Oh, these young dogs! They think disorder's dash;
Heedless of horn, rebellious to the lash;
Just now, too, when our quarry is so clear!
Oh, hang the howling, yelping, whimpering lot!
On a fine herring-trail the fools have got.
They'll spoil the chase, I fear.
Come back! Come back! What, "Vincent," "Bartlett," ho!
This sort of thing won't pay at all, you know.
We are not, now, after that sort of game.
Ah, sweet Sir Roger, our Spectator's friend.