212 WARWICKSHIRE HUNT. 



In braky copse, not yet a wood, 



We found a brace of foxes, good. 



In gallant style away they're gone. 



The hounds soon settled firm to one, 



At killing pace — a desp'rate rush — 



The pack still pressing at his brush 



About four miles — had it been more 



The Field had dwindled to a score. 



Then bay'd, alas ! the leading hound. 



The crafty fellow ran to ground. 



To the same heath again retum'd, 



Tlie Field once more with ardour burn'd ; 



To us our lucky stars were kind. 



Another fox was left behind. 



But here, alack ! by chance or fate. 



Our sport was not more fortunate. 



The cheering sound — a gladsome halloo, 



Fresh game announc'd — away, we follow ; 



The busy pack, so bad the scent, 1 



Could not make out the way he went. 



An hour, at least, in this essay. 



Was lost — no more to pass away ! 



Our second fox again we found 



In his retreat, snug under ground ; 



Turn'd out, the hounds quickly in cry. 



Soon made the felon's jacket fly ! 



1 Another writer thinks, that scent does not depend upon the air 

 only ; but that in a certain portion and degree it depends upon the soil 

 also. The best scent is that wliich is occasioned by the effluvia, as he 

 calls it, or particles of scent, which are constantly perspiring from 

 game as it runs, and are strongest and most favourable to the hound, 

 when kept by the gravity of the air to the height of his breast ; for 

 there it is neither above his reach, nor is it necessary he should stoop 

 for it, at which time the scent is said to lay ' breast high.' 



