"What a fine hunting day"—

'Tis an old-fashioned lay

That I'll change to an up-to-date pome;

Old stagers may swear

That the pace isn't fair,

But they're left far behind us at home!

See cyclists and bikes on their way,

And scorchers their prowess display;

Let us join the glad throng

That goes wheeling along,

And we'll all go a-hunting to-day!

New Nimrods exclaim,

"Timber-topping" is tame,

And "bull-finches" simply child's play;

And they don't care a jot

For a gallop or trot,

Though they will go a-hunting to-day.

There's a fox made of clockwork, they say

They'll wind him and get him away;

He runs with a rush

On rails with his brush,

So we must go and chase him to-day.

We've abolished the sounds

Of the horn and the hounds—

'Tis the bicycle squeaker that squeals

And the pack has been stuffed,

Or sent to old Cruft,

Now the huntsmen have taken to wheels!

Hairy country no more we essay,

Five bars, too, no longer dismay,

For we stick to the roads

In the latest of modes,

So we'll bike after Reynard to-day!