HUNTIN' WEATHER.
There's a dog-fox down in Lannigan's spinney
(And Lannigan's wife has hens to mourn);
The hunters stamp in their stalls an' whinny,
Soft with leisure an' fat with corn.
The colts are pasturin', bold an' lusty,
Sleek they are with their coats aglow,
Ripe to break, but the bits grow rusty
And the saddles sit in a dusty row.
Old O'Dwyer was here a-Monday
With a few grey gran'fathers out for a field
(Like the ghostly hunt of a dead an'-*done day),
They—an' some lassies that giggled an' squealed.
The houn's they rioted like the devil
(They ran a hare an' they killed a goose);
I cursed Caubeen, but he looked me level:
"The boys are away—so what's the use?"
The mists lie clingin' on bog an' heather,
Haws hang red on the silver thorn;
It's huntin' weather, ay, huntin' weather,
But trumpets an' bugles have beat the horn!