A FOXHUNTING JOURNAL 175 



Which will enable you to guess 

 What's meant in this the king of sports. 



There goes "Bill Whaley" — pardon me — 



If for your further information 



I add here somewhat hastily, 



And with a sense of perturbation, 



Bill's not that chap whose legs are welding 



Themselves into the saddle flaps — 



He's Billy Clothier's raty gelding — 



At point-to-points the best of chaps. 



There's Mr. Hare: I do not mean 



To be facetious, no, nor coy, 



Picturing rabbits on the green 



To amuse the verdant city boy — 



I most respectfully refer 



To him whom sportsmen designate 



Master of Masters — briefly. Sir, 



A sort of hunting potentate. 



Whose followers go clad in pink 



And rally to the merry horn; 



Who hold no sound more sweet, I think, 



Than "Lancer" baying in the corn. 



Ho, 't was a sight to see him go 



With such a level well-matched pack — 



There was not one he did not know; 



He'd smile down from his gelding's back 



And hounds smiled back at him with eyes 



All frank and fond, their sterns afeather, 



Scenting the lovely enterprise 



They soon would set afoot together. 



Health to our Horace, "Mr. Hare!" 

 Two masters ably followed after — 

 You'll see them standing over there 

 Under that bit of weathered rafter: 

 This is the stable. Big Ben Chew 

 ' Is talking with the present Master 

 On whether " Riverbreeze" will do, 

 Or "Wolferton" is really faster. 



And now our "Clarence" joins the group 

 To tip them to the latest hint 



