The Sport of Our <J[ncestors 



Hark ! my merry comrades call me, and Jack Morgan blows his 



horn, 

 I, to whom their foolish pastime is an object of my scorn. 



Can a sight be more disgusting — more absurd a paradox, 

 Than two hundred people riding at a miserable fox ? 



Will his capture on the morrow any satisfaction bring ? 



I am shamed thro' all my nature to have done so flat a thing. 



Weakness to be wroth with weakness ! I 'm an idiot for my 



pains ; 

 Nature made for every sportsman an inferior set of brains. 



Here at last I '11 stay no longer, let me seek for some abode, 

 Deep in some provincial county far from rail or turnpike road. 



There to break all links of habit, and to find a secret charm 

 In the mysteries of manuring and the produce of a farm. 



To deplore the fall of barley, to admire the rise of peas. 

 Over flagons of October, giant mounds of bread and cheese. 



Never company to dinner, never visitors from town, 



Just the Parson and the Doctor (Mr. Smith and Mr. Brown). 



Droops the heavy conversation to an after-dinner snort. 

 And articulation ceases with the sacred flask of port. 



These, methinks, would be enjoyment more than at the festive 



board, 

 Than the hunger-mocking, kickshaw-covered table of a lord. 



102 



