182 WARWICKSHIRE HUNT. 



Those, and a hundred poets more. 

 Whose works delighted we explore. 

 Should grace, could we their charms inspire, 

 Venator's Hunt of Warwickshire ! 



Met at Lighthorne to-day, and a mild cloudy sky 

 Gave us gay expectations of pleasure and joy. 

 The pack into cover no sooner was thrown 

 By the Master, than off, our best wishes to crown. 

 Went a fox that disdain' d in the covert to yield. 

 The fastest and stoutest that e'er led a field. 

 The moment bold reynard began to make play. 

 The hounds, swift and eager, were halloo'd away, 

 They press'd him so hard, whether up hill or down. 

 He took into a drain near to old Gaydon town. 

 The distance was nearly eight miles, if not more. 

 And we gallop'd the ground in about half an hour. 



Whitwick, a good fellow, so all sportsmen say. 

 Who din'd with the Master the preceding day, 

 Of the speed of his pack said, ' Sir, I can see, 

 I could ride o'er your hounds, they're too tardy for me.' 

 Tis the zeal, not the fault, of good sportsmen who dine 

 With a friend, to ride fastest when over their wine. 

 When the fox had broke cover, and every hound 

 Was well settled down to the game they had found. 

 The Master, first smiling at Whitwick, his man. 

 Said, ' Friend, now ride over my hounds if you can 3' 

 And tho' he rode hard to the drain from the burst. 

 He never could occupy station the first ; 

 For R. Greaves, and Patrick, to no one gave place 

 In this run, which for speed much resembl'd a race. 

 The Master and Holland the hounds join'd again, 

 Soon after the fox had ran into the drain. 



