166 



THE WARWICKSHIRE HOUNDS. 



Mr 



H. Spencer 

 Lucy. 

 1866-1876. 



While Orvis was next, and I scarcely need tell 



How he stuck to his hounds and went boldly and well. 



Lord Willoughby then, with " his fair lady wife," 



Who bravely kept on to the end of the strife ; 



While good " Charlie Foster " was close at the end, 



With another of Shirley's he'd mounted a friend, 



I don't know his name, if I did I would tell 



Who he was, for he went undeniably well. 



But Pegasus hardly will bear me again, 



To relate when each fell, when each tired one drew rein ; 



And in fact, I don't know, for as one may surmise, 



I went through that run with but one pair of eyes. 



I looked at the finish — " Oh where ! and oh where, " 



Was the keen Corbett-Holland, he was not up there. 



John Mordaunt I heard near to Kineton stood still. 



And Annesley drew rein at the foot of Edge Hill. 



Percy Hodgson spurred on, in a grand disbelief 



In his cobs' finite powers, and at last came to grief ; 



Aye, sad that my Muse is compelled to tell how. 



He received as they rolled, a sharp kick on his brow ; 



But the run he'll remember to life's latest day. 



For he carries for ever the mark of the fray. 



Clifford Chambers, who always goes boldly and straight, 



Stopped somewhere, but where, I can't certainly state. 



And Lewty, did ever you hear such a prank ? 



Was last seen at work shoving his steed down a bank. 



Alas ! that consumption so ruthless and grim. 



Should have seized, 'ere next season, a victim in him. 



Fifield Pitt, too, I saw going straight as a bird, 



But where he stopped going, I've never yet heard ; 



Though he says, and I doubt not his words are quite true, 



That he found near the Holt that he'd only one shoe. 



Next day a friend said *' My dear fellow I think, 



•' That each glass of port wine, which in future you drink, 



" Will improved be in flavour, in fact I may say, 



" You will find in each bottle a sweeter bouquet, 



•' For, remembrance made sweet by the good rosy wine, 



•' After dinner how oft you'll again ride the line. " 



He was right, and how oft when the wine has been best, 



Has that good run imparted additional zest, 



As I've raised the bright glass to a toast of my own, 



And, quietly drinking, have tossed the wine down. 



And I've noticed sometimes that mine host's eyes will shine 



As he thinks to himself " ah ! he likes the good wine. 



'* My best vintage is not lost on him to be sure, 



•' How he raises his glass like a brave connoisseur, 



•' While the ruby wine sparkles so clearly and bright, 



" Just balanced midvpay 'twixt his eye and the light." 



But you're wrong my dear fellow, most kind-hearted 



host 

 For it was not your wine, I was drinking a toast. 



