The Sport of Our <J[ncestors 



Oh, Sir Richard, you may holloa ! but my spirit knows no bounds ; 

 Curse the scent, and hang the huntsman ; rot the master, d — n the 

 hounds ! 



Lost the fox ! 'Twas I that did it ! Oh, of course, I always do ; 

 Comes Sir Richard, black as thunder. I '11 evaporate^ — adieu. 



Plough the grass, erect wire fences, shoot the foxes, freeze and 



snow ; 

 I can catch the train at Leicester ; so to Euston Square I go. 



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