20 HUNTING RECOLLECTIONS. 



The earths are all stopp'd, and he can't go to ground, 



Ploughmen so heedless stop his forward track, 



And thus poor old Reynard is oft driven back; 



While chattering jays on fluttering wing 



Glad tidings to all of his whereabouts bring, 



With hounds on his hne, and all in full cry. 



The open again — once more he must try. 



Hasty and Crafty will prove it all whim, 



They are too hasty and crafty for him. 



Again, then, he breaks, and now goes away, 



And see how he strides across the grass ley, 



With the hounds at his brush, pursuing amain. 



While echoing woodlands prolong the refrain. 



How anxious the field, how fiery each steed ; 



Famous for fencing as well as for speed, 



There's our worthy Master, the Prittlewell Squire, 



Who to keep all things right is his sole desire. 



With his cap all awry, his sportsmanlike seat, 



His breeches and boots inexpressibly neat ; 



He's mounted right well — he has a good Chance, 



If his hounds get a run his horse sure will advance. 



There's A. Z. Cox on his fam'd chestnut Charley, 



Who ne'er at a fence will stop to hold parley; 



There's one from the City who keeps a straight line, 



Tho' riding a Shadow or famous Sunshine; 



T. K. 's a keen sportsman, altho' he dispenses 



In a trifling degree with some of his fences ; 



He sticks to the hardways, as tho' he forebodes 



A view at old sharpnose while crossing the roads. 



When E. T. can get out he goes well on his grey — 



May he from the gout be e'er distant a day. 



There's one that goes well on the flea-bitten grey, 



Who always has Courage to go the right way ; 



A friend sometimes with him— not always, of course, 



And when he does come he can Marshall his horse. 



But my pen from my hand hapily might fall 



If I should attempt at the placing them all. 



There's Cottons and Saunders, and others as good 



As e'er crossed a fallow or rode through a wood : 



Joe on young Braxted, Reece on grey Hitchin, 



Whose fingers for Reynard so often are itching — 



Now hark to halloa, they're at him again. 



Not long above ground can he now remain. 



