WARWICKSHIRE HUNT. 391 



Seated beneath some spreading oak. 

 With sandwich, wine, cold tea, and joke. 



And Ponto (pat him as he lies,) 



Reposing with uneasy eyes. 



And lackies, envious till they share 



The lux'ries of their master's fare. 



At three you'll find your sport the best — 



Dinner at si x — you know the rest. 



In easy camlet jacket clad, 



(The lightest and the best, my lad,) 



Trowsers of fustian, gaiters ditt ; 



Shoes not too strong nor tight in fit. 



Methinks I see your early start, 



Methinks I hear your throbbing heart. 



As, whistling after breakfast meal 



Ponto and Carlo to your heel, 



You stalk away in youthful pride 



To seek the manor's distant side. 



' Tis reach'd — your cob with bridle thrown 

 Over his neck is left alone. 



Or ridden by a boy that came 



To mark and carry home the game. 



Instructed when the birds are flying 



To keep them in his constant eyeing. 



Till outstretch'd wings to fluttering changing. 



Prove they have reach'd their utmost ranging. 



Ere ent'ring fields (up-wind) agree 

 Which your companion's side shall be. 

 And never shoot, (so honour cries,) 

 Bird that across his pathway flies. 

 Be tranquil now, your March employ 

 Suits not September's calm, my boy ; 

 This is no month for pointer breaking. 

 Or noise, or furious angry speaking ; 

 o c 2 



