Black Collars in the Rear.
A chosen FEW
Alone the Sport enjoy.
As EPWELL'S wide Heath, t'other Day I passed over,
The Hounds I perceived, were then trying the Cover.
Enraptured I heard them—and spurring my Horse,
Soon discovered the Pack, which had found in the Gorse.
Two hundred smart Sportsmen, enlivened the Scene,
All determined to ride-and professedly keen-
Tho' the Morning was cold, and the Frost over-night,
Made the Country around, in a terrible Plight,
Yet Reynard broke Cover, disdaining to stay,
And in View of the Horsemen, went bravely away;
But a sad Country took—much against all their Wills,
And led them a Dance, over Heart-breaking Hills—
Then fled to some Furze, remained dodging about,
Till Wanton at length, forced the Vagabond out.
Thus routed, his Foes he determined to face,
And again took them off, at a rare splitting Pace;
O'er a strong and stiff Country, went forward in Style,
With the Hounds at his Brush, in full View for a Mile:
Was next seen in a Bottom, and there headed Back,
And whilst climbing the Steep, fell a Prey to the Pack,
The BURST-perhaps MELTON will smile, when he
Was so quick, that it took something out of the Steeds;
Nay to speak the whole Truth, many found it too fast,
And various crack Riders, were looking aghast.
Squire KYNASTON, mounted on Whalebone the tough,
Found he'd lost a fore Shoe*, that's to say-had Enough:
And Cromie, who came just to see them, throw off,
At all that he saw, predetermined to scoff;
Allowed that for once, his Opinion was wrong,
And confessed, with a Sigh, that they could, go along :
Little dreaming I ween of the Pleasure to come,
Many others contented, went quietly Home;
And a Few, whilst debating to stay or to go,
For the former resolved, when they heard-Tally-ho!
Tally-ho! with a Vengeance, for strange to recount,
Scarce allowing a Moment, our Nags to remount,
Another stout Reynard went boldly away,
And for WIMBERTON made a most desperate Play-
Now headed, and forced his first Point to decline,
To EPWELL pushed forward, as straight as a Line;
Finding there nothing left for his Life, but to run,
He resolved to die Game, and to shew them some Fun,
So thro' Swatcliffes Plantations, intrepidly went,
Passing Hork-Norton Heath, with a fine burning Scent,
Where a few of the boldest, put on a wry Face,
And the Young Ones, no longer, complained of the Pacet;
* Lost Shaes, and Dead Beat, are synonimous Terms, in the Leicestershire Creed; indeed so implicit, is this Article of the Meltonian Belief, that many a Horse, in Addition to the Misfortune, of breaking his Hoof, from losing his Shoe, has laboured likewise, under the aforesaid unavoidable Imputation, to his everlasting Disgrace.
+ What KILLS is THE PACE. A favourite Maxim of Mr.
From thence quite determined to give us our Fill,
For Swarford he made, and went right up the Hill-
Cross'd the Road at a Speed, that made some People stare,
And was fatal, poor FRETWELL, Alas! to your Mare.
Close pushed towards Heythorpe, despairing he roves,
But in vain-for the Scent every Moment improves,
Till at length having gone Twenty Miles right an End,
At a Rate, that the oldest Man out, never kenn'd,
Having filled the whole Country, with Falls and Disasters,
Nearly kill'd all the Nags, and well pickled their Masters,
He was killed in the Park, just when going to Ground,
Above Twenty-three Miles, from the Place he was found.
By this Time, my Readers, perhaps may suspect,
The Attendants of Reynard, became quite select,
And the Few that remained, never witnessed I ween,
In the Course of their Lives, a more comical Scene-
Such Confusion--such Rolls-of Red Coats, such a String,
To describe them, is quite an impossible Thing,
Here a Buck, with his Skirt cover'd over with Mud,
There a Groom, sticking fast on a thin Bit of Blood,
Here a Farmer gives in-there a Nobleman lags,
Alike anxious to make an Excuse for their Nags,
Not a Field you pass'd thro', but appeared some sad Face,
Groaning over a Fall, or lamenting his Case,
And in short a more strange, or more ludicrous Sight,
Never fell to the Lot of a Bard to recite.
