HOWELL WOOD;[214] OR, THE RABY HUNT, IN YORKSHIRE,

WHILST passing o'er Barnsdale,[215] I happen'd to spy, A fox stealing on and the hounds in full cry; They are Darlington's sure, for his voice I well know, Crying forward—hark forward; from Skelbrook[216] below. With my Ballynamonaora, The hounds of old Raby for me. See Binchester leads them, whose speed seldom fails, And now let us see who can tread on their tails; For, like pigeons in flight, the best hunter would blow, Should his master attempt to ride over them now. Chorus. With my, &c. From Howell Wood come—they to Stapleton[217] go, What confusion I see, in the valley below; My friends in black collars,[218] nearly beat out of sight, And Badsworth's old heroes in sorrowful plight. Chorus. With my, &c. 'Tis hard to describe all the frolic and fun, Which, of course, must ensue, in this capital run; But I quote the old proverb, howe'er trite and lame, That—"The looker on sees most by half of the game." Chorus. With my, &c. Then first in the burst, see dashing away, Taking all on his stroke, on Ralpho the grey; With persuaders in flank, comes Darlington's peer,[219] With his chin sticking out, and his cap on one ear. Chorus. With my, &c. Never heeding a tumble, a scratch, or a fall, Laying close in his quarter, see Scott of Woodhall;[220] And mind how he cheers them, with "Hark to the cry!" Whilst on him the peer keeps a pretty sharp eye. Chorus. With my, &c. And next him on Morgan, all rattle and talk, Cramming over the fences, comes wild Martin Hawke,[221] But his neck he must break, surely sooner or late, As he'd rather ride over than open a gate. Chorus. With my, &c. Then there's dashing Frank Boynton, who rides thorough breds, Their carcases nearly as small as their heads: But he rides so d——d hard that it makes my heart ache, For fear his long legs should be left on a stake. Chorus. With my, &c. Behold Harry Mellish,[222] as wild as the wind, On Lancaster mounted, leaving numbers behind; But lately return'd from democrat France, Where forgetting to bet—he's been learning to dance. Chorus. With my, &c. That eagle-ey'd sportsman, Charles Brandling, behold, Laying in a snug place, which needs scarcely be told; But from riding so hard, my friend Charley forbear, For fear you should tire you thirty pound mare! Chorus. With my, &c. And close at his heels, see Bob Lascelles advance, Dress'd as gay for the field, as if leading the dance, Resolv'd to ride hard, nor be counted the last, Pretty sure of the speed of his fav'rite Outcast. Chorus. With my, &c. Next mounted on Pancake, see yonder comes Len,[223] A sportsman, I'm sure, well deserving my pen; He looks in high glee, and enjoying the fun, Tho' truly I fear that his cake's over done. Chorus. With my, &c. On Methodist perched, in a very good station, Frank Barlow behold, that firm prop of the nation, But nothing could greater offend the good soul, Than to Coventry sent from the chase and the bowl. Chorus. With my, &c. Then those two little fellows, as light as a feather, Charles Parker and Clowes[224] come racing together, And riding behind them, see Oliver Dick,[225] With Slap-dash half blown, looking sharp for a nick. Chorus. With my, &c. On Ebony mounted, behold my Lord Barnard,[226] To live near the pack, now oblig'd is to strain hard; But mount my friend Barny, on something that's quick, I warrant, my lads, he would show you a trick. Chorus. With my, &c. Then Bland[227] and Tom Gascoigne,[228] I spy in the van, Riding hard as two devils, at catch as catch can, But racing along, to try which can get first, Already, I see, both their horses are burst. Chorus. With my, &c. Then smack at a yawner falls my friend Billy Clough,[229] He gets up, stares around him, faith! silly enough; While Pilkington[230] near him, cries "Pr'ythee get bled." "Oh no, never mind, Sir, I fell on my head." Chorus. With my, &c. But where's that hard rider, my friend Col. Bell?[231] At the first setting off from the cover he fell; But I see the old crop, thus the whole chase will carry, In respectable style, the good-temper'd Harry. Chorus. With my, &c. With very small feet, sticking fast in the mud, Frank Hawksworth[232] I see, on his neat bit of blood; But, pull up, my friend, say you've lost a fore shoe, Else bleeding, I fear, must be shortly for you. Chorus. With my, &c. To keep their nags fresh for the end of the day, Sir Edward[233] and Lascelles just canter away; Not enjoying the pace our Raby hounds go, But preferring the maxim of "certain and slow." Chorus. With my, &c. At the top of his speed, sadly beat and forlorn, Behold Capt. Horton is steering for Baln; For accustom'd at sea, both to shift and to tack, He hopes by manœuv'ring to gain the fleet pack. Chorus. With my, &c. The two Lees,[234] Harvey Hawke,[235] Frank Soth'ron,[236] and all, Are skirting away for Stapleton Hall; Whilst far in the rear, behold Alverley Cooke,[237] Endeav'ring to scramble o'er Hampole's wide brook. Chorus. With my, &c. Far aloof to the right, and op'ning a gate, There's a sportsman by system, who never rides straight; But why, my good Godfrey,[238] thus far will you roam, When a pack of fine beagles hunt close to your home? Chorus. With my, &c. Safe o'er the brook—but where's Captain Danser?[239] Oh! he's stopping to catch Sir Rowland Winn's prancer; But what is the use of that, my friend Winn,[240] If on foot you attempt it, you'll sure tumble in. Chorus. With my, &c. On his chesnut nag mounted, and heaving in flank, At a very great distance, behold Bacon Frank;[241] So true's the old maxim, we even now find, That, "justice will always come limping behind." Chorus. With my, &c. See Starkey and Hopwood, so full of their jokes, From Bramham Moor come, to be quizzing the folks; And when they return the whole chase they'll explain, Tho' they saw little of it—to crony Fox Lane. Chorus. With my, &c. Lost, spavin'd, and wind-gall'd, but showing some blood, For from Coxcomb's poor shoulders it streams in a flood; Behold Mr. Hodgson,[242] how he fumes and he frets, While his black lays entangled in cursed sheep nets. Chorus. With my, &c. If his name I pass'd over, I fear he would cavil, I just wish to say that I saw Mr. Saville; And with very long coat on, (a friend to his tailor) With some more Wakefield heroes, behold Mr. Naylor. Chorus. With my, &c. A large posse see in the valley below, Who serve very well for to make up a show; But broad as the brook is, it made many stop, It's not ev'ry man's luck for to get to the top. Chorus. With my, &c. Johnny Dalton[243] so sure at Went made a slip, His nag tumbl'd in and he cry'd for his whip; His groom coming up found his master so cross, D——n your fine whip, what's become of the horse? Chorus. With my, &c. Now all having pass'd, I'll to Ferrybridge go,[244] Each event of the day at the club I shall know; Where bright bumpers of claret enliven the night, And chase far away hated envy, and spite. Chorus. With my, &c. Then forgive me, my friends, if you think me severe, 'Tis but meant as a joke, not intended to sneer; Come I'll give you a toast, in a bumper of wine, Here's success to this club, and to sport so divine. And the hounds of old Raby for me.[245]