HUNTING SONGS 



" By you 'tis somewhat hard. Jack, 



Old Grizzle to be called, 



You know that head of yours, Jack, 



Is altogether bald. 



Still I'm good, my jolly fellow, 



For another flask of port. 



In memory of those merry days 



When fox-hunting was sport." 



" How sorely, Ned, our Eton odes 

 Tormented those who scann'd 'em, 

 The traces were our longs and shorts. 

 Our gradus was the tandem ; 

 Bob Davis for our tutor. 

 With that colt — still four years old. 

 Though ten since he was leader, 

 And ten more since he was foal'd. 



" Unaw'd by impositions, 

 While the lecture-room we shirk'd, 

 At our little-go in hunting 

 With what diligence we work'd ; 

 When from Canterbury gateway 

 We spurr'd the Oxford hack, 

 A shilling every milestone 

 Till we reach'd the Bicester pack ; 



" Right welcome there the sport to share. 

 Himself so much enjoyed, 

 How kindly were we shaken 

 By the hand of old Griff Lloyd ; 

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