Volume 147 — THE LOST SEASON.

Farewell to the stretches of pasture and plough And the flicker of sterns through the gorse on the hill, And the mulberry coats there, alone with them now, To cheer as they're finding and whoop at the kill; Farewell to the vale and the woodland forlorn, To the fox in his earth and the hound on his bench; Unheard is the pack and unheeded the horn, So loud and so near are the bugles of French. The lines of blood hunters are gone from the stalls And a host of good men to the millions that meet, For grim is the Huntsman, in thunder he calls, And continents roar with the galloping feet; There's a country to cross where the fences are steel, And, though many must fall and the finish is far, There is none shall outride them, with heart, hand and heel, Who have gone hard and straight in "The Image of War."

In ancient and in happier days the Dove Stood as an emblem sure of peace and love; Now must we link it with the fiend who flies Down-dropping death on children from the skies.