358 Appendix, 



I 



''THE PYTCHLEY;" 



A HUNTING-SONG, 



Yes, Loatland ! since first I stood under thy cover, 



When all nature looked young and old age seemed a crime, 



Such an age has passed by, that I fail to discover 

 The landmarks of life on the roadside of time. 



So it must be ; but oh ! for one touch of the bridle, 



And oh ! for the feel of a resolute horse, 

 When the darlings are racing away on the side-hill, 



And their heads set in earnest for Tally-ho Gorse. 



How well I remember, we stood at the corner. 



The road choked and crammed in the orthodox way ; 



When whisking his brush at the sound of the horn, a 

 Grreat grey-looking dog-fox broke boldly away. 



Hold hard there ! hold hard ! (don't you pity the Master ?) 

 Pray ! pray ! give the time, you would anger a Saint ! 



He may well spare his broath_, for the Field all the faster 

 Breaks away out of hand and defies all restraint. 



Along the brookside by the rush-covered meadows, 

 Where bullfinch alternates with blackthorn and rail, 



The rush passes on, till in sunlight and shadows 

 Fair Arthingworth Church rises out of the Vale. 



Ah ! there are the willows ; like ghosts you might fancy 

 They wave their lean arms as they bid you beware ; 



And deep is the gulf, looking dark and unchancy. 

 Where the rat finds his home, and the otter his lair. 



Little Mayfly and Mermaid have taken the water, 

 And the snipe rises wild as they enter the tide ! 



There's a turmoil of wave as the pack follows after, 

 And a dripping of flanks as they gain the far side. 



