Some Beasts of Reproach. 115 



His wiles are rain. Haik ! tkro' jon village now 

 The rattling damonr rings. The bams, the cots. 

 And leafless elms, return the joyons sounds. 

 Thro' eT'ry homestall, and thro' er'ry yard 

 His midnight walks, panting, forlorn, he flies. 



Thro' eT*ry hole he sneaks, thro' every jakes 

 Plunging he wades besmear'd, and fondly hc^>es 

 la a superior stench to lose his own : 

 Bat faithful to the track th' unerring hounds 

 With peals of echoing vengeance close pursue. 

 And now distress'd, no sheii'ring covert near. 

 Into the hen-roost he creeps, whose walls with gore 

 Distain'd, attest his guilt. 



There, villain ! there 

 Expect thy £ite deserv'd. And soon from thence 

 The pack, inquisitive, with clamour loud. 

 Drag out their trembling prize, and on his blood 

 With greedy transport feast. In bolder notes. 

 Each sounding horn proclaims the felon dead. 

 And all th' assembled village ^outs for joy. 



The fanner, who beholds his mortal foe 

 Stretch'd at his feet, applauds the glorious deed. 

 And grateful calls us to a short repast : 

 In the full glass the liquid amber smiles. 

 Our native product ; and his good old mate 

 With choicest viands heaps the lib'rai board, 

 To crown our triumphs and reward our toils." 



Now fox-hunting, I take it, requires no condoning from 

 anybody. But to go about to condone it, by pretending 

 that the fox is " the terror of the hamlet," " the fanner's 

 mortal foe," a " bloody-minded villain," and must be killed 

 itself in retribution for ducklings eaten, is to condemn the 

 sport as inhuman, and fox-hunters as monsters of cruelty. 



" Give ye Britons ! then 

 Your sportive fury, pitiless, to pour, 

 Lo<»e on the mighty robber of the fold ! 

 Him from his cr a ggy winding haunts unearthed. 



