 | Hunting Songs |  |
149
On Peter Collison's late Fall.
1868.
Bad luck betide that treacherous spot
Where Peter's horse, though at a trot,
Roll'd over, hurling headlong there
A Huntsman whom we ill could spare;
As there he lay and gasp'd for breath,
Unconscious quite and pale as death,
The clinging hounds around him yell,
And wailing moans their sorrow tell.
Let ------, who over-rides them all,
Take warning by our Huntsman's fall;
When such shall be that rider's fate
(And his it will be soon or late),
They o'er the downfal of their foe
Will not upraise the voice of woe;
When prostrate, if the pack should greet him
With open mouths, 'twill be to eat him.
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