101 



Till his giant form rolled over, 

 And his red eyes glittered strangely, 

 And the hunting knife gleamed o'er him. 

 Ended were his wild adventures, 

 Ended all his thefts and murders. 

 And his gambolings ungainly. 

 Now his skin is Patrick's sofa, 

 And his head hangs up with honour 

 In the house where, sung in story, 

 All his feats will be remembered. 



L. C. M., Jflt, 1882. 



IN MEMORIAM. 



" Great Hopes :" foaled 1854, died 1875. 



Nay, reader, don't start at the title, 



'Tis of only a horse — nothing more ; 

 Only one of the lower creation. 



Whose loss 'tis my lot to deplore. 

 " Only a horse ! well, what matters ?" 



Quoth Dives ; " 'tis done in a trice : 

 Draw a cheque — the best horse that e'er hunted 



Can always be bought at a price." 



Ah ! Dives, men envy your fortune, 



Tou are floating through life with the stream ; 

 Tou have got twenty hunters at Melton, 



And the pride of the Park is your team ; 

 But I want just to ask you a question, 



So kindJy one moment attend : 

 Be it man, be it woman, or horse. 



Can you ever replace an old friend ? 



