The whole country was covered with patches of grass and thorny jungle.  Knowing they had another friendly cover close by, the pigs always broke at the first beat, and the riding had to be fast and furious if a spear was to be won.  There were some nasty drop jumps, and deep, hidden ditches, and accidents were frequent.  In one of these hot, sharp gallops poor ‘Bonnie Morn,’ a favourite horse belonging to ‘Jamie,’ was killed.  Not seeing the ditch, it came with tremendous force against the bank, and of course its back was broken.  Even in its death throes it recognised its master’s voice, and turned round and licked his hand.  We were all collected round, and let who will sneer, there were few dry eyes as we saw this last mute tribute of affection from the poor dying animal.

  THE DEATH OF ‘BONNIE MORN.’

  Alas, my ‘Brave Bonnie!’ the pride of my heart,
  The moment has come when from thee I must part;
  No more wilt thou hark to the huntsman’s glad horn,
  My brave little Arab, my poor ‘Bonnie Morn.’

  How proudly you bore me at bright break of day,
  How gallantly ‘led,’ when the boar broke away! 
  But no more, alas! thou the hunt shall adorn,
  For now thou art dying, my dear ‘Bonnie Morn.’

  He’d neigh with delight when I’d enter his stall,
  And canter up gladly on hearing my call;
  Rub his head on my shoulder while munching his corn,
  My dear gentle Arab, my poor ‘Bonnie Morn.’

  Or out in the grass, when a pig was in view,
  None so eager to start, when he heard a ‘halloo’;
  Off, off like a flash, the ground spurning with scorn,
  He aye led the van, did my brave ‘Bonnie Morn.’

  O’er nullah and ditch, o’er hedge, fence, or bank,
  No matter, he’d clear it, aye in the front rank;
  A brave little hunter as ever was born
  Was my grand Arab fav’rite, my good ‘Bonnie Morn.’

  Or when in the ‘ranks,’ who so steady and still? 
  None better than ‘Bonnie,’ more ‘up’ in his drill;
  His fine head erect—­eyes flashing with scorn—­
  Right fit for a charger was staunch ‘Bonnie Morn.’

  And then on the ‘Course,’ who so willing and true? 
  Past the ‘stand’ like an arrow the bonnie horse flew;
  No spur his good rider need ever have worn,
  For he aye did his best, did my fleet ‘Bonnie Morn.’

  And now here he lies, the good little horse,
  No more he’ll career in the hunt or on ‘course’: 
  Such a charger to lose makes me sad and forlorn;
  I can’t help a tear, ’tis for poor ‘Bonnie Morn.’

  Ah! blame not my grief, for ’tis deep and sincere,
  As a friend and companion I held ‘Bonnie’ dear;
  No true sportsman ever such feelings will scorn
  As I heave a deep sigh for my brave ‘Bonnie Morn.’

  And even in death, when in anguish he lay,
  When his life’s blood was drip—­dripping—­slowly away,
  His last thought was still of the master he’d borne;
  He neighed, licked my hand—­and thus died ‘Bonnie Morn.’