116 THE WARWICKSHIRE HUNT. [1834 



'Tis said so experieiic'd a rider 



Never rode a more excellent nag ; 

 Close to hounds, never known to cast wider, 



Nor his hunter to uselessly fag. 



Chorus. 



Who, at starting, next him took his station ? 



'Tsvas CuNYNGHAME, late of the Twelfth ; 

 He cares not for my approbation. 



As he's got the best Meade for himself. 

 But who's this from Combe Abbey ? No Craven ; 



At least if I judge from his place ; 

 The one with his hair dark as raven, 



Held on at a desperate pace. 



Chorus. 



My muse, you've now got beyond Baring, 



But I am not surpris'd at it, too ; 

 For to give his proud hunter an airing. 



He thought that ten minutes would do. 

 Now fill we our glasses to Gtranville, 



The eldest call'd Bernard, I mean, 

 I'll wager a trifle no man will 



Say a much better sportsman has been. 



Chorals. 



But Warwickshire has yet another, 



As dauntless and skilful as he ; 

 The fact is, the man has a brother. 



And nobody else could it be. 

 Bur, they tell me your going, my Granny, 



And Clio shall bid thee adieu ! 

 In the heart of your friend is a cranny, 



Where a thought shall long linger of you. 



Chorus. 



My muse is not given to sentiment, 



Therefore this strain I give o'er ; 

 Just remarking, if any such went, I meant 



Not to hunt here any more. 

 Shall I pit there against either Parker ? 



Who both rode right well on that day, 

 The one an old steeple-chase larker, 



And rather a varmint, they say. 



Chorus. 



