100 WARWICKSHIRE HUNT. 



The meet to-day might proudly vie, 

 In Sportsmen choice, of spirits high. 

 With any field that did appear 

 At any time in Warwickshire. 



At Burton Hill a fox we fomid, 



A better never led a hound 



Over a country — one so good 



Was seldom rous'd in brake or wood I 



Hark ! as the pack upon him dash. 

 The clear, harmonious, thund'ring crash ! 

 All silent now — the scent so strong. 

 They dart as swallows swift along ; 

 Bearing in style each head and stern. 

 They all with matchless ardour burn ; 

 While scent, that mystic subtle thing. 

 Is floating caught on zephyr wing ! 



Pug first o'er Kuightcote Bottom stray'd, 

 Then to the right a turning made ; 

 Thence over Fenny Compton Field, 

 Too brave and stout to skulk or yield ; 

 Over Wormleighton Bottom ran. 

 And to the hill of Boddington. 



In gallant style the pack pursue. 

 And drive him the thick covert through ; 

 Then off to Hardwick Field he led. 

 Impeded not by check or head. 

 To Red Hill Wood, the killing pace 

 Was seldom equall'd in the chace ; 

 Here the first check was timely found. 

 For horse and rider, fox and hound ! 



