THE BOY ON THE PONY. 89 



Three fields further on they ran into their quarry, 

 The boy on the pony was with them alone. 



Who-whoop ! the delight of the huntsman and Harry, 

 The whip, whose good hunter was beaten and done. 



They said that at night he came home, and returning 

 Found his new French governess boiling with rage ; 



He'd cut all his work, for he thought the best learning 

 For him was Diana's adventurous page. 



And when the young culprit was brought to his mother, 



A fair lady rider who came from Kildare, 

 She fell on his neck and declared that no other 



Young hopeful alive with her son could compare. 



The brush in due course was well mounted ; his father 

 Still points to the trophy, it hangs on the wall ; 



He smiles as he shows it, some say he would rather 

 Lose everything else that he owns at the Hall. 



We toasted the boy, with all honour and glory, 



That night through the length and the breadth of the shire. 



So now I have told you the whole of the story 

 Of this foxhunting son of the foxhunting squire. 



But, look ! they are off and are drawing the spinney ; 



You'll see our best country, I'm glad you are here. 

 They'll run, I feel sure ; there's a scent, for a guinea. 



Tally ho ! he's away ; follow on to the cheer. 



