56 



The Sport of Our Jincestors 



Till every hound, recrossing o'er, 

 Stoop 'd forward to the scent once more ; 

 Nor further aid, throughout the day. 

 From Huntsman or from Whip had they. 



Away ! away ! uncheck'd in pace. 

 O'er grass and fallow swept the chase ; 

 To hounds, to horses, or to men. 

 No child's play was the struggle then ; 

 A trespasser on Milward's ground. 

 He climb 'd the pale that fenced it round ; 

 Then close by Little Hemel sped, 

 To Fairford pointing straight a-head. 

 Though now, the pack approaching nigh. 

 He heard his death-note in the cry ; 

 They view'd him, and now seem'd their race 

 The very lightning of the chase 1 

 The fox had reached the Southropp Lane, 

 He strode to cross it, but in vain, 

 The pack roll'd o'er him in his stride. 

 And onward struggling still — he died. 



This gallant fox, in Tar Wood found. 

 Had cross 'd full twenty miles of ground ; 

 Had fought in cover, left or right. 

 No shelter to conceal his flight ; 

 But nigh two hours the open kept, 

 As stout a fox as ever stept ! 

 That morning, in the saddle set, 

 A hundred men at Tar Wood met ; 

 The eager steeds which they bestrode 

 Paced, to and fro, the Witney road. 



