374 THE ESSEX FOXHOUNDS. 



Vainly press on his weary mount, 



Hat bent and broken past account, 



In a most piteous plight ! 



With bleeding visage, scarred by thorn 



All mud and sweat, his breeches torn, 



A truly sorry sight ! 



How welcome, when in such a mess, 



To every sportsman in distress. 



The Admiral's signal, " Steer to port," 



(Or Gingerbrandy some report.) 



Ah ! who survive of the old crew ? 

 Dear brother Ned can scarce pursue ! 

 Hans,' haben Sic genug gehabt ? 

 My Snowstorm - blows and stops abrupt, 

 And Yerburgh thinks how cunning he 

 To post his second horse at three ; 

 Yet, when to fence that horse demurred, 

 He almost wished he had a third ! 



Smiling, yet anxious, Johnny Sands, 

 Where we may hope to end demands. 

 Will Randolph run to the Transvaal, 

 Or what far country. Prodigal ? 

 Lead Phcenix, Waverley by turns. 

 Great Scot ! it is the land of Burns." 

 He's beat ! he scarce can crawl, I swear ! 

 Hear Ernest Ridley loud declare ; 

 And, as hounds stream across the park. 

 Thinks Jim, the Forest is his mark. 

 Ne'er shall he reach its depths, I'll bet 

 His mask shall grace my saddle yet. 



Mr. Frank Ball sometimes recites the poem of Hans Breitmann. 

 The Author's horse. 

 ' Copt Hall, in the occupation of Walter Burns, Esq. 



