32 Hunting in the Golden Days. 



Not the steeds of the sun, 



Our brave coursers outrun, 

 O'er the mound, horse and hound, see us bound in full cry. 



Like Phoebus we rise 



To the heights of the skies, 

 And, careless of danger, five bars we defy. 

 We waken, etc. 



At eve, sir, we rush 



And are close to his brush. 

 Already he dies, see him panting for breath. 



Each feat and defeat 



We renew and repeat. 

 Regardless of life, so we're in at the death. 

 We waken, etc. 



With bottles at night, 



We prolong the delight. 

 Much Trimbush we praise, and the deeds that were done. 



And yoix, tally ho ! 



The next morning we go 

 With Phoebus, to end as we mount with the fun. 

 We waken, etc. 



At this stage, the ladies having retired, punch bowls, 

 port wine, and churchwardens are produced. In accor- 

 dance with the good old custom, a fox's brush is dipped 

 into the punch, as it gives it a flavour. Mr. Steeples, the 

 parson, who is never absent on these festive occasions, 

 and is always surrounded by eager listeners, tells the oft- 

 told tale of his interview with his bishop about fox- 

 hunting. 



" You see," says he, " when I came to this village as 

 a curate, and saw all the hunting which goes on in this 

 county, I naturally felt much inclined to participate in 

 the exhilarating amusement, for you must know that in 

 my college days at Oxford I kept a nag, and used to 

 manage to work in a day's hunting now and then. You 



