THE GALLOPING WHIP. 177 



surely die this season to a fifty minutes' grace. The straight 

 little cub of to-day finds shelter below ground, a mile from the 

 shaggy height that seemed his aim. In a glow of warmth and 

 pleasure the dripping gallopers disperse for home ; and to-night 

 they will be talking of fences wide and dark, and of timber 

 gigantic — the dreadful shapes and monstrous creations with 

 which we love to overawe a patient after-dinner audience. 



THE GALLOPING WHIP* 



If life is a business, existence is fun 

 "When duty and pleasure and sport are in one ; 

 And so he wears ever a smile on his lip — 

 'Tis a Labour of Love to the Galloping "Whip. 



The moon of September's his light in the morn, 



When the cub's to be killed and they've carried the corn ; 



The moon of December's his lamp for the trip, 



As home with the pack goes the Galloping Whip. 



For hours never vex him, and work cannot tire, 

 That dapper pink fits on a framework of wire ; 

 He'll go without sup, and he'll go without sip 

 From daylight to dark, will the Galloping Whip. 



The phiz of bold Reynard is shaped on his mug, 

 Mouth wide as an oxer, as deep as a jug ; 

 That feature was fashioned to scream, not to nip, 

 And a bumper's no charm for the Galloping Whip. 



The last to leave covert, he'll cheer on the pack ; 

 Twenty couple are out, then away with a crack ; 

 In a mile he has given the quickest the slip — 

 The wind from their sails takes the Galloping Whip. 



When we're jammed in a corner, the timber too strong. 

 The bullfinch too thick, and our courage all gone — 

 Hie ! give us a lead ! and over he'll flip : 

 But it's little improved by the Galloping Whip. 



Does he ride for repute ? No, his eye is ahead ; 

 He works for his huntsman, and works for his bread. 

 Wherever he steers men are glad of the tip : 

 The bruisers delight in the Galloping Whip. 



* Republished from "Fore's Quarterly Magazine." 



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