And thus, as ages onward roll,

The sons of men depart,

Bound for that goal, of which their birth

In this was but the start.

Ah! now I see whence comes the pang,
On news of owd Jack's death;
Men feel another lease has flown,
Nigh seventy years in breadth—

A lease that links us with the past,
With memories of men,
Of whom Jack Parker was a type
We ne'er may see again.

How pleasant was his genial smile!
How hearty was his laugh!
How full of life his cheery voice,
When heard whilst at his craft!

Throughout the shire, and further, too,
Owd Jack was justly famed,—
For two score years of hunting life

That reputation gained!

A daring rider, skilful shot,

A jovial angler too;

The music of the hounds he loved,

With Reynard full in view.

No fences then could stop owd Jack,

As on his gallant steed

O'er every obstacle he went,

Rejoicing in its speed.

Brooks, moorlands, meadows, woods, flew by

As onward sped the chase;

While ever and anon, rang out

His voice, amid the race,

Still urging on the noble pack
To give unto the field

Such sport as he right well did know
His motley pets could yield.

Ay, 'twas such ardent traits as these
Endeared him all around!

Which made him liked by all that love
The music of the hound!

Long, then, his memory shall live

Amid the vale of Rye,

And many a gallant hunting lad

To emulate shall try.

Long shall his name a household word

Be quoted, with some deed

He wrought upon that trusty friend,

Old Outlaw, his last steed.

Oft at the meet on hunting morns

His sturdy form was seen;

Now 'twill be missed for evermore-
'Tis vanished, as a dream.

No more amid a gallant field,
Drawn from the county wide,
In velvet cap and jacket red,
With hounds on every side,

Will Jack again delight them all
With many a timely jest,
Or story of that Cleveland run

Told in his very best.

Alack! he's gone; his day has fled
He's finished his last run :

Then let us write above his head
The motto terse, 'Well done!'

'Tis thus hale Father Time removes,
The old hounds from the pack ;
So, welcome Horsman, to the front!
And fare thee well, owd Jack!

Jack Parker was born at
His father was an ardent

Composed at Brawby, December, 1890. Welburn, near Kirby-Moor-Side, in 1822. sportsman, and Jack inherited this trait in an eminent degree. He entered the Sinnington hunt in 1849 (memorable for the noted rush to the gold fields of California). Here he remained up to the end of the season 1889. In the autumn of 1890 he died of congestion of the

lungs. Everything was done to make the last years of this grand old huntsman's life comfortable, but, as seen, he did not long live to enjoy the bounty of his friends. He was buried at Kirby-Moor-Side, and his funeral was attended by a vast concourse of rich and poor, drawn from far and near, who thus showed their respect of the worth of him they had known and loved for many years.

SPRING.

I.

ONCE more the seasons in their course,

Roll round the varying year;

And Spring, the first, the fairest one,

Virginal doth appear.

Obedient to Almighty Will,

Through countless years of time,
The sun has wed the waking earth,
Dissolving Winter's rime.

Beneath his sunny, genial smile,
And cheerful, loving care,
She putteth on her bridal dress
Of leaves and blossoms fair.

These golden goslings, catkins bright,
That deck the willow-tree,

Mid which the bees melodious hum

Sweet songs of liberty.

Or snowdrops, nodding in the wind,

All white as driven snow;

While crocus, furze, and daffodils,
Their glowing glories show.

Then primroses in clust'ring groups
Within the shelt'ring wood,

Where soft the wind blows not unkind,
And straggling sunbeams brood.

Next blackthorns blooming in the vale,
Their beauty doth unfold,

And please the traveller with their charms,
Their sweetness manifold.

While daisies white, a pretty sight

Upon the sunny banks,

Lift up their shields, and show the fields
All glist'ning with their ranks.

Then bedstraws sweet, and buttercups,

With speedwells, darkly blue,

And harmless nettles mid the hedge,

With flowers of varied hue.

With them the Queen of May comes forth,— Fresh blooms of hawthorn fair!

And sprinkles rich the verdant sprays,

Perfumes the ambient air.