364 THE ESSEX FOXHOUNDS. 



Heave sighs that will not be suppressed. 



To us tell a discordant tale 



The sweetest notes of nightingale, 



And every leaf on trees we pass, 



And every tender blade of grass 



Remind us by the green they bear, 



Where is the Gveen we weep for, where ? 



Could you but stay, though every hour 

 We yearn to see you back in power, 

 Like umpire at your fav'rite game. 

 To settle some perplexing claim, 

 Aid the Committee in the field 

 By the great influence you wield, 

 Or calm the farmer's troubled mind. 

 Who knows that he can trust you blind ; 

 But now the latest run is scored. 

 Called the last " over," on the board 

 The final figures are exposed. 

 The bails are off, the innings closed ! 



From Ashdon Mill to Swallow's Cross 

 All mourn a universal loss ; 

 In Braintree the sad news relate, 

 Newman and Fry disconsolate. 

 With bated breath Joe Borwick tells 

 The mournful news at Woodford Wells ; 

 On Hatfield Heath one shakes his head, 

 The gilt is off the gingerbread ; 

 Another strokes his long white beard, 

 On Kelvedon Common he is heard 

 Repeat a sermon from the text — 

 " Why, O my soul, so sorely vexed ? " 



