Hunting Songs :: :: University of Virginia Library

To comrades of the hunting field, tho' sad to say farewell,
'Tis pleasant still on olden days at Tarporley to dwell:
On friends for whom, alive or dead, our love is unimpair'd,
The mirth and the adventure and the sport that we have shar'd.

II

The feelings of good fellowship which Tarporley unite,
The honour'd names recorded which have made its annals bright,

181

Old Charley Cholmondeley's portrait and the fashion of our clothes,
In the days of padded neckcloths, breeches green and silken hose.

III

The upright form of Delamere, Sir Richard's graceful seat,
The brothers three from Dorfold sprung whom none of us could beat;
The fun with which Bob Grosvenor enliven'd every speech,
The laugh of Charley Wicksted lengthen'd out into a screech.

IV

The classical Quæsitum and the President's hard chair,
Each year's succeeding Patroness whose charms were toasted there;
The inevitable wrangle which the Farmer's cup provokes,
Sir Watkin cracking biscuits, and Sir Harry cracking jokes.

V

The match in which though Adelaide but held a second place,
No judge was there to certify that Go-by won the race,

182

The stakes withheld—the winner told jocosely by the Hunt,
With nothing else to pocket he must pocket the affront.

VI

Earl Wilton ever foremost amid Leicestershire high flyers,
Coming down from Melton Mowbray to enlighten Cheshire Squires;
Belgrave who unbreech'd us, and one fatal afternoon
First cloth'd us to the ankle in the modern pantaloon.

VII

The foxes which from Huxley gorse have led us many a dance,
Joe Maiden best of huntsmen, best of whips old Tommy Rance;
That good old soul, John Dixon, and his lengthy draught of ale,
That mirthful day when “Little Dogs” came home without a tail.

VIII

The glory of that gallop which old Oulton Low supplied,
The front-rank men of Cheshire charging onward side by side;

183

The Baron with his spurs at work in rear of the advance,
When Britain, in the field for once, ran clean away from France.

IX

The find at Brindley cover and at Dorfold Hall the kill,
The Breeches left behind us but the brush before us still;
The fox that skimm'd the Tilston cream—forget we never shall
The score of hunting breeches that were wash'd in that canal.

X

And that ill-starr'd disaster when, unconscious of the leap,
I dropp'd into the water of a marl-pit six feet deep;
Enough to damp the keenest—but conceive the fearful sight,
When I found that underneath me lay the body of Jack White.

XI

The harmony infus'd into the rhymes which I have strung,
When first I heard the “Columbine” by James Smith Barry sung;

184

While canvas the remembrance of Sir Peter shall prolong,
May the name of his successor be endear'd to you in song.

XII

The carving of the venison when it smok'd upon the board,
The twinkling eye of Johnny Glegg, the chaff of Charley Ford;
The opening of the oysters, and the closing of the eyes
In slumber deep—that balmy sleep which midnight cup supplies.

XIII

Sir Humphrey and Geof. Shakerley whose friendship never fails,
Tho' long of two opinions which was heaviest in the scales;
In love of sport as in their weight an even race they run,
So here's a health to both of them and years of future fun.

XIV

Old Time, who keeps his own account, however well we wear,
Time whispers “to the old ones you must add another pair,”

185

May Lascelles in his chosen home long, long a dweller be,
To Philo gorse a bumper, to Sir Philip three times three.

XV

Young inheritors of hunting, ye who would the sport should last,
Think not the chace a hustling race, fit only for the fast;
If sport in modern phrase must be synonymous with speed,
The good old English animal will sink into a weed.

XVI

Accept the wish your Laureate leaves behind him ere we part,
That wish shall find an echo in each Cheshire sportsman's heart,
May Time still spare one favour'd pair, tho' other creatures fail,
The Swan that floats above us, and the Fox that skims the Vale!

XVII

The snobs who haunt the hunting field, and rouse the master's ire,
The fence of fair appearance masking lines of hidden wire;

186

A straight fox mobb'd and headed by the laggards in the lane,
A good one dug and murder'd, I have seen such sights with pain.

XVIII

I never kill'd save once a hound, I saw him on his back
With deep remorse—he was, of course the best one in the pack;
The thought ofttime has griev'd me with a wild fox well away,
That friends right worthy of it should have miss'd the lucky day.

XIX

If e'er my favourite cover unexpectedly was blank,
Then silent and dispirited my heart within me sank;
But never till this moment has a tear bedimm'd mine eye,
With sorrow such as now I feel in wishing you Good Bye.

1872.