62 



For fifty bright minutes we follow his track, 



Look yonder he crawls 'neath the gate ; 

 You may know by his face and the shape of his back 

 He is done to a turn, yes his movements are slack, 

 " Who-whoop," he has met with his fate. 



The banker assists at " the rites " it would seem, 



For blood is smeared over his breeks ; 

 The horses are all in a lather and steam. 

 The huntsman^throws up his dead fox with a scream, 

 Its echo will last you for weeks. 



Sess, Sess, gallant sportsman, go home and lie down, 



Go lap at your crusty old port. 

 Long, long may you ride to the front with renown 

 From the soles of your feet to the top of your crown. 



We'd like to breed more of your sort. 



