Chapter D

D is the overworked letter so Dear
To the heart of the Sportsman who's riding a skate,
Who thinks there is no one to open the gate
And fails to observe that the Vicar stands near.

E

E is your Epitaph, writ by a wag,
Which reached you by post on your first hunting morn;
"Hic jacet! He hoped to be pride of the Quorn
But died of sheer fright ere he rode in one drag."

F

F is the Fence "made of stout posts and rails
Five feet"! You "_sailed_ over it riding the grey";
But do not dine out on it often, I pray,
For at each repetition the interest pales.

G

G is the Gathering Gloom of Her Grace,
The Great One, invited to open our Ball,
When she heard that the Master had had a bad fall
And the Honorable Whip is to fill in his place.

H

H is the Horn of the Huntsman that sounds
Rather wheezy and thin to irreverent ears;
But Ah! 'tis a music melodic, which cheers
The Hearts of the nailers who follow Hounds.