Of six score men, there was but one 



To follow where I led — 

 Good faith ! his daring cost him dear, 



For as I turn'd my head, 

 He was writhing 'neath his mare, who lay 



With a broken neck, stone dead. 



No time to pause, for over the meads 

 v\ e swept, with a scent breast-high; 



Six more good miles we carried it on, 

 The brave bitch pack and I. 



And when we turned him up, my cheer. 



Borne on the rising wind. 

 Came faintly to the nearmost ear, 



A long half league behind. 



'Twas a cold November evening, 



And the homeward way was dreary ; 



For a score of miles before us lay. 

 And man and horse were weary. 



But my heart was warm as I thought of the smile 



That my return would greet, 

 When she heard the story of the day, 



With its trophy at her feet. 



Atjthoe of " Guy Livingstone." 



