 | Hunting Songs |  |
'Tis Sixty Years Since.
Your heart is fresh as ever, Ned,
Although your head be white;
We must crack another bottle, Ned,
Before we say good-night;
Our legs across the saddle
Though we fling them never more,
We may rest them on the fender
While we talk our gallops o'er.”
Although your head be white;
We must crack another bottle, Ned,
Before we say good-night;
Our legs across the saddle
Though we fling them never more,
We may rest them on the fender
While we talk our gallops o'er.”
“By you 'tis somewhat hard, Jack,
Old Grizzle to be called,
You know that head of yours, Jack,
Is altogether bald.
Still I'm good, my jolly fellow,
For another flask of port,
In memory of those merry days
When fox-hunting was sport.”
Old Grizzle to be called,
You know that head of yours, Jack,
Is altogether bald.
Still I'm good, my jolly fellow,
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In memory of those merry days
When fox-hunting was sport.”
“How sorely, Ned, our Eton odes
Tormented those who scann'd 'em,
The traces were our longs and shorts,
Our gradus was the tandem;
Bob Davis for our tutor,
With that colt—still four years old,
Though ten since he was leader,
And ten more since he was foal'd.
Tormented those who scann'd 'em,
The traces were our longs and shorts,
Our gradus was the tandem;
Bob Davis for our tutor,
With that colt—still four years old,
Though ten since he was leader,
And ten more since he was foal'd.
“Unaw'd by impositions,
While the lecture-room we shirk'd,
At our little go in hunting
With what diligence we work'd;
When from Canterbury gateway
We spurr'd the Oxford hack,
A shilling every milestone
Till we reach'd the Bicester pack;
While the lecture-room we shirk'd,
At our little go in hunting
With what diligence we work'd;
When from Canterbury gateway
We spurr'd the Oxford hack,
A shilling every milestone
Till we reach'd the Bicester pack;
“Right welcome there the sport to share,
Himself so much enjoyed,
How kindly were we shaken
By the hand of old Griff Lloyd;
How we plunged into the river,
Led and cheer'd by Jersey's call:
‘Come on!’ he cried, ‘the stream is wide
And deep enough for all.’
Himself so much enjoyed,
How kindly were we shaken
By the hand of old Griff Lloyd;
How we plunged into the river,
Led and cheer'd by Jersey's call:
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And deep enough for all.’
“How intense the admiration
Which to Heythrop's Duke we bore,
Riding royally to covert
In his chariot-and-four;
Cigars, as yet a novelty,
His Grace's ire provoking,
‘What chance to pick the scent up,
Filthy fellows! they are smoking.’
Which to Heythrop's Duke we bore,
Riding royally to covert
In his chariot-and-four;
Cigars, as yet a novelty,
His Grace's ire provoking,
‘What chance to pick the scent up,
Filthy fellows! they are smoking.’
“The cheer of Philip Payne as he
The echoing woodlands drew,
The scarlet coats contending
With the coats of buff and blue;
Stone walls o'er which without a hitch
The thoroughbred ones flew,
While blown and tir'd the hunter hir'd
Roll'd like a spent ball through.”
The echoing woodlands drew,
The scarlet coats contending
With the coats of buff and blue;
Stone walls o'er which without a hitch
The thoroughbred ones flew,
While blown and tir'd the hunter hir'd
Roll'd like a spent ball through.”
“Well, Jack, do I remember
With what glee we sallied forth
To the fixtures of Ralph Lambton
When our home was in the North;
How, when the day was over,
We around the Sedgefield fire,
Sang ‘Ballinamoniora’
In honour of the Squire.
With what glee we sallied forth
To the fixtures of Ralph Lambton
When our home was in the North;
How, when the day was over,
We around the Sedgefield fire,
Sang ‘Ballinamoniora’
In honour of the Squire.
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“And that week with old Sir Harry
Which at Tarporley we spent,
Where Chester's dewy pastures
Are renown'd for holding scent;
Where Dorfold's Squire o'er saddle flaps
Unpadded threw his leg,
Where stride for stride, rode side by side,
Sir Richard and John Glegg.
Which at Tarporley we spent,
Where Chester's dewy pastures
Are renown'd for holding scent;
Where Dorfold's Squire o'er saddle flaps
Unpadded threw his leg,
Where stride for stride, rode side by side,
Sir Richard and John Glegg.
“That Rupert of the hunting-field,
Tom Smith the lion-hearted,
Where grew the fence, where flow'd the stream,
Could baffle him when started?
A game-cock in the battle ring,
An eagle in his flight,
A shooting star when mounted,
But a fixed one in the fight.
Tom Smith the lion-hearted,
Where grew the fence, where flow'd the stream,
Could baffle him when started?
A game-cock in the battle ring,
An eagle in his flight,
A shooting star when mounted,
But a fixed one in the fight.
“Where now that manly science
Which we witness'd in the match,
When Crib by swarthy Molyneux
Was challeng'd to the scratch?
Where now those ruddy rectors
Who the field so often led?
Youth needs must chase the steeple
Since the parson hides his head.”
Which we witness'd in the match,
When Crib by swarthy Molyneux
Was challeng'd to the scratch?
Where now those ruddy rectors
Who the field so often led?
Youth needs must chase the steeple
Since the parson hides his head.”
“Though no longer what we were, Ned,
Ere the reign of good Queen Vic,
Methinks we still could teach them
How their fathers did the trick;
I hold the young ones cheap, Ned—”
“Hush, your son is at the door,
With his pipe of Latakia,
We had better say no more.”
Ere the reign of good Queen Vic,
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How their fathers did the trick;
I hold the young ones cheap, Ned—”
“Hush, your son is at the door,
With his pipe of Latakia,
We had better say no more.”
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