A DAY IN THE VALE; OR, THE THRUSTER’S SONG.

You who’ve known the sweet enjoyment of a gallop in the vale,
Comrades of the chase, I know you will not deem my subject stale. 
Stand with me once more beside the blackthorn or the golden gorse,—­
Don’t forget to thank your stars you’re mounted on a favourite horse;
For the hounds dashed into covert with a zest that bodes a scent,
And the glass is high and rising, clouded is the firmament. 
When the ground is soaked with moisture, when the wind is in the east
Scent lies best,—­the south wind doesn’t suit the “thruster” in the least. 
Some there are who love to watch them with their noses on the ground;
We prefer to see them flitting o’er the grass without a sound. 
We prefer the keen north-easter; ten to one the scent’s “breast high”;
With a south wind hounds can sometimes hunt a fox, but seldom fly. 
Hark! the whip has viewed him yonder; he’s away, upon my word! 
If you want to steal a start, then fly the bullfinch like a bird;
Gallop now your very hardest; turn him sharp, and jump the stile,
Trot him at it—­never mind the bough,—­it’s only smashed your tile! 
Now we’re with them.  See, they’re tailing, from the fierceness of the pace,
Up the hedgerow, o’er the meadow, ’cross the stubble see them race: 
Governor—­by Belvoir Gambler,—­he’s the hound to “run to head,”
Tracing back to Rallywood, that fifty years ago was bred;
Close behind comes Arrogant, by Acrobat; and Artful too;
Rosy, bred by Pytchley Rockwood; Crusty, likewise staunch and true. 
Down a muddy lane, in mad excitement, but, alas! too late,
Thunders half the field towards the portals of a friendly gate;
Sees a dozen red-coats bobbing in the vale a mile ahead;
Hears the huntsman’s horn, and longs to catch those distant bits of red;—­
But in vain, for blind the fences, here a fall and there a “peck.” 
Some one cries, “An awful place, sir; don’t go there, you’ll break
   your neck.” 
Not the stiff, unbroken fences, but the treacherous gaps we fear;
“Though in front the post of honour, that of danger’s in the rear.” 
Forrard on, then forrard onwards, o’er the pasture, o’er the lea,
Tossed about by ridge and furrow, rolling like a ship at sea;
Stake and binder, timber, oxers, all are taken in our stride,—­
Better fifty minutes’ racing than a dawdling five hours’ ride. 
I am not ashamed to own, with him who loves a steeplechase,
That to me the charm in hunting is the ecstasy of pace,—­
This is what best schools the soldier, teaches us that we are men
Born to bear the rough and tumble, wield the sword and not the pen. 
Some there are who dub hard riders worthless and a draghunt crew—­
Tailors who do all the damage, mounted on a spavined screw. 
Well, I grant you, hunting men are sometimes narrow-minded fools;
Ignorant of all worth knowing, save what’s learnt