The Merry Past 



His nether limbs were cased in a pair of black boots 

 without tops, similar to a heavy dragoon's, though 

 reaching only to the knee ; and these were garnished 

 with a pair of solid silver spurs. 



The " Ould Squire's " harriers — or " bagles," as he 

 called them — were like the rest of his establishment 

 (with the exception of a beautiful daughter), more 

 useful than ornamental. They packed well together, 

 and carried a good head ; but they were of all sorts 

 and sizes. His dog language (for the huntsman 

 was more properly whip) was of the most extraordinary 

 kind. Whenever on a trail two or three staunch 

 hounds denoted to the *' Ould Crack " that they were 

 near the quarry, he used to sing out, " Go to her, my 

 babbies, ' the little red bitch ' ; now let every man 

 rason (rosin) his bow." This he accompanied with 

 suitable action : playing on his bridle with his fingers 

 like a fiddler, and drawing his whip bow-fashion 

 across his elbow, humming the while a stave of the 

 " Kilruddery Hunt." The inimitable absurdity of his 

 look and manner beggared all description. Neverthe- 

 less he rode well, his favourite mount being a mare 

 which was a counterpart to himself — low, muscular, 

 flinty, and flippant — with an eye indicating plenty of 

 pluck, though she showed little of what is commonly 

 termed blood. 



The old Squire was a capital snipe shot, and his 

 eccentricity failed him not there ; he shot in re- 

 flecting glasses, having had an eye turned in his head 

 by a pike wound at the storming of Vinegar Hill. 

 Whenever a fair shot rose, his " Be Dad, I'll have yu 



59 



