With empty hands from Horsely Park;[51]
And thought myself a clever lad,
While all the neighbours thought me mad;
Now condescend with nicest care
To hunt the hedge-row for a hare.
Hence, Fox-hunting! thou fiend forlorn,
Of Uproar wild and Tumult born:
No more expect me on the hill,
Obedient to thy summons shrill,
Where late with joy I saw thee stand,