BLOOD WILL TELL. 



But hark ! in the spinney, the hounds are away ; 



A cap is held high in the air ; 

 The man on the brown and the man on the grey 

 Arc over the fence, they are riding to-day, 



And free as the birds in the air. 



And mark in the meadow, the mare and the foal 



Are stirred by the musical cry. 

 My word ! what a sort ; see, she stands on the knoll — 

 The sound of the music is rousing her soul — 



The old mare is eager to fly. 



but there ! look at that ; she is over the fence — 



She takes the whole thing at a bound. 

 And look at the foal, he has scarcely the sense — 

 He has, though ; well done ! see, his stride is immense, 



His quarters are massive and round. 



Away, yes, away, through the heart of the vale 



The old mare is leading the field. 

 She notes the good hounds as they gallantly sail, 

 And tackles the blackthorn, and tackles the rail ; 



She was always too plucky to yield. 



And look at the foal, ever close in her wake 



The young one is true to the breed. 

 He judges his distance, and knows how to take 

 Off, just in the right place, and lands with a shake 



' >! the head that shows courage and speed. 



