HUNTING SONGS 



They have fell'd the old tree, they have stopp'd the 



old mail, 

 And alas ! the old cellar is empty of ale ; 

 And now from the post, where he swung high and dry, 

 They have pull'd down the Roebuck — I wish I knew 



why — 

 I dare not inquire at the Jerryshop near. 

 Or the man might insist on my tasting his beer. 



Charade 



THE Squire, on his Grey, 

 Has been hunting all day. 

 So at night let him drown his fatigue in the bowl ; 

 But ere quenching his thirst. 

 To get rid of my first. 



Let him call for my second to bring him my whole. 



Welsh Hunting 



A most singular freak of a pack of hounds was witnessed at Pontypridd last 

 week. The pack belonged to Mr. George Thomas, Ystradmynach, and 

 were returning from the hunt, when, on coming into the town, they ran into 

 the shop of Mr. Jenkins, grocer, and out again immediately, but with no less 

 than seven pounds of tallow candles, which they ravenously devoured in the 

 street. — Coicrt Journal. 



1869 

 I 



WHERE Jenkins, in Wales, 

 Soap and candles retails, 

 The pack, in despite of their Whip, 

 They took up the scent, 

 And away they went. 



Each one with a tallow dip. 

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