330 WARWICKSHIRE HUNT. 



THE SAME, BY VENATOR. 



' The morn unbars the gates of light, 

 The landscape smiles in beauty bright. 

 Hark ! tlie huntsman's horn so shrill 

 The woods around with echoes fill. 

 Each Sportsman mounts his panting steed. 

 And o'er the trembling earth they speed.' 



We need not remind the Sportsmen of the Comity, 

 How nature and art have conspir'd in their bounty 

 To furnish such excellent runs thro' the season. 

 They well know their source, their effect, and the reason. 



The Warwickshire beat the Mcltonians hollow. 

 Our foxes can lead and we've hounds that will follow 5 

 Our nags are so prime, and their riders so good. 

 No better e'er met at the side of a wood 3 

 The country, a finer vv^as never rode over ; 

 The Warwickshire Sportsman is always in clover ! 



The sport the last month, by the Master projected, 

 Was so excellent that no one e'er expected ; 

 When Sportsmen grow slack and their numbers diminish. 

 They'd have the last day any sport as a finish ! 



The numerous Field, ever ready to go off. 

 Had scarce patience, game fellows, to wait for a throw- off, 

 And many, no doubt, who remain' d in the wake, 

 Had been first had they known whither reynard would make. 



The Bard has the pleasing employment to tell 

 How this Field was distinguish'd by beautiful Belle, 

 Belles excelling by far in their ' radiant eyes,' 

 Bryseis, by lot great Achilles' fam'd prize. 

 Sweet Belles from the Midland Metrop'lis of Fashion, 

 To see how their lovers could fall off or dash on ! 



