THE CASHELMORE HOUNDS. 1 79 



CONCLUSION. 



I pity the man whose heart never beat higher 



At the note of the horn, or the cry of the hound ; 

 When the beauties all joined in a musical choir, 



Send up from the covert perfection of sound. 

 Now when night has set in, and the wild winds mourn ever, 



Beside the bright fire, I love to think o'er 

 Those days that have passed that will come again never-— 



Those days that I spent with the old Cashelmore. 



Yes, I think of the day where the Cashel Peak towers 



Two foxes divided the blood-loving pack, 

 And how the scent lay, while the southerly showers 



Poured down on the field when we met at Moulbrack ; 

 And where Timoleague's Abbey stands over the water, 



And Umera's woods kiss the silvery wave, 

 How they raced through the pastures determined on slaughter, 



While Reynard his brush was determined to save. 



Good luck to them ever, stout foxes to lead them 



From Carbery's hills to sea girt Barryroe ; 

 Old Irish blood ever, so long may they breed them 



A true hunting pack, and a good one to go. 

 Aye, my horse has grown old and his rider grown older, 



And few may the days be that linger before ; 

 But my heart is as warm though my old limbs are colder. 



As when first I rode straight with the fast Cashelmore.* 



" Elfin." 



* I am indebted to one of the best sportsmen in the soutli of Ireland for 

 this history of the Cashelmore Hounds. 



