382 THE MEYNELL HOUNDS. [1876 



HOME. 



" Home, sweet home." 



The touching old refrain 

 Falls soothingly on exiles' ears, 



Who hear its simple strain. 

 But differently, indeed, it sounds, 



And chill strikes on the heart, 

 When from the master's lips it falls, 



And warns us we must part. 



Yes ! yes ! The word is spoken now, on hill, and wold, and vale. 

 The spring is here ; the winter's past ; and told's the season's tale f 

 That last, last day we lingered on and fought against despair ; 

 Surely some covert there must be to form a fox's lair ? 

 Yes ! One chance more ! A farmer says, yon hedgerow on the hill 

 Has held a fox these three weeks past. Perchance it holds him still. 



We learn the road. Oh, what a change 



Has come across the field ! 

 The cantering, laughing, joyous throng 

 Is full of expectation strong, 

 And chatters as it rides along 



Of what the run may yield. 



Alas ! alas ! for human hopes ! Oh, how our spirits sank ! 



There's never a note from opening hound. The double hedgerow's 



blank. 

 "Cop, come away!" The horn is blown. Where next? The word 



has come. 

 There's nothing left for hounds to draw. The only " draw " is — 



Home. 

 Ah, perhaps to youthful listeners' ears the word may whisper hope ; 

 But what to those who cannot long with Time expect to cope? 

 To us, indeed, the word is sad. We loathe its doleful sound. 

 We never more, for aught we know, may hark to opening hound. 

 We all shall meet, we fondly hope, in Town— in Row or Ride, 

 But many a face perchance we'll miss from next year's covert side. 

 That hound we loved ; that horse we rode, who carried us so well ; 

 The friends we met ; the girl we left — this very season's belle — 

 We hope to meet, we long to greet. But shall we ? Who can tell ? 



