Then fill up your glasses--yet fill as you chuse, Here’s a health, brother sportsmen, which none can refuse; A health that with pleasure our club shall inspire, While hunting delights, or while hounds we admire:-- See, see, how I fill it--’tis COLPITTS[66] I toast, Of our Hunt may he long be the pride and the boast, And oft may we meet him with joys like to-day, And long may he lead us with hark, hark away. With hark, hark away, With hark, hark away, And long may he lead us with hark, hark away.
[66] _George Colpitts_, Esq. of Killingworth, the worthy Master of the Forest Hunt.--He died October 30th, 1793, universally regretted.
All lovers of lucre may LAUD the _Lord Mayor_, Who was the first founder of _Framlington Fair_; Where mankind now mingle, and merchants too meet, And all in full muster that magistrate greet: Here stocksmen and tradesmen both traffic and truck, And prone speculators pursue their purse-luck; Here contractors cash into cattle convert, By buying or barter in mayor Millar’s mart.
Here coaches and chariots and chaises abound, With folks of first fashion from fifty miles round; Here bucks, bloods, and buffoons, belles, buxoms, and beaux, Bedizen’d with drapery, and French furbelows: Here young men and maidens in marriage moods meet, And crowds of quaint coquets bald bachelors cheat; Here parents and prattlers are sprightly and smart, And lads league with lasses in mayor Millar’s mart.
Horn’d cattle, and horses, mules, asses, and swine, And sheep of all kinds kept ’twixt _Tweed_ and the _Tyne_; A skilful collection of choice Cheviot rams, And also the best breed of bleak border lambs; Hard hogs from the _Highlands_, some long, and some short, And some sightly samples of Leicester sort; Some _South Downs_, some _Dishleys_, some _Dorsets_, and _Harts_, Some _Bedfords_, and _Bakewells_, grace mayor Millar’s marts.
This marvellous mayor did some patterns produce, May prove to the public of infinite use;-- His beasts from the _Dearboughts_[67]--cow-kyloes, and queys, Did breeders and feeders and butchers surprise; Nay, set as a cypher the _Long Witton stot_;[68] And credit confer’d on the _Kintire Scot_, Who rear’d upon pastures of poor pithless spart, These magnified monsters in mayor Millar’s mart.