HUNTING SONGS 



With a seat that's so graceful, a hand that's so light, 

 Now racing beside him conies Leicestershire White; * 

 Not yet gone to Melton, he this day for his pleasure, 

 Condescends to be rural, and hunt with the Cheshire. 



Who's charging that rasper? do tell me, I beg, 

 With both hands to his bridle, and swinging his leg ; 

 On that very long mare, whose sides are so flat, 

 \\'ith the head of a buffalo, tail of a rat? 



'Tis the gallant Sir Richard,- a rum one to follow. 

 Who dearly loves lifting the hounds to a hollow ; 

 A straightforward man who no jealousy knows, 

 And forgets all his pains when a-hunting he goes. 



The next snug and quiet, without noise or bother, 

 On Shefifielder comes, the brave Colonel, his brother ; 

 He keeps steadily onward, no obstacle fears, 

 Like those true British heroes, the bold Grenadiers. 



But who to the field is now making his bow ? 

 'Tis the Squire of Dorfold on famed Harry Gow ; 

 That preserver of foxes, that friend of the sport, 

 Though he proves no preserver — of claret and port. 



And who's that, may I ask, who in purple is clad. 

 Riding wide of the pack, and tight holding his pad? 

 'Tis a bruising top-sawyer, and if there's a run. 

 The Rector of Davenham will see all the fun. 



Now hustling and bustling, and rolling about, 

 And pushing his way through the midst of the rout, 

 Little Ireland ^ comes on, for a front place he strives. 

 Through rough and through smooth he his Tilbury drives. 



Pray get out of the way ; at the fence why so tarry ? 

 Don't you see down upon us is coming Sir Harry ?^ 

 And if you don't mind, you may perhaps rue the day. 

 When, like Wellington, you were upset by a Grey. 



' John White, Esq. " Sir Richard Brooke, Bart. 



' Ireland Blackburne, Esq. * Sir Harry Mainwaring, Bart. 



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