32 THE MEYNELL HOUNDS. 



See, funking his soul out, Sir Featherstonhaugh, 

 Tho' thin as a thread and as light as a straw ; 

 And, screwing behind him, there's Fitz-Herbert Dick, 

 His horse half-done-up, looking sharp for a nick. 



VI. 



Next, Dick Knight and Smith Assheton we spy in the van 

 Riding hard as two furies at Catch-who-catch-can. 

 " Now, Egmont," says Assheton, " Now, Contract," says Dick, 

 " By George, then these Quornites shall now see the trick." 



VII. 



Look, smack at a yawner rides Winchelsea's peer, 



So sure to be thrown upon Pyramid's ear. 



And at the same place jumps Charles Smith Loraine ; 



" He's off." " No, he's not." " He hangs by the mane." 



VIII. 



There's Villiers, Bligh Forester, Cholmondley and all. 

 Get stopped by Loraine, and in they all fall, 

 And Steady Morant, that red-headed bitch, 

 With Glyn, Peyton, and Foley, are left in the ditch. 



IX. 



Then, see the Prince Orleans, whose a la distance, 

 Soon without his thick head which is freedom in France. 

 Alas ! long before they reached Enderby Hill, 

 Monsieur blew his 'orse to a von-total-stand-still. 



X. 



Now, sobbing on Monarch, comes jolly Tom Blower, 

 Spurred from shoulder to flank, going slower and slower. 

 "Your servant. Great Prince, dead beat, lost a shoe. 

 Thank God, I'm not last, see, see, parlez-voiis." 



XI. 



Next, half up the hill stops heavy Debrew, 



His horse taking root and himself in a stew ; 



And further behind still, stops Whitbread, the brewer 



Who, lost from the first, has made the Grand Tour. 



