2o THE QUORN HUNT 



VI 



Select is the circle in which I am moving, 



Yet open and free the admission to all ; 

 Still, still more select is that company proving, 



Weeded out by the funker and thinned by the fall 

 Yet here all are equals — no class legislation, 



No privilege hinders, no family pride : 

 In the "image of war" show the pluck of the nation 



Ride, ancient patrician ! democracy, ride ! 



VII 



Oh ! gently, my young one ; the fence we are nearing 



Is leaning towards us — 'tis hairy and black, 

 The binders are strong, and necessitate clearing, 



Or the wide ditch beyond will find room for your back. 

 Well saved ! we are over ! now far down the pastures 



Of Ashwell the willows betoken the line 

 Of the dull-flowing stream of historic disasters ; 



We must face, my bold young one, the dread Whissendine ! 



VIII 



No shallow-dug pan with a hurdle to screen it, 



That cock- tail imposture the steeplechase brook ; 

 But the steep broken banks tell us plain, if we mean it, 



The less we shall like it the longer we look. 

 Then steady, my young one, my place I've selected, 



Above the dwarf willow 'tis sound I'll be bail, 

 With your muscular quarters beneath you collected, 



Prepare for a rush like the "limited mail." 



Oh ! now let me know the full worth of your breeding, 



Brave son of Belzoni, be true to your sires, 

 Sustain old traditions — remember you're leading 



The cream of the cream in the shire of the shires ! 

 With a quick shortened stride as the distance you measure, 



With a crack of the nostril and cock of the ear, 

 And a rocketing bound, and we're over, my treasure, 



Twice nine feet of water, and landed all clear ! 



