_Galloping Squire_ (_of the St. Stephen's Hunt_) S-R W. H-RC-RT.
_Irish Groom_ J-HN M-RL-Y.
_Welsh Horse_ D-S-ST-BL-SHM-NT.
_Irish Horse_ L-ND B-LL.
[Illustration: THE SECOND MOUNT.
_J-hn M-rl-y_ (_the Groom, to the Noble Sportsman, Sir W. V.
H-rc-rt_). "YOU'VE HAD A BIT OF A SPIN ON THE WELSHMAN, SIR, AND I
THINK YOU'LL FIND THE IRISHMAN PRETTY FIT!"]
_Galloping Squire_ (_pounding along_). Pouf! Pretty heavy going! This
country doesn't seem to be what it was when I was younger, and rayther
a lighter weight, in old Huntsman BILLY'S days. _Laudator temporis
acti?_ Well, perhaps so--perhaps so. Still, neither meets nor mounts
strike me as being quite up to the old form. Some of our new men have
the manners of a cheeky young chawbacon on a gate. That hard rider
from the Midlands, for instance! Most of our new mounts lack the blood
and pace of the horses of old times. This weedy Welsh crock for
example! "Kim up, ye hugly brute!" as JOHN LEECH'S huntsman put it.
Ah! when Old WILL took us across the Stone-Wall Country in '69 and
'70, hunting _was_ hunting, horses _were_ horses--yes, and gentlemen
of the hunt _were_ gentlemen! Now, what with mixed fields, cocktail
crocks, and false scents, the sport's no longer a sport for--persons
of Plantagenet descent and patrician instincts.
However, _Taffy_ answers gamely enough to spur and whipcord.
Considering my weight and--well, other difficulties, the weedy-looking
nag, is going fairly well. Fancy he'll hold out to the crest of the
hill yonder, where I think I see JACK MORLEY with my second mount. Kim
up! Yes, there's JACK, with the Irish horse he thinks so much of, and
takes such pains with. Humph! Bit tired of Irish mounts myself, though
mustn't mention it to JACK. 'Twas Irish horses brought Old BILLY his
biggest croppers after all, though _he_, too, was wondrous sweet on
'em. Prefer a mount from the stable of the Predominant Partner,
myself, if I _might_ have my choice--which I mustn't--worse luck! Good
old _Budget_ strain _my_ fancy! Not over fast, perhaps, but first-rate
weight-carriers, and always in at the death--or the Death Duties, as I
might say, if on a Derby platform instead of a Welsh pigskin. Ha! ha!
ha!
Yes, _Taffy_ will hold on to the top of the hill--(First Reading
Point)--and then for a "quick-change" to the Irish horse. If I don't
lose time, and have ordinary luck, the two will carry me through,
ridden alternately.
_Irish Groom_ (_meditating_). Ah, here comes the Guv'nor, pounding
away on _Taffy_. Glad to catch sight o' me and _Paddy_, I'll warrant.
He's taken about the last ounce out o' the Welsh'un, if I'm any judge.
Rides a bit lumpy, the Guv'nor does, nowadays, though his pluck's as
good as ever, I must say. Well, we're ready for him, the Irish horse
and me, fit as a fiddle, and groomed to a hair, though I say it as
shouldn't, p'raps. Come along, my new incarnation of good old
WHYTE-MELVILLE'S "Galloping Squire."
(_Sings._)
The Galloping Squire to the saddle has got,
That saddle a heavier weight has ne'er borne;
From his stable he's drafted the pick of his lot,
(Two nags by his enemies held in foul scorn,)
One Welsh, t'other Irish; both likely to tire.
I must trust to these two! says our Galloping Squire.
He takes the Welsh horse by the head, and he sails
O'er this crossest o' countries, all ear and all eye.
He takes as they come high banks, fences, and rails;
The cramped ones he'll creep, and the fair ones he'll fly.
It's a _mighty_ queer place that will put in the mire
That artful old horseman, our Galloping Squire.
A fast forty minutes of run and of race,
And he's glad of a change, as indeed are we all.
The two he must ride are not gluttons for pace,
Still, the slow _need_ not stop, and the weak _may_ not fall,
His second mount's here. He may puff and perspire,
But he's game to go on, is our Galloping Squire!
_Galloping Squire_ (_coming up and preparing to change mounts_). Pouf!
Oh! here you are, JACK! Sharp's the word! Quick change, and on we go
again! The Welsh horse has carried me better than I expected, though
I've had to bustle him along, and he's a bit blown.
[_Changes mounts smartly._
_Irish Groom._ That's right, Squire. The Welsh 'un hasn't done so
badly, but I think you'll find the Irish 'un fit as a fiddle. These
Irish horses----Ah! _he_'s off. (_Looking after him, as he takes the
bridle of Taffy._) Well, he'll do _his_ best, beaten or not, blowed if
he won't! Goes well, too, he does, for an old 'un! Hope _Paddy_'ll
pull him through to the end o' the run. (_Sings._)
"And long may it be ere he's forced to retire,
For we breed very few like our Galloping Squire!"
[_Leads off "The Welsh 'un"--for the present._
* * * * *
NO CROPS THIS YEAR!!--A startling announcement, founded upon the new
rule of the Kennel Club, to the effect that after March no crop-eared
dog can win one of the K. C. prizes. "Hooray!" quoth the dogs. "Full
ears and no crops!"
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Editor of Libellous Rag_ (_who has just received a
terrific but well-deserved kick_). "DUD YOU MANE THOT?"
_Colonel McMurder._ "YIS, OI _DUD_, YOU THUNDERIN' VILLAIN!"
_Editor._ "OH, VERY WELL, THOT'S ALL _ROIGHT_. OI T'OUGHT IT MOIGHT AV
BEEN WAN O' THIM PRAC-TA-CLE JOKES!"]
* * * * *