A Selection of Original Songs, Scraps, Etc., by Ned Farmer (3rd ed.)/The Subscription Pack
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[The Conclusion of the Season, with an account of certain matters connected therewith.]
The season is over! no more shall we hear
The music of hounds, or the huntsman's glad cheer;
No longer on wings of the breeze shall be borne
The crack of the whip or a sound of the horn.
Sly Reynard may now take his foraging prowl
In search of a rabbit, a duck, or a fowl;
Or, prompted by love, he may wander about,
Without the least danger of being stopped out.
The kennels, how altered! the flesh-pot is cold;
The oatmeal, though clean, is by no means so old
As that on which daily the pack had been mess'd;
It is finer, yet cheaper, and has not been press'd;
When made into paste (but perhaps I may wrong it),
I fancied I saw some "mashed taters" among it.
Coats, caps, whips and spurs, are put carefully by,
The saddles are covered, and hung in the dry;
And, fearful that stirrups and bits should get spoiled,
They are first nicely cleaned, and then properly oiled.
There 's a draft from the stud, all the lame and the old,
With a few (just as "ticers") are sent to be sold;
The rest in "loose boxes" o*er fetlocks in clay,
Are fed upon oats (that are "kibbled") and hay.
As the weather gets warmer I haven't a doubt
They'll be most of them "blistered" or "fired," and turned out!
There's a strong smell of whitewash around and about,
They are clearing the ticks and the cobwebs all out.
The committee are here, it's surprising to see,
Now the hunting is over, how "stingy" they be.
All is turned into money, the bones and the dung;
The hounds have been "weeded," some sold and some hung;
And the "Management" know what each item is booked at—
Economy now, is the only thing looked at.
They've been holding to-day, what the blacks call "a talk"
As to where they shall send out some puppies to walk.
And letters axe written, beginning with "Dear
Mister (blank), we have sent you a Fox-hound to rear.
"Who is told by the whip 'tis a favour to get him,
And is begg'd not to feed him too fat nor to pet him;
That the bitch (to the grief of the hunt) is a dead un',
That his sire is first class and a capital bred un'.
3o the huntsman felt anxious to have the pup near him,
Nor could think of a person so likely to rear him!
He was out of old "Bountiful," gotten by "Chorister,"
Quiet at nights, and they'd christened him "Forester;"
And by way of just gently watering his back,
Said the last one he reared is the pride of the pack.
And I feel pretty certain and greatly afraid,
There is nowhere such "tricks upon travellers" played,
As with us! and the reader may think we abuse 'em—
But it's seldom indeed that the Farmers refuse 'em;
And then it is only with "hairy-heeled coves,"
For around us are living "good woolled uns" by droves,
Who have no hesitation in standing their pound
Towards kennel expenses and keeping a hound.
To such, and preservers of foxes, long life,
A home blessed with plenty, a good tempered wife,
A nag that can carry him twice in a week,
For I love a good fellow, and hate every sneak.
When I make you aware that I once lived at Meynell's,
You won't be "supprised" I know something of kennels,
I am glad I have written, for I quite set my heart on it,
Though I'm bound to admit our first whip[1] did a part on it.
If it were as difficult to make a promise as a "pig-trough," what an awful diminution of the article in question would accrue ! It might even have a deleterious effect upon the law courts—Eh?
- ↑ Paul Puosley, now Huntsman to the celebrated "Catch 'em-who-can" Pack of Foxhounds.