 | Hunting Songs |  |
Home with the Hounds; or, the Huntsman's Lament.
I
Over-ridden! over-ridden!All along of that the check;
When the ditch that gemman slid in,
Don't I wish he'd broke his neck.
I to hunt my hounds am able,
Would the field but play me fair;
Mobb'd at Smithfield by the rabble,
Who a fox could follow there?
II
Let the tinker ride his kettle,Let the tailor ride his goose,
How can hounds to hunting settle
With the like o' them let loose?
What's the use on't when he scrambles
Through a run that butchers tit?
Butcher'd foxhounds for the shambles
They be neither fat nor fit.
128
III
What's the use o' jockies thumpingWi' their 'andwhips bits of blood?
Tits by instinct shy of jumping,
For they could not if they would;
Though the snob, who cannot guide her,
Mounts the mare as draws his trap;
'Taint the red coat makes the rider,
Leathers, boots, nor yet the cap.
IV
They who come their coats to show, theyBetter were at home in bed;
What of hounds and hunting know they?
Nothing else but “go ahead;”
At the Kennel I could train 'em,
If they would but come to school,
Two and two in couples chain 'em,
Feed on meal, and keep 'em cool.
V
Gemmen, gemmen, shame upon 'em,Plague my heart out worse than all,
Worse than Bowdon mobs at Dunham,
Worse than cobblers at Poole Hall;
Spurring at a fence their clippers,
When the hounds are in the rear!
Reg'lar gemmen! self and whippers
Tipping reg'lar once a year!
129
VI
Well! soft solder next I'll try on,Rating only riles a swell;
Mister Brancker! Mister Lyon!
Mister Hornby!—hope you're well;
'Taint the pack that I'm afraid on,
And I likes to see you first,
But when so much steam be laid on
Beant you fear'd the copper'll burst?
VII
Rantipole, I see'd him sprawlingUnderneath a horse's hoof;
Prudence only heerd me calling
Just in time to keep aloof;
Vulcan lam'd for life! Old Victor
Ne'er again will he show fight;
Venus, sin that gelding kick'd her,
Aint he spoilt her beauty quite?
VIII
Gentlemen, unto my thinking,Should behave themselves as sich;
'Tik'lar when the scent is sinking,
And the hounds are at a hitch;
How my temper can I master,
Fretted till I fume and foam?
I can only backwards cast, or
Blow my horn and take 'em home.
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