The Sport of Our Jincestors 



Such a life have I lived — though so speedily over, 

 Condensing the joys of a century's course, 



From the find till we eat him near Woodwellhead Cover, 

 In thirty bright minutes from Ranksboro' Gorse. 



Last night in St. Stephen's so w^earily sitting 



(The member for Boreham sustained the debate), 

 Some pitying spirit that round me was flitting 



Vouchsafed a sweet vision my pains to abate. 

 The Mace, and the Speaker, and House disappearing, 



The leather-clad bench is a thorough-bred horse ; 

 'Tis the whimpering cry of the foxhound I 'm hearing, 



And my * seat ' is a pig-skin at Ranksboro' Gorse. 



He 's away ! I can hear the identical holloa ! 



I can feel my young thorough-bred strain down the ride, 

 I can hear the dull thunder of hundreds that follow, 



I can see my old comrades in life by my side. 

 Do I dream ? all around me I see the dead riding, 



And voices long silent re-echo with glee ; 

 I can hear the far wail of the Master's vain chiding. 



As vain as the Norseman's reproof to the sea. 



Vain indeed ! for the bitches are racing before us — 



Not a nose to the earth: — not a stern in the air ; 

 And we know by the notes of that modified chorus 



How straight we must ride if we wish to be there ! 

 With a crash o'er the turnpike, and onward I 'm sailing. 



Released from the throes of the blundering mass. 

 Which dispersed right and left as I topped the high railing. 



And shape my own course o'er the billowy grass. 



94 



