BEAUFORT HUNT: PAST AND PRESENT. 79 



Of civic mien and figure, 

 (I hardly know which of the two 



In scales would prove the bigger,) 

 " Oh ! Colonel, I am not the man 

 A run is wont to frighten, 



But to my face 



Declar'd His Grace, 

 This fox is going to Brighton I 



If this be true, 



'Tis time that you 

 Were off like flash from pistol ; 



'Tis time that . I 



Should homeward fly 



Which is the road to Bristol ? " 



But onwards still, and onwards. 



This wondrous h\int proceeds, 

 Upon the right lay Purton Stoke, 



We cross the Whitehall meads, 

 And leaving Cricklade on his left, 



Seven Bridges on his right. 

 Straight to the Thames he crossed the road — 



No bridge, no ford in sight ! 

 And first and foremost, Worcester, 



The hero of the day. 

 Plunged in the depths on Beckford, 



The old flea-bitten grey 

 And after many a struggle, 



They reached the further side, 

 The hounds were far before them, 



They must for dear life ride. 

 And on to the canal bank 



And back across the river, 

 It look'd as though this Greatwood run 



Were going to last for ever. 

 On the right lay Castle Eaton, 



And Kempsford on the left ; 

 The nags stood still, 

 Brave Beckford's beat. 



Of all but life bereft. 

 Some viewed the run from villages. 



On steeple's friendly roof. 

 Some left their steeds in farming stalls. 



And tried to " pad the hoof ! " 

 So, on they speed past Hannington, 



So, on past Crouch's Wood ; 

 One brook alone remained to jump. 



There was but one who could ; 

 And when this gallant fox appear'd 



E'en now amongst the slain. 

 On the Swindon side of Highworth, 



He crept into a drain ! 



Three hours and thirty minutes 



Those hounds and nags did go. 

 For them 'twas eight amd twenty miles, 



And fifteen for the crow. 

 So, Hamblin, kennel huntsman. 



Share the honours of the day. 

 For of all the Badminton dog pack 



There were but two away. 



Oh 1 for Whyte-Melville's pen, that I might tell 



The varied fortunes which our field befell ; 



For though the finish he iircsumes to treat on. 



Your bard's last resting place was Castle Eaton, 



Where, both for horse and man, he found good quarters. 



