THE MEYNELL HUNT. 93 



Tis the first of November, the opening day, 



At Sudbury Coppice they've met; 

 There's a scent in the cover, the knowing ones say, 



There's a fox for a fiver, I'll bet ; 

 For it's Tallyho ! forrard away ! his line is for Potter's, I'll lay ; 



If you're game for a lark, there are pales in the park 

 Take a good lot of jumping, they say. 



Repeat Chorus. 



O'er the pastures beyond they are racing like mad. 



As though they were tied to his brush ; 

 Though the fences are blind, the real good uns don't mind, 



For a cropper they care not a rush. 

 'Twixt the best friends 'tis war to the knife, each vows he'll be 

 first in the strife. 

 And the man that is in it, will swear that each minute 

 Was worth all the rest of his life. 



Repeat Chorus. 



V. 



Now the good uns sit down, for I'll wager a crown 



There'll be some wet jackets ere long ; 

 From the brook they don't shrink, though it's up to the brink. 



And the current runs deucedly strong. 

 Shake him up, catch him fast by the head, for it never shall truly 

 be said. 

 That a Derbyshire man, when he's leading the van. 

 Of the biggest place ere had a dread. 



Repeat Chorus. 



Yonder's Potter's so snug, where we're sure of a jug 



Of good beer and good bread and good cheese. 

 Throw the reins on his neck, for you've time, while we check. 



To enjoy these good things at your ease. 

 But it's Tallyho ! forrard away ! a labourer's viewed him, they say. 



Ere you reach Hilton Gorse, you'll know whether your horse 

 Can not only gallop, but stay. 



Repeat Chorus. 



VII. 



" Moy oyes ! e's a winder," the labourer said, 



" And 'e's gone past 'ere ten minutes quoite ; 

 'Is tag it were whoite and 'is coot it were red ; 



Yo'll non ketch Bowd Reynolds to-noight. 



