rode with the Quorn. 
 
 When I cantered away on the quickest of hacks 
 To Six Hills so late in the morn, 
 And hunted unwearied o'er pasture and plough. 
 What sport we had then with the Quorn ! 
 
 What stories were told of the deeds of Tom Smith,^ 
 
 ^ Thomas Assheton Smith, born 1776, and died 1858, a Master of 
 Hounds for just fifty years : eleven with the Quorn, seven the Burton, 
 and thirty-two the Tedworth. Among his Hunt servants were Dick 
 Burton, Jack Shirley, Tom Wingfield, David Edwards, and George 
 Carter. He invariably hunted his hounds until the latest years, when 
 he would have Carter out also as joint huntsman ; it was then the 
 Tedworth yeomen were wont to say they were double-handed : ' Carter, 
 he finds our fox, and the Squire, he loses him ; "* but in his best days a 
 more determined fox-hunter never lived than Assheton Smith. He had 
 no equal for courage, contempt of danger, passionate love of sport, and 
 splendid horsemanship. Old Dick Christian (not a bad judge of such 
 matters), who lived to quite eighty-five, always declared that no man 
 living could ever beat him over Leicestershire. With an impetuous 
 
 134
 
 WHEN 1 RODE WITH THE QUORN. 
 
 Of the time ere Lord Stamford ^ was born ; 
 
 We talked of Sir Richard,- and followed the Earl,^ 
 
 In the days when I rode with the QuoriL 
 
 How Tread well would gloat o'er an oxer or brook ; 
 We, boy-like, the obstacles scorn ; 
 How we fell and got up, and were never the worse, 
 In the days when I rode with the Quorn. 
 
 Were the horses then really so stout and so good ? 
 The covers of thicker blackthorn ? 
 
 The hounds truer-tongued, and the foxes more straight, 
 In the days when I rode with the Quorn ? 
 
 and hasty temper, he, perhaps, lacked the muiviter in rnodo which goes 
 so far to ensure popularity for the M.F.H. ; still, that charming classic, 
 ' the Druid,' has left on rccoi'd the opinion that, in spite of all failings, 
 ' he was the mightiest hunter that ever rode across Belvoir's sweet vale 
 or wore a horn at his saddle-bow.' 
 
 ^ The 7th Earl of Stamford was Master of the Quorn from 1856 to 
 1863; he died in 1883. Ben Boothroyd was his huntsman for one 
 season, and then came John Treadwell, who remained for six vears. 
 
 - Sir Richard was Master of the Quorn from 1847 until his death 
 in 1855. 
 
 ^ 'The EarP alludes to the Lord Wilton so famous in the history 
 of Melton Mowbray, where he lived at Egerton Lodge, and died in 
 1882. He not only figured in the 'Achilles' Chaunt, but was also 
 satirised in a poem called the 'Tonnniad,' written about 1842, which 
 describes how ' the Earl ' once sold an old white horse, which he did not 
 like, to a wine merchant for two hogsheads of Bordeaux ; much to the 
 dismay of that comivial crew who dined at f^gerton I^dge and had 
 to drink the White Horse claret. 
 
 135
 
 POEMS OF THE CHASE. 
 
 And when we come back into INIelton at night, 
 Tired, happy, and draggled, and torn, 
 Were the ladies then really more lovely and kind 
 Than those who now ride with the Quorn ? 
 
 Oh youth, make the most of your day while it lasts ! 
 
 No sunset can equal the dawn ; 
 
 I'd barter ten years of a peaceable life 
 
 For a day when I rode with the Quorn. 
 
 London : Strangevays, Printers
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 
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