Though sure of a stogg to the girths in a bog,
Or a turn up of heels at a wall,
Yet never a jot of damage was got
By a flounder there, or a fall.
Bellever week, &c.
There's nowhere a puss deserving a cuss
For running as on the moor.
In Bellever week the harriers speak
As they never spoke before.
The Saracen's Head is full as an egg,