The Poetry of Hunting 153 



The Little Red Rover ^o^ o 



THE dewdrop is clinging 

 To whin-bush and brake, 

 The skylark is singing 



" Merrie hunters, awake ; " 

 Home to the cover, 



Deserted by night, 

 The Little Red Rover 

 Is bending his flight. 



Resounds the glad hollo ; 



The pack scents the prey ; 

 Man and horse follow 



Away ! Hark, away ! 

 Away ! never fearing, 



Ne'er slacken your pace : 

 What music so cheering 



As that of the chase ? 



The Rover still speeding, 



Still distant from home, 

 Spurr'd flanks are bleeding. 



And cover'd with foam ; 

 Fleet limbs extended, 



Roan, chestnut, or grey, 

 The burst, ere 'tis ended. 



Shall try them to-day ! 



Well known is yon cover, 



And crag hanging o'er, 

 The little Red Rover 



Shall reach it no more ! 

 The foremost hounds near him, 



His strength 'gins to droop : 

 In pieces they tear him. 



Who — whoop ! Who — who — whoop ! 

 R. E. Egerton-JVarhurton. 



