THE HISTORY OF THE BELVOIR HUNT 



And many belles from Lincolnshire, and more than one M.P. 



The Duke and all his followers came trooping to the meet, 



And farmers, butchers, bakers too, as well as the elite — 



Mrs. Stanley on her chestnut, and the well-poised Lady Grey, 



And the ladies who from Rauceby show potterers the way ; 



Well mounted are Sir Frederick and the sporting Blankney squire. 



Who keeps his field in order, as they oftentimes require ; 



And all the fast Meltonians, the Belvoir ploughmen too, 



And Quornites and the Cottesmore in succession pass in view. 



Will such a sight as this fail Radicals convince. 



Where nobles ride with yeomen and the people with the Prince, 



That bad will be the day when we ape the ways of France 



And let the red Republicans in front of us advance ? 



How can I duly chronicle the story of the run, 



The tumbles and the jumbles, the funking and the fun : 



How some went well and some went ill, and not a few, of course. 



Laid all their sad disasters to their silent slave their horse ? 



For long had been the chase since at Newman's Gorse they found 



him. 

 And on by Freeby Wood and by Saxby Spinney wound him ; 

 And many a gallant sportsman, and many a rider keen. 

 Before the run had ended had kissed the earth, I ween. 

 Now the night is fast approaching, and lights are burning bright, 

 For the guests at Belvoir Castle are assembled for the night. 

 The hounds are in their kennel, the horses in their stall, 

 For long had been that chase which ended at nightfall." 



This long hunting run ended in our losing the fox be- 

 tween Whissendine and Edmondthorpe. Mrs. Cavendish 

 Bentinck, on her way back to Belvoir, where she was staying, 

 took a wrong turn and was lost for some time in the Belvoir 

 woods, and might have spent the night there, but, fortunately, 

 she found the head gamekeeper's (Mr. Sharpe's) cottage, and 

 he directed her on the way to the Castle, where she arrived 

 very late.^ The numerous good runs in Gillard's time have 

 been so well described by the sporting correspondents that 

 I think it unnecessary to mention many of them. I can 

 recollect, however, a capital run of about forty minutes, from 

 Normanton Great Thorns, killing in the open close to the 

 house at Balderton, near Newark, the fox being viewed for 

 some time in front of the hounds before he was killed. I 



' I was staying at Belvoir on this occasion, and well remember the 

 daughter's (Lady Sykes') concern at the loss of her mother. 



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