A "BURST" IN THE BALL WEEK 



III 



The fox by one hound 



Near the Smoker was found — 



As he wip'd that dog's nose with his brush, 

 " I don't mean to die," 

 Said bold Reynard, " not I ; 



Nor care I for Edwards one rush." 



IV 



With a fox of such pluck, 

 'Twas a piece of rare luck 



That no ploughboy to turn him was near ; 

 That no farmer was there 

 At the gem'men to swear. 



No tailor to head his career. 



Some, to lead off the ball. 

 Get away first of all. 



Some linger too long at poussette ; 

 Down the middle some go. 

 In the deep ditch below. 



Thrown out ere they up again get. 



VI 



One, pitch'd from his seat. 

 Was compell'd with wet feet, 



His heels in the gutter to cool ; 

 While his horse, in full swing, 

 Danc'd a new Highland fling. 



He himself stood and danc'd a pas seal. 



lOJ 



