Later sporting names for coaches than the “Tally-ho’s” and the “Highflyers” were such as the “Bang Up,” the “Hieover”--surely no prudent person travelled by a coach with a name so suggestive of broken necks--and the “High-mettled Racer,” while the gay young bloods who drove the crack Windsor coach called it, after the first _danseuse_ of that time, the “Taglioni.” The “Taglioni” was a fast coach, driven by fast men, and had a picture of Taglioni herself, pirouetting round on the tips of her toes, painted prominently on the body. But of all the sporting names, that of the “Tantivy” breathes most the classic spirit of that sporting age, and called forth one of the coaching classics, written in regretful anticipation of coaches being supplanted by railways. The “Tantivy Trot” was written by Egerton Warburton, of Arley, Cheshire. It was sung to the air of “Here’s to the Maiden of Bashful Fifteen,” and was an especial favourite with the brazen-throated young sportsmen of the Bullingdon Club:-- THE TANTIVY TROT Here’s to the heroes of four-in hand fame, Harrison, Peyton, and Warde, sir; Here’s to the dragsmen that after them came, Ford, and the Lancashire lord, sir. Here’s to the team, sir, all harnessed to start, Brilliant in Brummagem leather; Here’s to the waggoner skill’d in the art Of coupling the cattle together. Here’s to the arm that holds them when gone, Still to a gallop inclined, sir; Heads to the front with no bearing reins on, Tails with no cruppers behind, sir. Here’s to the shape that is shown the near side, Here’s to the blood on the off, sir; Limbs without check to the freedom of stride, Wind without whistle or cough, sir. Here’s to the dear little damsels within, Here’s to the swells on the top, sir; Here’s to the music in three feet of tin, Here’s to the tapering crop, sir. Here’s to the dragsmen I’ve dragged into song-- Salisbury, Mountain and Co., sir; Here’s to the Cracknell that cracks ’em along, Five twenty times at a go, sir. Here’s to MacAdam, the Mac of all Macs, Here’s to the road we ne’er tire on, Let me but roll o’er the granite he cracks, Ride ye who like it on iron. Let the steam-pot Hiss till it’s hot; Give me the speed Of the Tantivy trot. It is a long set of verses, but it should not be difficult, if any one had the mind to it, to continue them indefinitely. In truth, they limp not a little, and do not go the swinging pace of the “Tantivy” itself. But this was the best the old-time enthusiasm for the road could produce, and that it should have been so popular at coaching festivities shows that although coachmen, amateur and professional, were severe critics of other coaching matters, they were sufficiently indulgent to literary efforts on this especial theme.