In schools, in saddle, the breast has steeled-
When the thoughtful scholar shuns the bowl,
And reads for his first with heart and soul,
Till Fame rewards his patient thirst
With the golden crown of a double first-
When Forster and Brown on each other wait,
With a dying spurt at the "Cherwell Gate-
When the eight-oar strains in the summer race,
"Faint yet pursuing," to gain a place;
And with flagging stroke and exhausted groan,
The fugitive spurts to hold its own—
When in college grinds of small account
The tyro essays his maiden mount,
Or emboldened seeks in Aylesbury Vale
The Isthmian wreath that can never pale-
When at the wicket takes his stand,
Gaze of the fairest of the land;
Nor to the field one chance affords,
Our six-foot Mike, the pride of "Lord's,"
Wins from the fire a losing game,
And enshrines himself in the fane of Fame!-
Such was the breed that brooked the fray
At Seringapatam and red Assaye,
That fought at Kars against foe and fate,
And laid the train at the Delhi Gate,
That brav'd the snows of the waning year
Mid the wintry wastes of bleak Crimea,
That stood to its post when hope had fled
From the deck of the sinking Birkenhead-
But hold! we're getting sentimental,
A proceeding highly detrimental,
So now that I've finished my lunch, and feel
Refreshed by my sherry and breast of teal,
We'll light a Cabana, and keep out the cold,
And go for a look at the five-year-old.
Stripped for inspection, lo! he stands,
A trifle over sixteen hands;
Slanting shoulders and blood-like head,
As near as possible thorough-bred ;
Deep-girthed, with muscular hocks and thighs,
Slouching ears and good-tempered eyes;
Short flat legs that invite to be felt,
Sound as a bell and as clean as a smelt;
Four white feet, and a blaze on his nose,
And a gleam on his supple skin that shows
The bloom of health and height of condition,
And fills my covetous soul with ambition.
I won't detain you now to say
How I sauntered about and passed the day :
Early to bed, and early to rise,
And at 10 to the schools, where, with spotless ties,
A score or more are waiting about
For the robes of promotion in which to flout.
I took my turn and paid my fees,
And bore my honours much at my case,
And swaggered about in my new silk gown,
To the admiration of the town.
At half-past ten, by St. Mary's chimes,
I went to "Vincent's" to read the "Times";
And after lunch, through Merton Gates,
To the river, to look at the "Trial eights."
George West was there with his burly frame,
And Harry and Timms, and all else the same.
I dined in hall, and went to wine
With a casual friend in the boating-line,
And sloped at eight for the usual rule
Of a friendly weed and a stroke at "pool."
Then, when o'er Magdalen tower the dawn
Welcomed the "rosy-fingered morn,"
I hustled into my borrowed plumes,
And hurried to breakfast in Roderick's rooms;
The time is short, so I look alive,
And bolt in a cab for the 8.25.
A southerly wind and a dappled sky
Proclaim the day for a fox to die ;
Sweetly, oh! sweetly the moments fleet
As we scuttle away to the morning meet:
Softly the sunlight smiles on the scene-
On the sombre ploughs and the pastures green;
Gaily we rattle the road along,
And join the ever-increasing throng-
Dogcarts, phaetons, hacks, and drags,
Sprightly grooms and costly nags,
Men in breeches and men in bags,
Onward rattling,
Listening, prattling,
Forward frolicking,
On with the stream, till we come to a lock
In the three-acre field at the back of the "Cock."
Faces are there well known of yore,
And others I never have seen before,
There's Archie Gray, with his boyish face,
Full of frolic and full of grace,
His ruddy cheek and eye as bright
As if he had not been up all night;
There's Jemmy Grant, who is loth to own
That he's lately increased to fourteen stone;
I sadly compare myself with him,
And think of the day when a freshman slim,
With saddle and all I could scale eleven,
(But now, alas! I am thirteen seven).
Then as we turn and saunter back,
Here come Jem Hills and his dainty pack.
Gaily the rest of the scarlet scene
Contrasts with his uniform coat of green.
Though seventy winters their snows have cast
To chill the flame of the rosy past,
Yet his limbs are strong, and his courage high."
And bright the glance of his hazel eye;
As game as ever to show the road,
Or charge the flooded Evenlode.
But the hour has come for man and horse,
And we make a move for the Glimpton Gorse;
With a 66 Hoick to cover," and wave of the arm,
("Hush! or the fox will take the alarm")
Into the spinney the beauties dash,
("Gently, gentlemen, don't be rash;
We're sure of a find, and safe of a run,
If you'll only not head him and spoil the fun.")
Aye, sure enough, our friend is at home,
And can't make out who the deuce has come;
He pricks his ears as the brambles rustle,
And wonders whatever can be the bustle,
A whimper from Tomboy! "Up and away!
He'll think o'er the matter another day."
Hark! how the chorus proclaims the find!
Hark! how the echoes awake behind!
