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At Hurworth, fam'd village, as soon as 'twas light. 

 We feasted our eyes with a ravishing sight : 

 Each sportsman had pleasure and health in his face, 

 And horses and hounds were all ripe for the chase. 

 But first, the commander-in-chief I should name. 

 The lord of Kirkleatham, of right honest fame, 

 A friend to good men, but profess'dly a foe 

 To villains of four legs as well as of two. 

 We had not tried long before Rafter gave mouth — 

 Esteemed by the pack as the standard of truth. 

 They quickly fly to him, and instant declare 

 That Kafter was right, for a fox had been there ; 

 And, trust me, he proved a notorious blade. 

 His name was Old Caesar, and plunder his trade : 

 His namesake, in all the great battles he won, 

 Spilled less blood by gallons than this rogue had done. 

 Unken'lling at Eyreholme, he first tried a round 

 In which he might run about four miles of ground. 

 Then back to the earths, but the stopper took care 

 To baulk him from making his quarters good there. 

 Disdaining such treatment he flourished his brush. 

 And seemed to say, " Sportsmen, I care not a rush ; 

 I'll give you such proofs of my stoutness and speed 

 That Nimrod himself would have honoured the breed." 

 By Smeaton and Hornby he next took his way, 

 Eesolved to make this a remarkable day ; 

 Then wheeled to the left for the banks of the Tees, 

 But there he could meet neither safety nor ease. 

 Now finding with what sort of hounds he'd to deal. 

 And that his pursuers were true men of steel, 

 He pushed to gain shelter in Craythorne Wood, 

 The hounds at his brush all eager for blood. 

 The field all alive, now we smoaked him along, 

 So joyous the music, each note was a song — 

 All round us was melody, spirit, and joy. 



