THE OLD BLUE-PYE 



I'm a lean old, mean old sight in a street 



With a foolish, ghoulish glare at a man, 

 And my kennel-mates look grand at a meet. 



With a bloom on the Belvoir tan; 

 And they sneer who gape on my colour and shape 



And my veteran, villainous, bloodshot eye, 

 For the crowds that swarm round fashion and form 



Pass over the old blue-pye. 

 But the Huntsman knows what a hound can do, 

 And he knows that I know that he knows it, too : 

 He knows my voice on a fox is true, 



And the blood of a fox my joy; 

 So I clear my way thro' the thick of the pack 

 To where he sits on the bay mare's back 

 With his, " Poor old Vagabond — Vagabond — Vaga- 

 bond ! 



Poor old Vagabond, boy ! " 



I'm a hard old, scarred old, quarrelsome brute, 



I'm a peevish, thievish bundle of bone. 

 But I'll sing to a fox when the rest are mute 



On a line as cold as a stone. 

 Oh, the Belvoir blood is gallant and good 



On a scent you could eat, when it hangs breast high, 

 But the casting vote on a doubtful note 



Is left to the old blue-pye. 



I9L 



