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WHEN first I strove to win the prize,
I felt my youthful spirits rise;
Hope's crimson flush illumed my face,
And all my soul was in the race.
When weigh'd and mounted, 'twas my pride
Before the starting-post to ride ;
My rivals drest in red and green,
But I in simple yellow seen.

In stands around fair ladies swarm,
And mark with smiles my slender form;
Their lovely looks new ardour raise,
For beauty's smile is merit's praise !
The flag is dropp'd—the sign to start
Away more fleet than winds we dart,
And though the odds against me lay,
The boy in yellow wins the day !

Though now no more we seek the race,
I trust the jockey keeps his place ;
For still to win the prize I feel
An equal wish, an equal zeal ;
And still can beauty's smile impart
Delightful tremors through this heart:
Indeed, I feel it flutter now-
Yes, while I look, and while I bow !

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My tender
years must vouch

my

truth
For candour ever dwells with youth;
Then sure the sage might well believe
A face like mine could ne'er deceive.
If here

you

e'er a match should make,
My life upon my luck I'll stake;
And 'gainst all odds, I think you'll say,
The boy in yellow wins the day.

a

NOW NIGHT HER DUSKY MANTLE FOLDS.

From "Songs of the Chase," 1810.

Now Night her dusky mantle folds,

The larks are soaring high ;
And morn her golden shaft has shot,

To gild the eastern sky;
We sportsmen scour the distant plains,
The hounds

pursue
their

prey ;
While echoes round the valleys sound,

Hark forward, hark away!

O'er mountain-top and river deep

The fox for shelter flies,
And cowering into coverts strong,

His cunning vainly tries;
His death proclaims the sportsman's joy,

The dogs they seize their prey;
While echoes round the valleys sound,

Hark forward, hark away!

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Say, what is wealth without delight?
'Tis dross, 'tis dirt, 'tis useless quite;
Better be poor and taste of joy,
Than thus your wasted time employ.
Then let a humble son of song

Repeat those pleasures most divine ;
The joys that life's best hours prolong

Are those of hunting, love, and wine.

For hunting gives us jocund health,
We envy not the miser's wealth,
But chase the fox or timid hare,
And know delight he cannot share.
Then home at eve we cheerly go,

Whilst round us brightest comforts shine;
With joy shut in, we shut out woe,

And sing of hunting, love, and wine.

Mild love attunes the soul to peace,
And bids the toiling sportsman cease ;
This softer passion's pleasing pow'r
With bliss ecstatic wings the hour;
It soothes the mind to sweetest rest,

Or savage thoughts might there entwine :
Thus he alone is truly blest

Whose joys are hunting, love, and wine.

'Tis wine exhilarates the heart
When sinking under sorrow's smart;
'Tis that can ease the wretch's woe,
And heighten every bliss we know.
But wine's abuse makes man a beast,

Be all with moderation mine;
Life will appear one endless feast,

While blest with hunting, love, and wine.

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From "Songs of the Chase,” 1810.
YE darksome woods where Echo dwells,
Where every bud with freedom swells

To meet the glorious day :
The morning breaks; again rejoice,
And with old Ringwood's well-known voice

Bid tuneful Echo play.

.

We come, ye groves, ye hills we come,
The vagrant fox shall hear his doom,

And dread our jovial train.
The shrill horn sounds, the courser flies,
While every sportsman joyful cries,

“There's Ringwood's voice again !"

Ye meadows, hail the coming throng;
Ye peaceful streams that wind along,

Repeat the Hark-away!
Far o'er the downs, ye gales, that sweep,
The daring oak that crowns the steep,

The roaring peal convey.

The chiming notes of cheerful hounds,
Hark! how the hollow dale resounds;

The sunny hills how gay!
But where's the note, brave dog, like thine ?
Then urge the steed, the chorus join,

'Tis Ringwood leads the way.

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