# A Selection of Original Songs, Scraps, Etc., by Ned Farmer/A Coursing Song

A Coursing Song.
Respectfully dedicated to all true lovers of the leash.
Let dukes keep their racers, my lord have his stud, And the 'Squire sport his pack, and his prime bit of blood, Give me a good kennel of greyhounds, and let The best dog always win, when for coursing we're met. Singing, gently, so ho! halloo, let 'em go, They're off like gun shot, how like racing they go!
See stripped of their clothing, look, look! what a treat, What muscular haunches, what small cat-like feet; With a tail like a rat, and an eye like Gazelle, Long necked, and deep chested, they're safe to run well. Sing gently, so ho! halloo, let 'em go, They're beautiful creatures, I'll pound 'em to go.
Come, where is your starter, your judge, where is he? Put a brace into slips, and some sport you shall see; Hold hard! there, you horsemen! don't ride o'er the ground; I ne'er saw this beaten but "pussy" was found. Singing, gently, so ho! halloo! let 'em go, We're sure of a find in this stubble, I know.
So ho! there! I told you; now give her fair play; It shall all be fair coursing; no murder, to-day: The hares, perhaps in weight may have lost half an ounce; But after this frost, just see how they'll bounce. Singing, gently, so ho! halloo! let 'em go, Look, she slouches one ear—she's a fizzer, I know.
They're running like wildfire; the black dog's a turn: Now the blue un's a go-by: she's off for the fern; He has thrown, and has miss'd her; the black dog is in; He's a mortal good judge that can tell which will win. Singing, gently, so ho! halloo! let 'em go, Each goes like an arrow just shot from a bow.
The black dog is leading the blue dog a nose; She makes for the spinney—my heart, how she goes: The black dog, a thousand! a-done, sir—a-done! He has her! he hasn't! my soul, what a run! Singing, gently, so ho! halloo! let 'em go; Poor "pussy" in each has a death-meaning foe.
They're getting the slows on, they're all of them beat, It's rarely a sportsman enjoys such a treat; Now, Topper! now, Bugle! they'll kill her!—they won'nt; They have her!—they haven't!—she beats 'em!—she do'nt! Singing, gently, so ho! halloo! let 'em go; I ne'er saw better mettle, than all the three show.
See, the Judge takes his hat off, and gets from his horse, And so, undecided's this wonderful course; They've managed to kill her; but no man can tell Which won it, they both ran so honest and well! Singing, gently, so ho! halloo! let 'em go, To see such another, I'd fifty miles go!
Come, fill up your glasses, whatever you drink, (I shall hold him a muff who endeavours to slink,) Here's success to the "long tails," their owners, and all, Who are fond of the sport, whether great folks or small. Singing, gently, so ho ! halloo, let 'em go, There's nothing can stop 'em except frost or snow
Impromptu.
Written on viewing the body of a young man who was killed by lightning, at Charlbury, Oxfordshire, July 19, 1844.
And he is dead, and stiff, and cold, and motionless, who, but an hour agone was full of lusty life, of youth and vigour; whose warm heart's blood ran gaily dancing through a giant frame; whose stalwart build might almost mock at Time, and, in its seeming strength, defy disease. And now, behold!—a few brief moments gone, a clammy, ghastly corpse is all remains!
Look on, I pray you all, and ponder well, on this "stern monument" of life's uncertainty!