The Sport of Our (Ancestors 



LOWESBY HALL 



Gilmour, leave me here a little, and when John of Gaunt is drawn, 

 If you find the raw material, let Jack Morgan blow his horn. 



'Tis the place, and all around me, as of old, the magpies call, 

 Boding evil to the Lord, and flying over Lowesby Hall. 



Lowesby Hall that in the distance overlooks the grassy plains, 

 Swamped from Twyford to the Coplow by the everlasting rains. 



Many a day from yonder spinney in November moist and chill 

 Have I watched the wily animal sneak slowly up the hill. 



Many a night I Ve watched the vapours of my last remaining weed, 

 When my spurs have ceased to animate my apathetic steed. 



Here in search of sport I 've wandered, nourishing a verdant 



youth 

 With the fairy tales of gallops — ancient runs devoid of truth. 



When I dip't into my prospects far as ever I could get. 

 And felt the wild, delirious joy of getting into debt. 



In the spring the pink no longer clothes the sad Meltonian's breast, 

 In the spring his stumped-up horses are at least allowed a rest. 



In the spring too he must settle for the cursed corn and hay, 

 In the spring the dire conviction comes upon him — he must pay. 



98 



