106 



Twenty minutes have passed — Harrow steeple is near — 

 And of the three hundred that met at Poll Hill, 

 Like a regiment that's broke by the foeman, I fear, 

 But thirty are left that can live the pace still. 



In Euishp's deep meadows some come to a stand ; 

 By Pinner's high fences some find their course barr'd ; 

 And a loud swearing rustic, with pitchfork in hand, 

 Has pounded fat Hawkins fast in a farm yard. 



" My horse lacks condition " — " Pve lost a fore shoe" — 

 " Our efforts to catch them are hopeless and vain ;" 

 " I really believe the best thing we can do 

 Is, in hopes of a check, to jog on in the lane." 



Now Northolt, now Grreenford, are left far behind ; 

 Twyford Abbey we've reached in our glorious career. 

 Still unflagging in strength, still unfailing in wind, 

 Over hill, over dale flies the matchless old deer. 



O Elmore ! (12) O Anderson ! how could ye say 

 Of the horses ye sold us the thing that was not ? 

 Piccadilly's proud cattle are dying away, 

 And TJxendon's flyers drop down to a trot. 



Macdonough, (13) and Mason, and Bardolph-nosed Bean — 

 Of steeplechase riders at first we had plenty. 

 'Tis one thing to go for ten minutes, I ween ; 

 'Tis another to go for two hours and tw^enty. 



Stout Stanley, (14) bold Errington, gallant Southampton, 

 Clauricarde, the dashing, and Pembroke, the kind, 

 Over Harrow's deep meadows in chase of fleet Hampton — 

 'Tis the pace that has left the foxhunters behind. 



12. Elmore and Anderson, horse dealers. 

 13. Celebrated steeplechase riders. 14. Celebrated riders to hounds. 



