The Sport of Our Ancestors 



While others prove o'er post and rail 

 The merits of the sliding scale. 



Ah ! much it grieves the Muse to tell 

 At Clanfield how Valentia fell ; 

 He went, they say, like one bewitch 'd. 

 Till headlong from the saddle pitch'd ; 

 There, reckless of the pain, he sigh'd 

 To think he might not onward ride ; 

 Though fallen from his pride of place. 

 His heart was following still the chase ; 

 He bade his many friends forbear 

 The proffer 'd aid, nor tarry there ; 

 * Oh ! heed me not, but ride away ! 

 The Tar Wood fox must die to-day ! ' 



Nor fell Valentia there alone, 

 There too in mid career was thrown 

 The Huntsman — in the breastplate swung 

 His heels — his body earthward hung ; 

 With many a tug at neck and mane, 

 Struggling he reach 'd his feet again ; 

 Once more upon the back of Spangle, 

 His head and heels at proper angle 

 (Poor Spangle in a piteous plight). 

 He look'd around him, bolt upright, 

 Nor near nor far could succour see, — 

 Where can the faithless Juliet be ? 

 He would have given half his wage 

 Just then to see her on the stage ; 

 The pack those meads by Isis bound 

 Had reach 'd ere Jem his Juliet found ; 



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