27 



FOREMAN. 



We met in the hills, I remember it well, 



The first day I handled the horn ; 

 On Foreman's good work I will faithfully dwell, 

 Of Foreman's good work 'tis a pleasure to tell, 



A better hound never was born. 



Hark back, gentle reader, and watch the good hound ; 



I see him at work as I write, 

 The echo returns of each musical sound, 

 And the swing of his go as he skims o'er the ground, 



His colour of lemon and white. 



" Yut, try ! " they are wild, each is game for a kill, 



The flesh is beginning to tell. 

 So full of good fettle they spread with a will, 

 While some of them think there's a hare on the hill, 



Look, yonder she crosses the dell. 



But Gladstone's false game he himself doth disclose, 



He lies Hke a good one to-day ; 

 He tries to persuade us, but everyone knows 

 His speech is deceiving, so nobody goes 



Where Gladstone is feeling his way. 



