A Roman Tribute
But can you waft across the British tide
And land undangered on the further side,
O what great gains will certainly redound
From a free traffic in the British hound.
Mind not the badness of their forms or face —
That the sole blemish of the gen'rous race.
When the bold game turns back upon the spear.
And all the Furies wait upon the war.
First in the fight the whelps of Britain shine,
And snatch, Epirus, all the palm from thine.
Would you chase the deer.
Or urge the motions of the smaller hare.
Let the brisk greyhound of the Celtic name
Bound o'er the glebe and show his painted frame.
Swift as the wing that sails adown the wind.
Swift as the wish that darts along the mind.
The Celtic greyhound sweeps the level lea,
Eyes as he strains and stops the flying prey.
But should the game elude his watchful eyes
No nose sagacious tells him where it lies.