D THE OLD SORT. 



And forrard again — how they twist and they turn 



As over the valley they fly ; 

 Each hound is at work, and is anxious to learn 

 The way of his hare, and is quick to discern 



The line on the stubble, " Yut try." 



And mark how they check in the wind and the rain ; 



They're feathering away with a will. 

 See them spreading and casting again and again, 

 And it's " Hark to it, Primula, over the lane," 



The hare has turned under the hill. 



But mark the old sort, see his workmanlike seat ; 



He sits like a centaur, I vow. 

 He lets them alone, for he thinks it a treat 

 To see hounds at work by themselves. " Mind the wheat ! 



Ride round, and go over the plough." 



Look, look ! he has viewed her, the farmer in brown, 



His hat is held high in the air. 

 Don't holloa, they're hunting it over the down ; 

 See, Rarity catches a view on the crown 



Of the hill. It's who-whoop ! I declare. 



And so have I seen him, this sportsman and friend, 



Before he was laid in the soil ; 

 1 lis friendship will influence me still to the end, 

 And the force of his cheery example will tend 



To guide me through trouble and toil. 



