108 



Still as a whisper ! no d — d loud hollo ! 



Nor cursed clodpole roaring, Tallyho ! 



No, not one word ! Now then, ye hunters fleet ! 



The hounds are on him like a winding sheet : 



Kide o'er them ye who can ! their dappled sides ride over, 



Burnhope and Elton, straight for Oxeye cover ! 



For him the ox-eyed goddess hath no charm — 

 See, on the road the ruthless furies swarm 

 All in a patch ! just look ! nay, never wait — 

 Crash goes the top-bar of that ill-hung gate ! 

 By Jove ! they're on him, see old Venus strive — 

 Have at him, beauties ! Eive his life out, rive. 



G. M. SlJTTON. 



THE LAMBTON HOUNDS. 



A SoKG. 

 Tune — ""Weave a G-aeland." 



Tho' midnight her dark frowning mantle is spreading, 



Yet time flies unheeded where Bacchus resides ; 

 Eill, fill then, your glasses, his power ne'er dreading. 



And drink to the hounds o'er which Lambton presides ; 

 Tho' toast after toast with great glee has been given, 



The highest top-sparkling bumper decides 

 That, for stoutness, pace, beauty, on this side of heaven, 



Unrivalled the hounds o'er which Lambton presides ! 

 Then drink to the fox-hounds. 

 Those high-mettled fox-hounds ; 

 We'll drink to the hounds o'er which Lambton presides. 



