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And now, cold and lifeless, exposed to the view
In the very same cart which he yesterday drew;
Whilst a pitying crowd his sad relics surrounds
The high-mettled racer is sold to the hounds.

TOM MOODY.

Anonymous.

You all knew Tom Moody, the whipper-in, well;
The bell just done tolling was honest Tom's knell,
A more able sportsman ne'er followed a hound

Through a country well known to him fifty miles round.

No hound ever open'd, with Tom near the wood,

But be'd challenge the tone, and could tell if 'twere good;

And all with attention would eagerly mark,

When he cheered up the pack, “Hark! to Rockwood, hark! hark! High!-wind him! and cross him!

Now, Rattler, boy!-Hark!

Six crafty earth-stoppers, in hunter's green drest,
Supported poor Tom to an earth" made for rest:

66

His horse, which he styled his " Old Soul," next appear'd,
On whose forehead the brush of his last fox was rear'd;
Whip, cap, boots, and spurs, in a trophy were bound,
And here and there follow'd an old straggling hound.
Ah! no more at his voice yonder vales will they trace!
Nor the welkin resound to his burst in the chase!
With "High over!--Now press him!

Tally ho!-Tally ho!"

Thus Tom spoke his friends, ere he gave up his breath:
"Since I see you're resolved to be in at the death,
One favour bestow-'tis the last I shall crave,
Give a rattling view-halloo thrice over my grave;
And unless at that warning I lift up my head,
My boys, you may fairly conclude I am dead!"
Honest Tom was obey'd, and the shout rent the sky,
For ev'ry voice join'd in the tally ho cry,
Tally ho! Hark forward!

Tally ho! Tally ho!"

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WHEN first I strove to win the prize,

I felt my youthful spirits rise;

Hope's crimson flush illumed my face,

And all my soul was in the race.

When weigh'd and mounted, 'twas my pride,
Before the starting-post to ride;

My rival's drest in red and green,
But I in simple yellow seen.

In stands around fair ladies swarm,
And mark with smiles my slender form;
Their lovely looks new ardour raise,
For beauty's smile is merit's praise !
The flag is dropt-the sign to start-
Away more fleet than winds we dart,
And tho' the odds against me lay,
The boy in yellow wins the day!

Tho' now no more we seek the race,
I trust the jockey keeps his place;
For still to win the prize, I feel
An equal wish, an equal zeal:
And still can beauty's smile impart
Delightful tremors through this heart :
Indeed, I feel it flutter now—

Yes, while I look, and while I bow!

My tender years must vouch my truth-
For candour ever dwells with youth;
Then sure the sage might well believe,
A face-like mine-could ne'er deceive,
If here you e'er a match should make,
My life upon my luck I'll stake;
And 'gainst all odds, I think you'll say,
The boy in yellow wins the day.

THE CRICKETER.

Anonymous. Eighteenth century.

To live a life, free from gout, pain, or phthisic,
Athletic employment is found the best physic;
The nerves are by exercise hardened and strengthened,
And vigour attends it, by which life is lengthened.

Derry down, &c.

What conduces to health deserves recommendation,
'Twill entail a strong race on the next generation;
And of all the field-games ever practised or known,
That cricket stands foremost each Briton must own.
Derry down, &c.

Let dull pensive souls boast the pleasure of angling,
And o'er ponds and brooks be eternally dangling;
Such drowsy worm-killers are fraught with delight,
If but once in a week they obtain a fair bite.

Derry down, &c.

The cricketer noble in mind as in merit,
A taste for oppression can never inherit,
A stranger to swindling, he never would wish
To seduce by false baits, and betray a poor fish.
Derry down, &c.

No stings of remorse hurt the cricketer's mind,
To innocent animals never unkind,

The guiltless his doctrine is ever to spare,
Averse to the hunting or killing the hare.

Derry down, &c.

To every great duke, and to each noble lord,
Let each fill his glass with most hearty accord;
And to all brother knights, whether absent or present,
Drink health and success, from the peer to the peasant.

Derry down, &c.

FAR AWAY.

From "Songs of the Chase," 1810.
THE portals of the east divide;
The orient dawn is just descried,
Mild and grey:

The starry fires elude the sight;
The shadows fly before the light,

Far away.

Now hark! the woodland haunt is found!

For now the merry bugles sound

Their sylvan lay:

As each sweet measure floats along,
Sweet Echo wakes her mimic song,

Far away.

The stag now rous'd, right onward speeds,
O'er hill and dale, o'er moor and meads,
He's fain to stray:

His flight the shouting peasants view;
His steps the dashing hounds pursue,
Far away.

All day untir'd, his route we trace,
Exulting in the joyous chase,

Of such a day!

At length, at mild eve's twilight gleam,

He's taken in the valley stream,

Far away.

NOW NIGHT HER DUSKY MANTLE FOLDS.

From "Songs of the Chase," 1810.

Now night her dusky mantle folds,

The larks are soaring high;

And morn her golden shafts has shot,
To gild the eastern sky;

We sportsmen scour the distant plains,
The hounds pursue their prey;
While echoes round the valleys sound,
Hark forward, hark away!

O'er mountain top, and river deep,
The fox for shelter flies,

And cowering into coverts strong,
His cunning vainly tries;

His death proclaims the sportsman's joy.
The dogs they seize their prey ;
While echoes round the valleys sound,
Hark forward, hark away!

HUNTING, LOVE, AND WINE
From "Songs of the Chase," 1810.
SAY, what is wealth without delight?
'Tis dross, 'tis dirt, 'tis useless quite;
Better be poor, and taste of joy,
Than thus your wasted time employ.
Then let a humble son of song,

Repeat those pleasures most divine;
The joys that life's best hours prolong,
Are those of hunting, love, and wine.
For hunting gives us jocund health,
We envy not the miser's wealth,
But chase the Fox or timid Hare,
And know delight he cannot share.
Then home at eve we cheerly go,

Whilst round us brightest comforts shine;

With joy shut in, we shut out woe,

And sing of hunting, love, and wine.

Mild love attunes the soul to peace,
And bids the toiling sportsman cease;
This softer passion's pleasing pow'r,
With bliss ecstatic wings the hour.

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