EARL OF LONSDALE 379 



Yearning for the large excitement that the coming sport would yield, 

 And rejoicing at the cropper that I got the second field. 



And at night along the highway, in November dark-and chill, 

 Saw the fcghts of Melton shining from the top of Burton Hill. 



Then my spirit rushed before me, and I felt the "thirty-four" 

 Percolating through my system — noble vintage ! now no more. 



Brother sportsmen and protectionists rejecting all things new, 

 Oh, the future that's impending is a queerish one for you ; 



For I've dipped into that future, reading out the book of fate, 

 And saw Fox Hunting there abolished by an order of the State. 



Saw the heavens filled with guano, raining forth at man's command, 

 Showers of unsavoury mixture for the benefit of land. 



Saw the airy Navies earthward bear the planetary swell, 

 Saw the long-projected railway made from Hanover to H — 1. 



Saw the landlords yield their acres, after centuries of wrongs, 

 To the cotton Lords, to whom, it's proved, all property belongs. 



Queen, Religion, State abandoned, and all flags of party furl'd, 

 In the Government of Cobden and the dotage of the world. 



Then shall outraged common sense espouse some other planet's cause, 

 Then shall rogues abound in England, bonneting the slumbering laws. 



Here at least I'll stay no longer ; let me seek for some abode, 

 Deep in some provincial country far from rail and turnpike road ; 



There to break all links of habit, and to find a secret charm 

 In the mysteries of manuring and the produce of a farm. 



There deplore the fall of barley, there discuss the rise in peas, 

 Over flagons of October, giant mounds of bread and cheese ; 



Never company to dinner, never visitors from town, 



Except the Parson and the Doctor (Mr. Smith and Mr. Brown). 



Droops the heavy conversation to an after-dinner snort, 

 And articulation dwindles with the second flask of port. 



Here methinks would be enjoyment more than at the festive board, 

 At the hunger-mocking, kickshaw-covered table of a Lord. 



There my heart shall beat no longer with my passion's foolish throbs — 

 I will wed some vulgar woman, she shall rear my race of snobs ; 



Double-jointed, mutton-fisted, they shall run, for they shan't ride, 

 Hunting with the York and Ainsty, or the Harriers of Brookside. 



