nUNTING IN VERSE. 95 



With a side wind to fan them, the sun in their face, 



Heads up and sterns down, the pack set-to to race. 



The country rides Hght, on we merrily sail, 



Till we come to the meet of the morn, Willingale. 



Some few knowing old-uns, who made for Skreens Park, 



Might as well have been home in their beds or the dark. 



For here he completelv upset calculation, 



Quite as much as the Ministers' late resignation. 



He turned sharp to the right, down to Roden's broad river. 



Which set most of the field in a funk and a shiver. 



A bold farmer plunged in, and got out th' other side, 



But few were like him so determined to ride. 



The rest fought away, quick as thought, to the mill. 



While the fox was viewed climbing the opposite hill. 



The miller on high, where he stood with his sack. 



Saw the hounds, true as steel, running close on his track. 



Now through Beauchamp Roothing, and on by the Wood End, 



Away by Long Barns up to Abbots we bend. 



There are not half a dozen men near to the hounds. 



There is no need to tell them to ride within bounds. 



Away by White Roothing, still onward we go. 



Passing by many places which I do not know. 



Here he bears to the right, and by some lucky cast, 



A portion of wanderers come up at last. 



There is no time to hear what has caused their delay, 



For Reynard through Aythorp has taken his way. 



" Oh, don't press the hounds, sir, but let them alone, 



I pray you," cried Will, " and the fox is our own." 



High Roothing is reached, but his strength fails him fast ; 



He runs short and shorter, he cannot long last. 



He hears every moment the blood-thirsty pack 



Draw nearer and nearer, with death on his track. 



One rush — and it's over ; no struggle nor cry. 



He dies in the open, as good foxes die. 



Feb. 22, 1851. 



