HOUNDS loi 



the best pack in England would begin to 

 tail ! But the game is over. They run 

 from scent to view, Wrangler's bristles are 

 up, and you 



may swear it's who-hoop, 

 For he'll dash at his fox like a hawk in her stoop, 

 And he carries the head marching home to his soup. 



And many and oftentimes will Wrangler 

 make a run, till he, too, has, like every 

 dog, had his day. The Master's heart is 

 steeled, he gives the order (who knows with 

 what regret ?), and another hound takes his 

 place with the flying black, white, and tan ! 



