166 Seventy Years a Master, 



MY OLD HORN. 



Though toil hath somewhat worn thy frame, 

 And time hath marred thy beauty, 

 Come forth — lone relic of my fame — 

 Thou well hast done thy duty. 



Time was when other tongues would praise 

 Thy wakening notes of pleasure, 

 Now, miser-like, alone I gaze 

 On thee — a useless treasure. 



Some hearts may prize thy music still, 

 But ah ! how changed the story, 

 Since first my comrades felt the thrill 

 Tuat roused their sporting glory. 



Grace still in every vale abounds, 

 Yet one dear charm is wanting — 

 No more I hear my gallant hounds, 

 In chorus blithely chaunting. 



And there my steed has found a rest. 

 Beneath the springing heather, 

 That oft, like comrades sworn, we pres't 

 In pleasure's train together. 



And some, m4io at thy call would wake. 

 Hath friendship long been weeping ; 

 A shriller note than thine must break 

 Their deep and dreamless sleeping. 



I, too, the fading wreath resign, 

 (For friends and fame are fleeting,) 

 Around his bolder brow to twine. 

 When younger blood is beating. 



Henceforth be mute, my treasured horn. 

 Since time hath marred thy beauty, 

 And I, like thee, by toil am worn — 

 We both have done our duty. 



G.T. 

 {Sportsman Magazine^ 18S3.) 



