That eagle-ey'd sportsman, CHARLES BRANDLING, behold, Laying in a snug place, which needs scarcely be told; But from riding so hard, my friend CHARLEY forbear, For fear you should tire you _thirty pound mare_! Chorus. With my, &c. And close at his heels, see BOB LASCELLES advance, Dress'd as gay for the field, as if leading the dance, Resolv'd to ride hard, nor be counted the last, Pretty sure of the speed of his fav'rite OUTCAST. Chorus. With my, &c. Next mounted on PANCAKE, see yonder comes LEN,[223] A sportsman, I'm sure, well deserving my pen; He looks in high glee, and enjoying the fun, Tho' truly I fear that his _cake's over done_. Chorus. With my, &c. On METHODIST perched, in a very good station, FRANK BARLOW behold, that firm prop of the nation, But nothing could greater offend the good soul, Than to _Coventry sent_ from the chase and the bowl. Chorus. With my, &c. Then those two little fellows, as light as a feather, CHARLES PARKER and CLOWES[224] come racing together, And riding behind them, see OLIVER DICK,[225] With SLAP-DASH half blown, looking sharp for a nick. Chorus. With my, &c. On EBONY mounted, behold my LORD BARNARD,[226] To live near the pack, now oblig'd is to strain hard; But mount my friend BARNY, on something that's quick, I warrant, my lads, he would show you a trick. Chorus. With my, &c. Then BLAND[227] and TOM GASCOIGNE,[228] I spy in the van, Riding hard as two devils, at catch as catch can, But racing along, to try which can get first, Already, I see, both _their_ horses are burst. Chorus. With my, &c. Then smack at a yawner falls my friend BILLY CLOUGH,[229] He gets up, stares around him, faith! silly enough; While PILKINGTON[230] near him, cries "Pr'ythee get bled." "Oh no, never mind, Sir, I fell on my head." Chorus. With my, &c. But where's that hard rider, my friend COL. BELL?[231] At the first setting off from the cover he fell; But I see the old crop, thus the whole chase will carry, In respectable style, the good-temper'd HARRY. Chorus. With my, &c. With very small feet, sticking fast in the mud, FRANK HAWKSWORTH[232] I see, on his neat bit of blood; But, pull up, my friend, say you've lost a _fore shoe_, Else _bleeding_, I fear, must be shortly for you. Chorus. With my, &c. To keep their nags fresh for the end of the day, SIR EDWARD[233] and LASCELLES just canter away; Not enjoying the pace our Raby hounds go, But preferring the maxim of "_certain and slow_." Chorus. With my, &c.