For shortly the covert will echo with sounds,
As the eager pack top the wood-fence with a crash,
The young entry all bustle and brimful of dash.
Now see to your girths if you mean to be there.
Old Tom looks like business; his hand's in the air.
A whimper—a chorus—hark, holloa! they've found,
And his old mare pops over the rails with a bound.
Away fling that weed, catch your horse by the head,
He's young, and he's hot, but he's clean thoroughbred;
Don't rush at the timber or else you'll be down.