91 



I, too, the fading wreath resign, 

 jFor friends and fame are fleeting, 



Around his * bolder brow to twine 

 AVhere younger blood is beating. 



Henceforth be mute, my treasured horn, 

 Since time hath marred thy beauty, 



And I, like thee, by toil am worn : 

 Thou well hast done thy duty. 



"EOUSE, BOYS, EOUSE." 



Rouse, boys, rouse, 'tis a fine hunting morning ; 

 Rouse, boys, rouse, and prepare for the chase ; 

 Let not the time fly that's spent in adorning, 

 But on to cover hie at a good pace. 



There when you find, sir. 



The country's divine, sir. 

 The fences are whackers, the brooks are not small ; 



But w^ere they larger, sir, 



Boldly we'd charge 'em, sir, 

 Nor care a farthing, sir, how oft we fall. 



Now from the fox he is driven, sir : 



Hark how the valleys re-echo the call ; 



'Tis Osbaldeston's (i) voice reaching the heavens, boys, 



Hallooing " forrard " loud as he can bawl. 



Then there's such spluttering, 



Spurting and sputtering, 

 Each one so anxious to be in the van ; 



At the first rattling leap, 



Ox-fence or field of deep. 

 Onward the good ones creep — catch them who can. 



•The late Sir Walter Carew, of Haccombe, Devonshire. 

 I. G. Osbaldeston, the celebrated " Squire." 



