212 England's oldest hunt. 



season had commenced. It was congestion of the lungs 

 which carried him off to his fathers, and so ended a hard life 

 in many respects. He carried the horn over the Sinnington 

 country for thirty-seven years, during which time he rarely 

 spent a day in bed with illness. It is not surprising that his 

 name and fame should be handed down in poetry. J.D. 

 wrote some verses, which ran : — 



No more the clarion voice of Jack 



The hills and vales will wake ; 

 No more upon his steed will he 



The streams and hedges take. 



Mute in his grave the veteran lies, 



As though with sleep o'ercome ; 

 His spirit having winged its flight 



To its eternal home. 



To fear a stranger from his youth 



Born for the chase was he ; 

 And here,, amongst the heroes, he 



Will ere remembered be. 



To succour and to save the chief, 



His friends did all they could ; 

 Amongst whom the Earl of Feversham 



Conspicuously stood. 



But skill and kindness could not stay 



The messenger of death, 

 And now Jack's state, which will be ours, 



Is but six feet of earth. 



A Tyke residing in the United States of America sent the 

 following lines to a contemporary, to which I was at the 

 time contributing sporting matter, and in which I had made 

 some reference to Jack : — 



Good-bye, old friend, be mine the duty here 

 To touch thy memory always with a tear, 

 For time was once, when heedless of all care, 

 With Jack and hounds t'was glorious to be there. 

 Ah ! fleeting visions, dreams of other days, 

 Ere worldly struggles warped youth's simple ways, 

 Would that some brightness from the ever past 

 On darkening shadows might again be cast, 

 Would that again, to make the soul rejoice, 



