Past and Present 147 



But hark ! a "View, halloa !" both long, loud and shrill, 

 Brought down by the breezes from off yonder hill, 

 So up go their hackles, and down go their sterns, 

 "Forrard! my darlings," as we crash thro' the ferns. 



The morning was warm, and the scent was breast high. 

 They were hard at their fox, and he knew he must die ; 

 Though he prided himself on his cunning and breeding, 

 It don"t matter much when old "*" Bella" is leading. 



Half-an-hour passes o'er, and Buggy's laid low. 



With the head in his hand, delighted, stands Joe, 



While "Whoo-op!" is sounded, with "Too-too" on his horn; 



O ! the finest young fox that ever was born. 



On to Corkeylow Wood, to make out the day — 



Hounds are scarce in the covert, ere it's "Forrard, away !" 



And streaming away to the notes of the horn, 



Comes "Stop e'm, Joe, stop 'em !" they're in Bickard's corn. 



But Bickard's a sort not oft' to be found. 

 And loves the sweet note of the deep-throated hound ; 

 So he jumps off his reaper, and waves them along, 

 ■"Never mind about damage, and bother Joe's thong." 



But our fox is an old 'un, and knows his abode, 



For he turns to the right, and runs straight down the road. 



Which is dusty, and hot, and dry as a bone, 



So it's "Come along, beauties ! let's leave him alone." 



The game fox trotted on, alas ! only to die, 



Far away from the horn and the huntsman's wild cry ; 



For in Corkeylow Wood, where from the hounds he had fled. 



With a shot in his heart poor Reynard laid dead. 



*" Bella," by " Ballywood,'' dam, " Frantic," a twelve-season hunter, the best 

 that ever lived." — F. H. Ray. 



