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Quæsitum Meritis.
I
A club of good fellows we meet once a year,When the leaves of the forest are yellow and sear;
By the motto that shines on each glass, it is shown,
We pledge in our cups the deserving alone;
Our glass a quæsitum, ourselves Cheshire men,
May we fill it and drink it again and again.
6
II
We hold in abhorrence all vulpicide knaves,With their gins, and their traps, and their velveteen slaves;
They may feed their fat pheasants, their foxes destroy,
And mar the prime sport they themselves can't enjoy;
But such sportsmen as these we good fellows condemn,
And I vow we'll ne'er drink a quæsitum to them.
III
That man of his wine is unworthy indeed,Who grudges to mount a poor fellow in need;
Who keeps for nought else, save to purge 'em with balls,
Like a dog in a manger, his nags in their stalls;
Such niggards as these we good fellows condemn,
And I vow we'll ne'er drink a quæsitum to them.
IV
Some riders there are, who, too jealous of place,Will fling back a gate in their next neighbour's face;
Some never pull up when a friend gets a fall,
Some ride over friends, hounds, and horses, and all;
7
And I vow we'll ne'er drink a quæsitum to them.
V
For coffee-house gossip some hunters come out,Of all matters prating, save that they're about;
From scandal and cards they to politics roam,
They ride forty miles, head the Fox, and go home!
Such sportsmen as these we good fellows condemn,
And I vow we'll ne'er drink a quæsitum to them.
VI
Since one Fox on foot more diversion will bringThan twice twenty thousand cock pheasants on wing,
The man we all honour, whate'er be his rank,
Whose heart heaves a sigh when his gorse is drawn blank.
Quæsitum! Quæsitum! fill up to the brim,
We'll drink, if we die for't, a bumper to him.
VII
O! give me that man to whom nought comes amiss,One horse or another, that country or this;
8
Rides up to this motto: “Be with 'em I will.”
Quæsitum! Quæsitum! fill up to the brim,
We'll drink, if we die for't, a bumper to him.
VIII
O! give me that man who can ride through a run,Nor engross to himself all the glory when done;
Who calls not each horse that o'ertakes him a “screw,”
Who loves a run best when a friend sees it too!
Quæsitum! Quæsitum! fill up to the brim,
We'll drink, if we die for't, a bumper to him.
IX
O! give me that man who himself goes the pace,And whose table is free to all friends of the chase;
Should a spirit so choice in this wide world be seen,
He rides, you may swear, in a collar of green;
Quæsitum! Quæsitum! fill up to the brim,
We'll drink, if we die for't, a bumper to him.
1832.
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