I HE OLD SORT. 29 



His dress was old-fashioned, it suited him well, 



A broad-brimmed fiat hat, and a tie 

 That went twice round his throat— he was never a swell - 

 While his green hunting frock was made neatly, and fell 



Well over his muscular thigh. 



And what of the hunter, and what of the brown ? 



A cart horse in make and in frame ; 

 Three parts thoroughbred— do you doubt it, look down 

 At his tapering thighs, then look up at his crown— 



You can see he's a blood one, and game. 



Now look at the hounds ; they're an old-fashioned kind, 



Blue mottled and long in the ear ; 

 All bred to a type, and so sorty, you'll find 

 A family likeness in all that should bind 



Them close in a working career. 



But come, gentle reader, come out to the hills ; 



Come, lend me yourself for awhile ; 

 I'll take you away from all worries and ills. 

 Mark the sportsman in question, his face how it fills 



With pleasure ; take note of his smile. 



Just hark at him, now ; there's a rattling cheer ; 



He waves his hounds into the heather. 

 They're spreading about ; there's a hare, never fear : 

 Look, yonder she goes, 'neath the gate ; look and near 



Are the hounds running, facing the weather. 