Tyrant, Trumpeter, Tuneable, all
Hasten to join the festival,
The fox is afoot, and the hounds at his brush,
And the field follow up with a frantical rush;
A turn in the cover to gain some law,
And then he makes a push to the fore;
Just at the corner where no one expects him
Out he breaks, and Forester next him;
The leaders are following close, and now
Are streaming noiselessly over the plough,
The rest with a clamour behind are following,
Horses are plunging, men are holloaing;
We grip the saddle with firmer hold,
And shorten the rein of the five-year-old;
Who hear the horn from the cover sound,
As we fly the boundary stake and bound,
The hounds are a-head, with a field's clear lead,
And going along at racing speed;
A backward glance at the following flight,
And an inward conviction that "all is right,"
We feel that we're in for a rattling run,
And settle ourselves to enjoy the fun.
A couple of miles at a brilliant pace,
And a turn in our favour affords us space
For a sidelong glance at the moving scene;
The riders are few and far between.
The hounds have begun to settle at last,
Though still they are going almighty fast;
But the horsemen now can "take and give,"
And horse and hound together live:
There's" John" of Univ., and Christchurch" Ned,"
And a man in black, and a man in red ;
The Squire" of Trinity is up on the right,
And the "heavy brigade" are out of sight,
There's Archie Gray, and Charlie Short,
And a couple more of the "real right sort;"
Holburton Ridley and Jem with the van,
And the rest are playing at "Catch who can.'
Oh for a Landseer's hand to sketch!
Oh for a Leech's pen to etch!
Oh for a Melville's wit to write
(In language sporting yet erudite),
Who rode at all, who stopped to look,
Who came to grief in the Barford brook!
But I think Whyte Melville has said before
There is never such an egregious bore
As the prosy host who prolongs dessert
When the old want their "rub" and the young ones to flirt;
Who retails a run to minutiæ,
When its ten minutes past the time for tea:
Who tells of himself and the "old black mare,"
For whom none, save him, of the company care;
He goes on to suggest as the only cure
(Though it is not all who can make it sure),
To abstract the senses and to drown the time
In the roseate blush of ruby wine.
"Forewarned, forearmed," I'll take the hint,
Nor strive to paint in rosy tint
How we climbed the hill and crossed the flat,
How we ran through this and skirted that.
Of course we finished the run with a kill;
We turned the fox under Milton hill,
And the Bloxham road, with the death who-oop!
Saw the obsequies paid by a limited group.
To say who were there would perhaps be invidious,
For though I'm not usually over-fastidious,
Yet I think in the present case that—H’m—
"Of their own merits modest men are dumb."
I'm sure I need not longer detain
To tell how we came back by the evening's train;
How I afterwards dined at the Cross at 7,
And played whist in College till half-past eleven,
Took a soda-and-brandy to clear my head,
Then sloped to the Mitre and went to bed.
The present month may be regarded as the last of the season for the operations of the gunner. The several varieties of game, legitimately holding a place in the sportsman's calendar, will have received a respite from his persecutions for some months to come, and the only source of amusement left for him to pursue under the head of "shooting" will consist of slaughtering wild-fowl, previous to the same breaking up their congregated companies, and betaking themselves to their breeding haunts, in addition to the probable chances, should the weather continue to prove severe and rigorous, of flushing a scanty offering of "long bills" in the character of woodcocks and snipes, which will be found to linger longer in our latitudes than the usual temperature of the season would otherwise prompt them to do. Rabbits may also furnish a full quantum of sport to the shooter for the next two months. During April, rook shooting will vary the scene of the sportsman's operations, after which he may place his missile projectile upon the shelf for some length of time, and enter upon the more genial recreation of old Izaak's choice, in luring the gay, speckled trout to court his presence, as he silently rambles near the reed-clad margin of some rippling stream. Or he may overhaul his yacht, preparatory to weighing anchor for the season, and adjust his "tight-built wherry" ready to enter into competition with any members of the different boat companies who take a delight in earning a hearty and distinguished reputation in the handling of the oar; or he may devote his attention to the discipline exercised in his stables, in which he will find quite enough to do to keep himself satisfactorily employed between this and the 31st day of May next, when many a heart will beat in silent expectation for the coming off of the great Derbyreckoning. Or he may enter into engagements with his friends and competitors in appointing seasons for the decision of the championship, which may depend upon playing out a cricket match. These sportive pursuits, varied as they are in character, will be found all, and each of them, ready at hand to the sportsman, between this and August next, when the gun will be again resumed by the amateurs of the trigger, who are wont to traverse, the heath-clad moor-lands in quest of the fur-legged quarry which haunts its wastes.
The weather has been of so varied a nature during the present winter, that the sport of wild-fowl shooting has not been attended with that degree of signal success among the punt gunners, which of late years has proved to have been the case. In the south of England we have experienced but a partial visitation of snow, and, then, the same has been. accompanied with rapid thaws, so that the earth has been comparatively soft and porous. Ice has not prevailed to any great extent, which circumstance has proved in every way highly favourable to birds in general, more particularly so to water-fowl, which, depending chiefly upon sucu
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