LOYAL GRANTHAM 



'Tis only when at fences crost 

 By feeble swells you're tempest-tost ; 

 Then, then the spark bursts into fire, 

 And quails the muff beneath your ire. 



Ah ! happy tar ! how much we feel 



To want your well-strung nerves of steel ; 



Who on your frugal toast and tea 



Rise healthy as a man should be. 



What nerves had you ! when Uncle Rous 



Alike displayed his pluck and " Nous " 



By bringing home (it makes one shudder) 



The shattered Pique without a rudder. 



A middy, you cared not a button. 



And cracked your jokes with Dicky Sutton ; 



You took the Atlantic in your stride, 



And high on foaming waves did ride. 



How glad we are you've settled down 



At saddler's shop in Grantham town. 



Long may we hope upon our grounds 



To see you with the Belvoir hounds. 



Ride o'er our wheat, and never stop 



But only try our rails to top ; 



And when the hunting season's ended, 



And all our gates and fences mended, 



Farewell ! with hopes for many a year 



Amongst us all you'll reappear. 



Indeed, Grantham has always been a favourite resort for 

 those who desire to hunt with the Duke of Rutland's hounds. 

 The hotels consider the wants of the hunting man. The 

 G.N.R. will convey him swiftly to London, or place their 

 trains at his service to act as covert hacks. The distances 

 home at night are not as long as at Rugby, the expenses are 

 less than Melton, and the climate milder than Market Har- 

 borough. That the town may long prosper, as it deserves, 

 and that its men may be the same gallant race as ever, must 

 be the wish of every sportsman. 



3" 



