HUNTING SONGS 



VIII 



Gentlemen, unto my thinking, 



Should behave themselves as sich ; 

 'Tik'lar when the scent is sinking. 



And the hounds are at a hitch ; 

 How my temper can I master. 



Fretted till I fume and foam ? 

 I can only backwards cast, or 



Blow my horn and take 'em home. 



We are all of iis Tailors in Tur7t 



I 



I WILL sing you a song of a fox-hunting bout. 

 They shall tell their own tale who to-day were 

 thrown out ; 

 For the fastest as well as the slowest of men. 

 Snobs or top-sawyers, alike now and then. 



We are all of us tailors in turn. 



II 



Says one, " From the cover I ne'er got away. 

 Old Quidnunc sat quoting The Tunes on his Grey, 

 How Lord Derby was wrong, and Lord Aberdeen 



right. 

 And the hounds, ere he finished, were clean out of 

 sight." 



We are all of us tailors in turn. 

 ii6 



