76 BEAUFORT HUNT: PAST AND PRESENT. 



A Legend of the Quorn Countrie. 



When careful of his goods or spouse, 



A strong naan armed doth keep his house ; 



It may be termed for him a bore, 



To find a stranger at his door, 



Who binds the strong man at his ease. 



Pockets his cash and all he sees ; 



And tho' he does not take his life. 



Is far from civil to his wife. 



The ex-strong man looks on the while, 



Without the least desire to smile ; 



At least, I take it, such would be 



The case, did such things chance with me. 



There lived, I do not deal in dates, 



A Champion of the heavy weights. 



Who over Leicestershire had done 



Great things in spite of sixteen stone ; 



For many years laad been admired 



For going when the rest were tired ; 



Who feared no timber, liked a brook, 



Could calmly at a bullfinch look ; 



And thought himself in all his glory, 



Just at the period of my story ; 



But often when we feel most sure. 



We're apt to be the least secure ; 



And Gilmour, happy and content. 



With long-established precedent. 



By all men honoured and respected, 



Was rivalled when he least expected. 



'Twas in November's dreary sky. 



Strange meteors were seen to fly ; 



And rumor spread thi-oughout the land. 



That some convulsion was at hand ; 



And presently the fact was known. 



That one who weighed near seventeen stone. 



Light of hand and firm of seat, 



Arrived at Quorn, was hard to beat. 



Well ! all men deemed the fact absurd. 



And Gilmour laughed at what he heard ; 



And not until he saw the naan, 



The sinking in his boots began. 



When first he showed beside the gorse. 



Colossal seemed his coal-black horse ; 



His frowning brow and deep-set eye. 



His heart's resolve did not belie ; 



Not oft he smiled, but if a trace 



Of mirth did flit across his face, 



No joy, I ween, it did impart. 



But chilled the shuddering gazer's heart ; 



And Gilmour, at that harrowing look, 



Down to his very small-clothes shook ; 



When towards him with the lightning's speed, 



The stranger spurred his fiery steed. 



" My name, he said, is Peter Miles, 



" And there is none like me 



" Prom Land's End to Northumberland, 



" And all the North Countrie. 



" You Melton men, you Leicester knaves 



" Come ride with me, say I, 



" Five minutes over Skeftington, 



*' And then lie down and die. 



' I've heard of you Sir Gilemore, 



