FAN.

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Fan, the hunt terrier, runs with the pack,

A little white bitch with a patch on her back;

She runs with the pack as her ancestors ran—

We're an old-fashioned lot here and breed 'em like Fan;

Round of skull, harsh of coat, game and little and low,

The same as we bred sixty seasons ago.

So she's harder than nails, and she's nothing to learn

From her scarred little snout to her cropped little stern,

And she hops along gaily, in spite of her size,

With twenty-four couples of big badger-pyes:

'Tis slow, but 'tis sure is the old white and grey,

And 'twill sing to a fox for a whole winter day.

Last year at Rook's Rough, just as Ben put 'em in,

'Twas Fan found the rogue who was curled in the whin;

She pounced at his brush with a drive and a snap,

"Yip-Yap, boys," she told 'em, "I've found him, Yip-Yap;"

And they put down their noses and sung to his line

Away down the valley most tuneful and fine.

'Twas a point of ten miles and a kill in the dark

That scared the cock pheasants in Fallowfield Park,

And into the worry flew Fan like a shot

And snatched the tit-bit that old Rummage had got;

Eloop, little Fan with the patch on her back,

She broke up the fox with the best of the pack.


                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

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