There was good old Squire Thornleigh, with his great big raw-boned gray,
And the biggest hearted fellow that e’er waved the “Hark! Away!”
There was Jones, the hunting parson, with his jovial, ringing laugh,
Who could preach a right good sermon and an honest bumper quaff.
Then there was Billy Foster, who was only twenty-two,
When he broke his neck in the hunting field through the casting of a shoe.
And portly old Judge Horner, who in the room below,
Had smoked and drank full many a night in the days of long ago.
And as he thought, the window ope’d, and in slipped Huntsman Death,
Arrayed in scarlet, white-topped boots, with a fine rich malty breath.