26 THE WARWICKSHIEE HUNT. [1807 



Let him ride what lie will, either hunter or hack, 

 Sure by some means or other to be with the pack ; 

 At the end of the day almost always alone, 

 And scarce ever behind, tho' he weighs sixteen stone ! 



PressincT close in his wake, and on much the same plan, 

 Frank,* his brother, keejts up, tho' a heavier man ; 

 On the General mounted, and what's very queer, 

 Like some of that tribe he preferr'd not the rear; 

 Yet even this vet'ran, tho' warm to a fault. 

 Gave the word of command very often to halt ; 

 Nay, so hard at one time his condition was render'd, 

 Had the action continu'd he must have surrender'd. 

 Still he lasted it out, tho' much weary'd and spent, 

 And no doubt felt miich pleasure in reaching his tent. 



Sticking close to the hounds observe steady Sir Grey,t 

 Riding equally hard in a quieter way ; 

 Sufficiently forward, yet still keeping bounds, 

 His wish to ride after, not over the hounds ! 



In a style rather different came Goulbuen,J the bard, 



Who a long time disdaining the cry of — hold hard ! 



Over fences and ditches kept thoughtlessly fanning, 



Resolv'd at all hazards to follow Bob Canning ; 



To accomplish which end he kept on at a score, 



That his five-year-old nag felt a terrible bore ; 



So at Swarford, unable to climb up the hill. 



At a nasty oak stile stood obligingly still. 



Then he left him in plight not a little distressing. 



The breed of Ai'abians most fervently blessing. 



*' Well, I never did see ne'er a run like this here," ' 

 Cries Dick Bayzant, to-day most unusually near. 

 To see him so forward surpris'd a great many. 

 Who knew not the plot of this Worcestershire zany ; 

 But his friends pass'd it by as a matter of course. 

 Well knowing he wished to dispose of his horse. 



* Mr. F. Canning, of Foxcote. This gentleman died on January 17tli, 1831. 

 tSir Grey Skipwith, Barfc., then of Snitterfield ; he now lives at Newbold-upon- 

 Avon. 



X The facetious Mr. Goulbum, not at the bar, formerly hunted in "Warwickshire, 

 and seeing a Worcestershire squire laughing violently, he went up to him and said : 

 " Quid rides ? " My friend, not much of a linguist, replied : " My Magog horse." — 



NiMROD. 



