When we bid a farewell to the season and turn out our hunters to grass, ‘twould be surely the blackest of treason to go without filling a glass.  To the men who have furthered our pastime by lending their fields for the fun! Here’s ‘The Farmers!’ – Once, twice, and a last time – And ‘Grandfather, father, and son!’ …………………………..From the rattling good day in November; Up to yesterday’s wonderful burst, there is scarcely a run we remember when a farmer was other than first, it’s because when the pace becomes clinking they can ride with us second to none that we drink – with our hearts in the drinking – ‘The Farmers! – Sire, grandsire, and son!’

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