A Chat with Sam Hills 97 



OUR OLD SURREY SEASON 



Dear Bell, can you spare me a moment or two, 

 While in justice to our pack in years not a few, 

 I chant of our hounds and the post which Sam fills, 

 Now that snow's scattered lightly on yon distant Hills. 



Of the sport that he's shown us below and above, 



Gloried in by all those who the old hunt approve, 



Take " Worm's Heath " and " Westerham," the day from 



Nutfleld, 

 " Godstone," " Woldingham " next, nor need " Itchingwood " 



yield. 



" Botley Hill " to the Rook's Nest — I pause here awhile, 

 For we miss that warm greeting and known friendly smile — 

 " Bletchingley," " Tandridge Gate," and last week from the 



Shaw, 

 Under Cudham to Holwood's great limb of the law. 



Tho' few days I've been with them, yet truly can boast 

 Of a run in all winds when of scent scarce a ghost. 

 We're not jealous, though chaff flowed in full as we stood 

 Face to face with the " Staggers " at Lombardine's Wood. 



Surely happy's the man who's a trifle to spare, 

 For with what sort of sport can fox hunting compare ? 

 First picture the " ladies," our meet Titsey Church, 

 And condolence with those who were left in the lurch. 



Here the " Squire " gave the word after mounting his bay, 

 But before I can write it there's " Hark!" " Hoick away ! " 

 Have a care now you fast ones, short indeed is his start, 

 He's no stranger, d'ye see how he points for the Chart ? 



" Yoicks to him, Melody!" — fair Rosamond's right — 

 If the open he'll face and he is but in plight, 

 Your thoroughbred's bottom will surely be tried — 

 Our pack here divides — where are you who can ride ? 

 o 



