POETRY.

THE GREY MARE.

I'm bought you a hunter, my daughter, at last. A handsomer mare never galloped in grey, Good-tempered, high-eouraged, and clever, and fast While drawing, a pleasure: at " for'ard away" Sit still, and you'll have all the fun of the fair: The beet of good manners distinguish the mare. But, while we are drawing, the mare sad the pack Should fill all your thoughts, to be slack were a crime. Should the hounds slip away,'tis the mare has to pay —Only Caesar could think of three things at a time. So mind, when they find, a good start's your affair, 'Tis the least and the most you can do for the mare.

Five miles in an hour she can walk every inch: Twelve miles she can trot, at her master's desire: She can gallop as fast as a hound at a pinch : I'd tell you the pace, but you'd think me a liar. Every sort, every size of a jump that is fair To ask of a hunter, is fun for the mare.

There were horses refusing, and blocking a gap

In some rails on a bank, with a ditch Vother Broad, rushy, and boggy—a regular trap—

She flew fence and ditch like a buck in her stride. As she rose at the jump, as she sailed through the air, You felt you were safe "in the hands" of the mare.

Whatever the distance, whatever the pace, Whatever the country, the mare doesn't mind. She can go her own line, she can keep her own place, Well up with the hounds from the moment they find— You can't "put her wrong" : you can wager the mare Will be in at the finish, whoever is there.

Should you take a wrong turn in the course of a run, And find yourself blocked by some bottomless bog, Ride hard for the passage, sit still as a stone, Use your eyes and your ears like a ship in a fog.

Can you hear them, or see them ? You needn't despair: Just give her her head, they'll come back to the mare.

She's thin in the skin, they must mind what they're at When girthing her up, or when dressing her down: She'll snap, like a trap, with her ears lying fiat, And a face like a girl's when you tread on her gown. And, if you offend her, you'd better beware A fathom away from the plates of the mare.

You should know what's too big for a horse, and, in short, A dose of discretion or so never hurts ;

Keep a look-out for wire—that spoiler of sport— May the man that invented it get his deserts—

In the partnership business this falls to your share: But, when all's straight ahead, leave the rest to the mare.

Twenty couple full cry on the line, a good went, A stout forest fox not a furlong in front.

If 'tis hunting you love, you can follow your bent And watch how they work, every hound in the hunt And the fox, you shall see him bowled over, I swear, If you stick to the saddle, and trust to the mare.

Rows LINGSTON.