COUNT WARNOFF 



II 



Woe ! woe ! to the sport of the fox-hunting Squire 

 When the Count set his foot in this peaceable shire ! 

 So clean his own hands, his own morals so strict, 

 A hole in each Redcoat he presently pick'd ; 

 Such a virtuous man was Count WarnofF ! 

 Without speck of dirt 

 You must ride with clean skirt 

 If the wrath you'd avert of Count WarnofF ! 



Ill 



The Count could not tolerate foible or folly. 

 He never made love, and he never got jolly ; 

 He vow'd that fox-hunting he'd have at no price 

 Unless horses and men were alike free from vice ; 

 Such a virtuous man was Count WarnofF ! 

 We must all be good boys 

 Or farewell to the joys 

 Of the chace, if we nettle Count WarnofF! 



IV 



Low whisper'd the huntsman (lest mischief befall 



him), 

 " I don't like the look of that Count What-d'ye- 



call him ? " 

 Tom wink'd his blind eye as he lifted his cap, 

 " He's a rum 'un, sir, ain't he, that Muscovy chap ? " 

 Such a terrible bugbear was WarnofF! 

 Not a brush, nor a pad 

 In the shire could be had. 

 Such a terrible bugbear was WarnofF ! 



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