THE SQUIRE OF ASWARBY 



Dead ! and on this fair first of May, 



How sad does it appear 

 To us who hoped for many a day 



To listen to his cheer. 



Before me rise fair Belvoir's towers, 



Beneath me spreads the vale, 

 Now glistening bright with April showers 



And May's refreshing gale. 



On such a mom from worldly strife 



He's gone — beloved by all — 

 As tho' a good and cheery life 



Merits such funeral pall. 



He's gone whilst birds a requiem sang 



And Nature's face was gay, 

 Followed by many a heartfelt pang, 



In life's meridian day. 



How often in November morn, 



From out the portals grey. 

 We've seen the hounds, his ringing horn 



With lashing sterns obey. 



His cheer, too, as with eager strife 



They joyful went their way — 

 'Twas worth ten years of quiet life 



One glance at their array. 



Little we dreamed that April eve 



(Warm as an eve in June) 

 'Twas doomed that spirit bold should leave 



Its tenement so soon. 



As dashing Barkston glades along. 



His spirit knew no bounds. 

 We heard him keenly cheer along 



Last time his favourite hounds. 



And whilst we sighed the season past, 



The last eve drawing nigh, 

 And lingering on to make it last 



Could hardly say good-bye, 



Did hope not tell a flattering tale 



That we might meet again, 

 And o'er our well-known Belvoir vale 



Fresh laurels strive to gain ? 

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