Let him see what's before him—he'll jump o'er a town.
They are over the brook, which is bankful, I swear;
See, yonder they go with their sterns in the air.
There's young Flyaway in, and, by Jove, what a cropper!
Ah, the others won't have it—I thought 'twas a stopper.
Thank goodness, they're checked by that herd of Scotch kine.
But, hark for'ard, old Minstrel has hit off the line.
There'll be "bellows to mend" if this goes on, I fear,
For the pace is too hot for the first of the year.
Down the meadow—they view—see the hounds how they tear!