There's a dog-fox down in Lannigan's spinney
(And Lannigan's wife has hens to mourn);
The hunters stamp in their stalls an' whinny,
Soft with leisure an' fat with corn.
The colts are pasturin', bold an' lusty,
Sleek they are with their coats aglow,
Ripe to break, but the bits grow rusty
And the saddles sit in a dusty row.
Old O'Dwyer was here a-Monday
With a few grey gran'fathers out for a field
(Like the ghostly hunt of a dead an'-done day),
They--an' some lassies that giggled an' squealed.
The houn's they rioted like the devil
(They ran a hare an' they killed a goose);
I cursed Caubeen, but he looked me level:
"The boys are away--so what's the use?"
The mists lie clingin' on bog an' heather,
Haws hang red on the silver thorn;
It's huntin' weather, ay, huntin' weather,
But trumpets an' bugles have beat the horn!
* * * * *
A Debt of Honour.
Mr. Punch ventures to plead on behalf of the nine hundred men of the
Royal Naval Division who were taken prisoners by the enemy in the
retirement from Antwerp. Less fortunate than those of the same Division
who were interned in Holland (for want of official information most
people imagine that all the missing were so interned), they lack the
necessities of life. Parcels of food are sent to them, fortnightly to
each man, as well as clothing and tobacco; and it is known that they
receive all that is sent. Mr. Punch begs his readers to help the fund
from which these simple comforts are provided, and to address their
gifts to Lady GWENDOLEN GUINNESS, at 11, St. James's Square, S.W.
* * * * *