48 HUNTING RECOLLECTIONS. 



A BYE-DAY WITH THE QUORN. 



My stud is nearly done up, 

 My sport must soon be spun up, 

 No such season have I seen 



Since the day that I was born; 

 For a stable full of screws 

 Must give a man the blues 

 When he thinks he's bound to lose 



A bye-day with the Quorn. 



Heaving sighs both long and deep, 

 At the member's card I peep, 

 Giving Brooksby as the meet, 



On this grand hunting morn. 

 I'll have a good look round, 

 They must go if lame or sound. 

 For on joining I am bound ; 



A bye day with the Quorn. 



As along the road I jog 



My nag goes with a nod, 



Till I reach the place of meeting. 



With the hounds upon the lawn. 

 Then he looks and gives a neigh, 

 And his lameness throws away; 

 Ah ! at home he wouldn't stay 



On a bye-day with the Quorn. 



Orange gin my spirits healing. 

 To show there's no ill-feeling, 

 Ere I follow up my pets, 



The bitches and the horn. 

 *Tis a field composed for sport, 

 Few of Friday's medley sort; 

 No crowd from streets or court 



On a bye-day with the Quorn. 



