69 



At Tattersall's too, as the Saturdays came, 

 He'd run out the horses, t'was ahvays the same. 

 He never bought one, but he ahvays seemed fly, 

 And criticised all with his critical eye. 



I asked his opinion on spavin and splint, 

 He looked very wise, but he offered no hint ; 

 Arm in arm with the bookey he'd walk up the course, 

 But seldom if ever could spot the right horse. 



One morning I met him and said " Do you hunt ? 

 *' A man like yourself should go well to the front, 

 " If you like to come down for a day in the vale 

 " I'll lend you a horse, you shall show us his tail." 



He looked at me straight and replied " Is it grass ? " 

 As much as to say do you think I'm an ass. 

 I told him "Our country lay down in the west, 

 " Where Dorsetshire boasted of sport with the best." 



He got himself up in some wonderful clothes, 

 Bran new from the crown of his head to his toes, 

 His pink was the latest, his hat was well oiled, 

 And nothing about him had ever been soiled. 



A buttonhole too, sent expressly by post, 

 A waistcoat that almost would frighten a ghost ; 

 The pick of the stable I lent him to ride, 

 Old Baronet, one with a beautiful stride. 



