BEASTS ROYAL.

Ten puffs upon my master's toes,

And twenty on his sleeves,

Upon his hat a Tudor rose

Set round with silver leaves;

But never a hunting-spear,

And never a rowel-spur;

Who is this that he calls his Dear?

I think I will bark at her.

The Windsor groves were fresh and green,

Dangling with Summer dew,

When my master rode with his Spanish queen,

And the huntsman cried, "Halloo!"

Now never a horn is heard,

And never the lances stir;

Who is this that he calls his Bird?

I think I will follow her.

To-night my master walks alone

In the pleachéd pathway dim,

And the thick moss reddens on the stone

Where she used to walk with him.

When will he shout for the glove

And the spear of the verderer?

Where is she gone whom he called his Love?

For I cannot follow her.