159 



" You Melton men, ye Leicester knaves, 

 Come ride with me, say I, 

 Five minutes over Skeffington, 

 And then lie down and die. 



"I've heard of you, Sir Grilliemore, 

 I know you 're all my eye ; 

 I'll cut you down, and hang you up. 

 Aye, hang you up to dry ! 



" Tou funking wretch, I know you, 

 How you shudder at a rail ! 

 How you shun the bristly bullfinch, 

 And at a brook turn tail. 



" So here I seize your trophies 

 With every mark of scorn. 

 And hang up your reputation 

 In the dining room at Quorn." 



He ceased — I fear my voice must fail 

 To tell the sequel of my tale : 

 But he who was not wont to brook 

 A hasty word or angry look, 

 Now, with a meek submissive face, 

 Yielded the trophies of the chase ; 

 Without a blow resigned his sway. 

 And Miles, triumphant, leads the way. 

 Thenceforth from gates and brooks he shrunk, 

 Thenceforth by all was called a "funk." 

 Such is the fate of human glory, 

 Such the sad sequel to my story. 