Then aid me ye NINE, to record all the Fun,
That really took Place in this capital Run,
Which had it at BELVOIR, or RABY, occurred,
A Volume I'm sure, such a Hunt would afford;
Regardless alike of Thumps, Scratches, or Knocks,
MORANT breaks away, in full Start at the Fox;
FORESTER'S, of the Truth of which, he seldom loses an Opportunity, of endeavouring to make his Friends, sensible.
A MELTONIAN of old, and well vers'd in their Creed,
Over riding all Scent, for the Sake of the Lead*,
Many Tumbles and Rolls, got this Head of the Course,
And concluded, by dreadfully laming his Horse;
Yet with Skill unexampled, he somehow, contriv'd,
To go hobling along, whilst old Reynard surviv'd.
LORD ALVANLEY near him, in close Imitation,
Came sailing along, in no very bad Station;
His Lordship rode Ploughboy, and what's an odd Case,
Not a Soul seemed to envy, the Clodhopper's Pace;
And I've since been informed, the poor Fellow avers,
That he learnt by this Chase, the true Meaning of Spurs;
But spurr'd as he was, its my Duty to say,
He kept well with the Hounds, through the whole of the
On his five year old Horse, tho' of Course in the Front, ROBERT CANNING comes next, the crack Man of the
Let him ride what he will, either Hunter or Hack,
Sure by some Means or other, to be with the Pack;
At the End of the Day, almost always alone,
And scarce ever behind, tho' he rides Sixteen Stone.
In his Wake pressing close, and with much the same Plan,
FRANK, his Brother, keeps up, tho' a heavier Man;
On the General was mounted, and what's very queer,
Like some of that Tribe, he preferr'd not the Rear;
Yet even this Veteran, tho' warm to a Fault,
Shewed great Proofs of his Prudence, by wishing, to halt;
Nay, so hard his Condition at one time was render'd,
Had the Action continued, he must have surrender'd;
* A Lead, by which is to be understood, securing the Privilege, of breaking your Neck first; and when you fall, of being rode over, by an Hundred and ninety-nine of the best Fellows upon EARTH, to a dead Certainty.
Still he lasted it out, tho' much wearied and spent,
And no Doubt felt much Pleasure, in reaching his Tent.
Sticking close to the Hounds, observe little Sir Gray,
Riding equally hard, in a quieter Way;
Sufficiently forward, yet still keeping Bounds,
His Wish to ride after, not over, the Hounds. -
In a Mode rather different, came GOULDBURN, the BARD,
Who a long time disdaining the Cry of, Hold hard,
Over Hedges and Ditches was thoughtlessly fanning,
Resolv'd at all Hazards, to follow BOB CANNING;
To accomplish which End, he kept on at a Score *,
That his Five year old Nag, felt a sensible Bore;
So at Swarford, unable to climb up the Hill,
At a nasty Oak Stile, stood obligingly still:
There they left him, in Plight not a little distressing,
The Breed of Arabians, most fervently blessing.
Well, I never did see, ne'er a Run like, this here,
Cries DICK BASSANT, to Day most unusually near:
To see him so forward, surprized a great many,
Who knew not the Plot of this Worcestershire Gany;
But his Friends passed it by, as a Matter of Course,
Well knowing he wished, to dispose of his Horse:
Now creeping thro' Gaps-now trailing thro' Lanes-
When noticed he Leaps-and when not, he Cranes † ;
*Score, means that Sort of Pace, which perhaps neither you nor your Horse, ever went before, and if you have not more Luck, than falls to the Share of every first Experiment of the Kind, 'tis ten to one but he falls, before he can (what They call) get on his Legs-in which Case, you may rest perfectly satisfied, that he must roll over you, two or three Times at least, before you can pick yourself up again.
The Term derives its Origin, from the necessary extension of Neck of such Sportsmen, as dare to incur the Reproach, by ventaring to LOOK before they LEAP.
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