96 ^ ©ucfemg. 



'Tis wonder that our sport's so long remained, 

 When every day some honoured custom's wrecked, 



Would that prosperity could hasten back, 

 And trade and farming hand in hand revive ; 



That local fields could follow local pack, 



Fox hunting then would never cease to thrive. 



A DUCKING. 



BACKWARD glance and a wayward swerve, 

 and a skotching, halting gait. 

 No responding spring to your hard press'd 

 spur, as you try to hold him straight ; 

 He yet can't swing to the right or left, though he 



would, as his ears shown plain. 

 And you cannot, ride him as you may, keep taut 

 that bridle rein. 



Shove him along, friend, best as you can, the planets 



aren't auspicious, 

 The brook is wide, and the water cold, and your quad 



is not ambitious ; 

 But shove him along, and by dint of nerve and will 



you may land all right, 

 Though odds are greatly t'other way, that you flop 



in out of sight. 



