THE END OF THE HUNTING SEASON
(By Our Own Novice)
Good-bye to the season! E'en gluttons
Have had quite enough of the game,
And if we returned to our muttons,
Our horses are laid up and lame.
We hunted straight on through the winter,
And never were stopped by the frost,
As I know right well from each splinter
Of bone that my poor limbs have lost.
Good-bye to the season! The "croppers"
I got where the fences were tall,
And Oh the immaculate "toppers"
That always were crushed by my fall.
Don't think though that I'm so stout-hearted
As e'er to jump hedges or dikes,
It's simply that after we've started,
My "gee" gallivants as it likes.
In vain I put on natty breeches,
And tops like Meltonian swell,
It ends in the blessed old ditches,
I know like the Clubs in Pall Mall.
And when from a "gee" that's unruly
I fall with a terrible jar,
I know that old Jorrocks spoke truly,
And hunting's "the image of war."
And never for me "Fair Diana"
Shall smile as we know that she can,
With looks that are sweeter than manna,
On many a fortunate man.
It adds to the pangs that I suffer,
When thrown at a fence in her track,
To hear her "Ridiculous duffer!"
When jumping slap over my back.
I've fractured my ulnar, I'm aching
Where over my ribs my horse rolled;
Egad! the "Old Berkeley" is making
One man feel uncommonly old.
Good-bye to the season! I'm shattered
And damaged in figure and face;
But thankful to find I'm not scattered
In pieces all over the place!
