A Chat with Sam Hills 99 



That day was a Saturday, of December nineteen, 

 Just a fortnight ago, though 'twere better, I ween, 

 That the Thursday next coming this fox should be past 

 To the home of his fathers — his praises will last. 



One verse of my lay shall " old Tom's " life record, 

 That huntsman who ne'er failed good sport to afford ; 

 May he stand as a pattern with honour to boast — 

 His long life — and Sam too — I will give as a toast. 



With hurrah for fox hunting, the joy of the chase : 

 May our doings in Surrey deserve just one place. 

 Hurrah, let each drink, as a tumbler he fills — 

 May the Old Surrey hunt last as long as her " Hills ! " 



It may be mentioned in respect to the foregoing 

 effusion — whose sentiments are unimpeachable even if the 

 poetry is not quite up to classical form — that "Confeder- 

 ate " thus honoured in immortal verse was the horse 

 ridden by Sam Hills, and, according to his pilot, he was 

 a " smasher " over a country. What he could not jump 

 or get over in some way was not fit for human contem- 

 plation. 



On the subject of the good hunters he has ridden — 

 and he certainly needed a tip-topper to keep with his 

 hounds over this difficult country throughout the long 

 runs enjoyed during his rdgime — Sam Hills is apt to 

 become extremely enthusiastic. Needless to say, he was 

 a fine horseman in his day, riding at about twelve stone, 

 and he appreciates horses accordingly. One of the best 

 he had, he told us, was a black horse, thoroughbred, a 

 very good-looking one, which had been sent to the hunt 

 stables by Lord Rothschild to see what could be made of 



