Poor faithful Trouncer! thou canst lead no more;
All thy fatigues and all thy triumphs o'er!
Triumphs of worth, whose long excelling fame
Was still to follow true the hunted game!
Beneath enormous oaks, Britannia's boast,
In thick, impenetrable coverts lost,
When the warm pack in falt'ring silence stood,
Thine was the note that roused the list'ning wood,
Rekindling every joy with tenfold force,
Through all the mazes of the tainted course.
Still foremost thou the dashing stream to cross,
And tempt along the animated horse;
Foremost o'er fen or level mead to pass,
And sweep the show'ring dew-drops from the grass;
Then bright emerging from the mist below
To climb the woodland hill's exulting brow
Pride of thy race! with worth far less than thine,
Full many human leaders daily shine!
Less faith; less constancy, less gen'rous zeal!—
Then no disgrace my humble verse shall feel,
Where not one lying line to riches bows,
Or poisoned sentiments from rancour flows;
Nor flowers are strewn around Ambition's car:
An honest dog 's a nobler theme by far.
Each sportsman heard the tidings with a sigh,
When death's cold touch had stopped his tuneful cry;
And though high deeds, and fair exalted praise,
In memory lived, and flowed in rustic lays,
Short was the strain of monumental woe:
‘Foxes, rejoice! here buried lies your foe.’