Works

Another of my Poetical Frolicks of this Month may be seen in A Public Advertiser under the Name of A Tale for the Times— to Sir Philip Jennings Clerke Bar^t I chose him as a Sportsman— & of the Minority Party; I confess the Verses imitated from Vanbrugh.

I once a Pack of Foxhounds knew
Who much resembled—we know who;
A sprightly Huntsman at their Head
Willing the chearful Chase to lead,
A Whipper In¹ whose clam’rous Crack,
Resounded on each Babbler’s back;
But who could well caress and feed
    From Platter or from Trencher,
The Dog who to deserve such Meed
    Would diligently venture.

Our Kennel now so famous grown,
Call’d ev’ry Hill and Dale their own;
No Cover in the County grew
But ev’ry Shrub of it they knew,
No Fox’s overvaunted Wile
Could their perfect Scent beguile
    Nor Stag so strong
    Run them too long,
They left every Horseman behind for a Mile.

Now in the midst of all their Pride,
    Poor Huntsman² died!
    The new one tried
    Another Whipper In;
He unexperienc’d in the Field,
Ev’n in their Language³ all unskill’d;
Careless of Tone, or Speed, or Nose
His Weight of Anger fell on those
    Who lick’d the hand of their old Master¹
Whene’er he to the Kennel came;
Till even Gratitude grew Shame
    And Virtue a Disaster.

The Huntsman² saw this would not do,
    His vile Associate would be torne,
Some day by the Indignant Crew
    And that could not be borne;
Another Whipper In he hired,
He of his Place too soon grew tir’d
A new one, and a new one came,
This could not ride, that found no Game;
One fool⁴ to feed them took no Care,
Yet left the Kennel door at Jar,
When numbers rushing out at once
Immortaliz’d this stupid Dunce,
Who shutting hastily the Door,
Wounded and crush’d as many more:

And now the mutilated Pack
Vainly to Times long past look back;
When clustring down the chalky Cliff
Their gallant Deeds outstript Belief,
        The Foot so fleet,
        The Cry so sweet,
        So perfect their Nose,
    Their Union so close
A Man might have cover’d them all with a Sheet.

Far other Fancies fill them now
Rebellion lowers upon their Brow,
Sullen and sad they sit within,
And snarl upon the Whipper In;
Some few except—the courser Sort,
Who for their Victuals pay him court;
While those who first their home forsook⁵,
Alter’d in Manners Mind and Look,
Settle at Sea—take to the Water,
    And unless all I hear are Slanders;
Have quite put off their pristine Nature,
    No longer Hounds,—but Newfoundlanders.

Footnotes

1. Lord Chatham, William Pitt the elder.↩︎↩︎
2. George II.↩︎↩︎
3. Lord Bute, a Scotsman.↩︎
4. George Grenville.↩︎
5. American migrations & revolt of the colonies.↩︎