IV.
The hacks are pacing now before
The Hostel’s arch projecting door;
Full twelve miles off the cover lay;
The hunters went at peep of day:
And some, I’m told, went over night,
To be in better hunting plight.
Each sportsman mounts his cover steed,
And through the town with fiery speed,
Spurs on his ready hack:
One thinks a canter gives him grace,
Another thinks a trot the pace,
And knowingly looks back;
And pleased he looks, in sooth to find
His cantering comrade left behind.
Now one, now t’other takes the lead,
As jockey whim directs the speed.