None better than 'Bonnie,' more 'up' in his drill;
His fine head erect--eyes flashing with scorn--
Right fit for a charger was staunch 'Bonnie Morn.'

And then on the 'Course,' who so willing and true?
Past the 'stand' like an arrow the bonnie horse flew;
No spur his good rider need ever have worn,
For he aye did his best, did my fleet 'Bonnie Morn.'

And now here he lies, the good little horse,
No more he'll career in the hunt or on 'course':
Such a charger to lose makes me sad and forlorn;
I _can't_ help a tear, 'tis for poor 'Bonnie Morn.'

Ah! blame not my grief, for 'tis deep and sincere,
As a friend and companion I held 'Bonnie' dear;
No true sportsman ever such feelings will scorn
As I heave a deep sigh for my brave 'Bonnie Morn.'

And even in death, when in anguish he lay,
When his life's blood was drip--dripping--slowly away,
His last thought was still of the master he'd borne;
He neighed, licked my hand--and thus died 'Bonnie Morn.'

One tremendous old boar was killed here during one of our meets, which
was long celebrated in our after-dinner talks on boars and hunting. It
was called 'THE LUNGRA,' which means the cripple, because it had been
wounded in the leg in some previous encounter, perhaps in its hot
youth, before age had stiffened its joints and tinged its whiskers with
grey. It was the most undaunted pig I have ever seen. It would not