" TEM OLD SQUIRE.
About fifty years ago, when old George the Third was King, And the Prince, the star of fashion, was the light of pleasure's ring, Lived a fine old country squire, a man of high renown, He'd an old hall in the country, and a modern house in town.
A Justice of the Peace was he, and likewise an M.P., He was fettered by no party, his politics were free, He courted not the Premier, tho' his son was in the Guards, With Fox he sometimes voted, but much oftener played cards.
He kept a stud of racers, 'twas his pride to see them run, And his table was well covered with the gold cups they had won; , To the town he represented each year he gave a plate, And to the course in coach and six he always went in state.
Six goodly nags they were indeed, tho' fat and rather slow, Their manes were decked with ribbons, and their flowing tails also; His lady sat beside him, tall and stately as a wand, And the people loudly cheered them while alighting at the stand.
He kept a pack of foxhounds, too, of the pure old English breed, Most musical and staunch were they, the' not much formed for speed; His hunters were enduring and could go a decent pace, To suit his hounds he bred them, not to run a steeplechase.
On the first day of September as the season still came round, With his pointers in the stubbles he was certain to be found; His gun was like a musket, old-fashioned flint and steel, Wide muzzled and a kicker, it was heavy in the heeL But birds then being plentiful, he brought down many a brace, And if he found them sitting—why, he showed them little grace; For flying shots were not much known about fifty years ago, Kill when you can was then the plan, and be sure of shooting low.
About forty years ago, the sad time I well remember, On a dark and dreary morning in the bleak month of November, Died this fine old country squire, aged threescore years and ten, And was gathered to his fathers, to the grief of all good men.
In the village church they laid him, scarce a mile from the old hall, His heir was the chief mourner, six tall yeomen bore the pall; His memory is cherished yet, and I've heard neighbours say, With this fine old country Squire old times have passed away."
[The above poem reminds one of the definition of a " good man" which laid down as the essential condition that " he rode a thoroughbred and always had two young ones coming on that looked likely."—ED. Spectator.]
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