POETRY.
DEPOT.
Tea meet's at Lighthorne Rough to-day, Grey clouds are mounting heaven, And soldiers who have hunting leave Dismiss parade at seven.
Oh, some are in pink and some are in black, And some have sent on and some have to hack, But all mean to kill before they get back, Those light-hearted infantry soldiers.
The swift markhor was Jones's last hunt, The swifter bless buck Lampoon's, The mighty hoar was Tom's shikhar, The mightier tiger Sampson's.
Now hunting foxes seems a fall From these more noble quarry, But spice of danger does not lack From e'en this minor foray.
Young Tom's old grey has hit a stick And flattened Tom out horrid; Be rolls and wallows over him From ankle up to forehead.
The 'chaser kept by Jones for "Points" Ras tried to chance a binder, And driven Jones into his hat, And may be kept by finder.
And Lampoon's clever bay has stuck 'Twist earth and sky suspended; A bullfinch must be charged at speed, With fire and fury blended.
And Watergall has taken toll, For both its banks are brimming, And Sampson's mare has disappeared, And he and she are swimming.
But small mishaps like these are nought, Nor mar the day's enjoyment: They're but the skirmish at the dawn Before the fight's deployment.
And Tom and Jones pursue their gees, And soon effect their capture, Nor do they let mischances check Their "first fine careless rapture."
While Sampson, Lampoon, and the rest Soon o'er the grass are bowling, And all are with the hackling pack When Reynard's sent a-rolling.
Oh, some were in pink and some were in black,
And some had sent on and some had to back,
But all had a fall before they got hack, Those fortunate infantry soldiers. B.
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