THE BREECHES 



XVIII 



Still distant the day, yet in ages to come, 

 When the gorse is uprooted, the fox-hound is dumb, 

 May verse make immortal the deeds of the field. 

 And the shape of each steed be on canvas reveal'd. 



XIX 



Let the pencil be dipt in the hues of the chace. 

 Contentment and health be pourtray'd in each face ; 

 Let the foreground display the select of the pack. 

 And Chester's green vale be outstretch'd in the 

 back ! 



XX 



When the time-honour'd race of our gentry shall 



end, 

 The poor no protector, the farmer no friend. 

 They shall here view the face of the old Tatton 



Squire, 

 And regret the past sport that once gladden'd our 



Shire. 



'The Breeches ^ 



WHEN I mention the " Breeches," I feel no 

 remorse. 

 For the ladies all know 'tis an evergreen gorse ; 

 They are not of leather, they are not of plush, 

 But expressly cut out for Joe Maiden to brush. 



1 Note 38. 



SI 



