The season for hunting I see has begun,

So adieu for a time to my rod and my gun;

And ho! for the fox, be he wild or in bag,

As I follow the chase on my high-mettled nag.

I call him high-mettled, but still I must state,

He hasn't a habit I always did hate,

He doesn't walk sideways, like some "gees" you meet,

Who go slantindicularly down the street.

He's steady and well broken in, for, of course,

I can't risk my life on an unbroken horse;

You might tie a torpedo or two on behind,

And though they exploded that horse wouldn't mind

My strong point is costume, and oft I confess

I've admired my get-up in a sportsmanlike dress;

Though, but for the finish their lustre confers,

I would much rather be, I declare, without spurs.

They look very well as to cover you ride,

But I can't keep the things from the animal's side;

And the mildest of "gees," I am telling no fibs,

Will resent having liberties ta'en with his ribs.

Then hie to the cover, the dogs are all there,

And the horn of the hunter is heard on the air;

I've a horn of my own, which in secret I stow,

For, oddly enough, they don't like me to blow.

We'll go round by that gate, my good sir, if you please,

I'm one of your sportsmen who rides at his ease;

And I don't care to trouble my courser to jump,

For whenever he does I fall off in a lump.

Then haste to the meet! The Old Berkeley shall find,

If I don't go precisely as fast as the wind,

If