SCENES FROM THE SADDLE. 



Hunting Days. 



Mid Season. 



KNOW ye the winter day cold and drear, 

 Know ye the hunting day hanging with storm, 

 When driving the rain and cutting the \vind, 

 The day fast fading and never a find. 

 Till at length hounds own to a fox in a whin, 

 Then a wait unending for the fox to clear ? 



Know ye the mirage of a bright-lit home. 



Whilst wind from the nortli and icy shower 



Seem to hint at hunting being empty and vain, 

 Unfit for a man with a reasoning brain. 



The sense of it all, wliere doth it appear ? 



Is pleasure consistent with coldness and gloom ? 



Long minutes of lead crawl heavily by, 

 AVhy go not ? but wliy stay ? why ? 



Ho I for the day when the fox goes away 

 Straight from the whin in the morning, 

 Wlien men are still blest 

 With nerves at their best 

 All spick in scarlet adorning. 



Ho I for the day when the fox goes away 

 Leaving a good scent, a hot one. 



No time for a gate 



If you'd not be late, 

 Tlie zest of hunting has got one, 



10 



