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The Galewood
The fox at night had taken his fill,
Where roost the hens at Milfield Hill
And snug his morning lair has made,
In Floddens long frequented shade
2nd
But ere the suns bright beacon red
Had gilt the mountains hoary head
The first good foxhounds ringing clang
Was echoed Hark to Caliban”!
3rd
But scarce the note had reached his ears
When the bold fox the covert clears
And stretching forward far and free
Made for the Park at Fowbury.
4th
The eager horsemen pressed along
Thro’ the deep haughs at Doddington
And oft was seen the heaving flank
As strained the hunt up Weetwood bank
5th
But ah! poor pug! how goes it now?
Whilst lingering on the mountains brow
There is no welcome covert near
To shelter thee from toil and fear
6th
With watchful eye he looking around
Saw nought but open grassy ground
And pondered refuge when‘t was dark
In Chillinghams romantic park.
7th.
But safer far, the stronghold good
Which he knew well in Roddam wood
And further in the hilly route
Lie the strong earths at Linhope Spout
8th
Fresh vigor with the hope returned
With nimble feet the turf he spurned
Held Westwood with unwearied pace
And left behind the panting chase.
9th
Twere long to tell what hags gave o’er
As flew the hounds o’er Greenside Moor,
What gallant steeds began to flag
While scaling steep the Dunsmore Crag.
10th
What reins were tightened in despair
As rose old Hedgehopes Ridge in air
Who shunned to take the desperate leap
And gallop headlong down the steep
11th
Few were the followers straggling wide
Who gained the Cheviots massy side
And when that steep ascent was won
The headmost horseman was alone.
12th
But wearied now and spent with toil
With hanging tongue & black with soil
While every bush he doubled round
To screen him from the view of hound
13th
Two dogs of old Ralph Lambtons breed
“Unmatched for courage wind & speed”
Left far behind the wearied pack
And close pursued him on his track
14th
Now scarce a whips length from his brush
With silent eagerness they rush,
Nor nearer might the hounds attain
Nor further might poor Reynard strain
15th
Thus round the summit of the hill
Between the shaking moss and gill
They run as if they meant to kill
16th
The hunter certain of his prize
Joy brightly gleaming in his eyes
For loud “Whoo Whoop” his breath he drew,
When Lo! poor Pug is lost to view!
17
The brave game fox has reached his goal
And gone to ground in dark hens hole.
Finis
Irish Shows & English Judges
Bestir thyself my quill, tis time, tis time;
In such a cause it is no sin to rhyme,
Let falsehood cease, bid lowborn scandal fly
And justice hold once more his scales on high!
Put forth thy might, tis sacred truth inspires
And injured innocence thy aid requires.
Swift rolled the gloomy shades of night away
Rose on thy town Belfast, the eventful day;
See through the various streets a countless throng
All to one common centre bear along;
The folks are all bewitched, or whats as bad
The town seems regularly cattle mad
But different motives sway the public mind
Some go because they wont be left behind
Some to increase their wisdom and no less
To show the knowledge they possess
Poor fools; no doubt they think it very grand
Oer the straight back to pass their clumsy hand
Talk loud of quarters, hooks and ribs, and swear
That nought but rubbish is collected there
Next come a different set with looks demure
Their age more ripe their wisdom more mature
These stand in scattered groups about the ground
And cast a superficial glance around
Then with a fretfull shrug they sadly say
Ay Ay, tis vastly well but lack a day
The golden gains of husbandry are o’er
Profit farewell; the farmer thrives no more
Thus o’er they own condition they lament
And blame the slackness of the government
Wag their sage heads to show how much they feel
Curse the false Tories and their Champion Peel
But to my task turn when you will, you see
Beasts of all kinds of high and low degree
Whose values range in regular orders down
From twice three hundred pounds to half a crown.
Two rival bulls appear in size and weight
Above the rest preeminently great
First see Recruit in all his glory stand
Huge Eden next the pride of Cumberland
The eager mob to learn the will of fate,
Around these two in breathless silence wait
Tis soon made known, before their wondering eyes
Recruit stand vanquished, Eden wins the prize
Then storms of Execration rent the air
Groans, hisses, yells and cures mingle there
No voice is silent now the indignant crowd
Unanimously vent their wrath aloud.
TO
George A Grey Esq.
Millfield Hill Northumberland
for his
Short Horned Bull Guy Fawkes
Winner of the first Prize of Thirty Sovereigns
the Gold Medal & the Agricultural Challenge Cup
at the
Royal Agricultural Improvement Society
CATTLE SHOW.
Ballinasloe the 30th Sept. 1845