HUNTING SONGS 



If the noble sport decrying, 



Growl you will, we can but laugh ; 



Freely from the farmstead buying 

 Oats, we do not want your chaff. 



Spent by what we call a " splitter," 

 Steeds are bedded in the stall. 



You who grow such costly litter. 

 Men of straw we cannot call. 



Selling till the sport is over 

 Many a waggon load of hay. 



Surely you must live in clover. 

 Surely fox-hunting must pay. 



Therefore should your fence be broken. 

 Post and rail to grief consign'd, 



Let no angry word betoken 



Damage to your peace of mind. 



Bone-dust sown the pasture sod on, 

 Should the surface smooth and flat 



By the tramp of hcof be trod on. 

 You must make no bones of that. 



Should the green wheat in December 



By the field be overrun, 

 Wait till yellow in September 



Ere ye sue for damage done. 



Should the hen-roost robb'd dismay you, 

 Reynard guilty of the theft ; 



Wives be sure the Squire will pay you 

 Double for the ducklings left. 

 184 



