THIS superior horse was bred by Mr. Sadler, of Houghton Down, near Stockbridge, whose property he now is, and was foaled in 1824. He is full sized; his colour a rich brown, with black legs; he has a beautiful blood-like head and neck, fine oblique shoulders, shews great power in his back, loins, and quarters, with large thighs, displaying much muscle, good legs and feet, and possesses a fine temper. He is by Whalebone, out of Defiance (dam of Dangerous, winner of the Derby, in 1833,) by Rubens; her dam Little Folly, by Highland Fling; Harriet, by Volunteer; her dam Lady Sarah's dam by Alfred, out of Magnolia, by Marske; Babraham, Sedbury, Childers, &c. &c.

Defence is the sire of Defensive; Defender (sold to Lord George Bentinck, as a foal, at a large price); Deception, winner of the Oaks, 1839, sold to Fulwar Craven, Esq. for 1,000 gs. (and half her engagements), when two years old; Challenger, Combat, Bulwark, Lallah Rookh, Defendant (sold, at two years old, to the Earl of Lichfield, for 1,500 gs.), and many other first-rate horses; and is the only sire that combines the valuable blood of Whalebone and Rubens: he stands at Mr. Sadler's farm, adjoining the town of Stockbridge.

The engraving is from a picture (by Spalding) the property of Robert Jessett, Esq. (of Beech Grove, near Winchester) to whom we are indebted for the portrait of a horse whose stock has turned out so excellent, and realized such extraordinary prices. Defence is blind of both eyes.

HUNTING SONG.

COME, finish your breakfasts, don't let the hacks wait,
With a sure finding meet, it won't do to be late;
Though the morning looks foggy, no fear for the day,
For the south wind is rising to clear it away.

Refresh'd by the ride, at the cover we stand,

And salute our old pals with a shake of the hand;
Through the strong gorse the gallant pack dashes with scorn,
Whilst echo, delighted, responds to the horn.

Our spirits rise high, but we stifle their mirth,
For a whimper is heard as we lighten our girth;
Each nerve seems on fire,—the oldest, a boy,—
And our coursers stare wildly and tremble with joy.

"Hark! Harbinger hits it, 'tis good, for a pound!
Wind him in there! have at him! yoi at him! good hound!
Tally-ho! zounds, don't head him!"-Away Reynard steals,
And with one crashing chorus the pack's at his heels.

The good 'uns are off, 'tis a regular race,

Whig ne'er was more anxious to keep a good place;
Who cares for a yawner,-who thinks of his neck,
When the scent is too good for the chance of a check?

The field soon gets thinner, the nervous heart fails
At the crashing of hedges, and cracking of rails;
Some look cool at the brook, others quail just too late
To escape a good ducking, and merit their fate.

Now clear of the yokels, what heroes we seem,
As upland and valley float by like a dream:
A fico for steaming! can mortal invent
Aught to set us a-going like hounds with a scent.

But the pace is severe, forty minutes are gone,
And panting, yet dauntless, we scarce stagger on.
Hah! a burster-no matter-for Reynard's in view,
Dead beat, without shelter, his moments are few.

The rascal tries dodging, but cunning is vain ;
A short struggle with odds, puts an end to his pain.
And proud are the few of that mud-spattered group,
Who are present to join in the glorious who-whoop!
Now homeward return'd, in bright bumpers of port,
Let us drink to the Queen, and all lovers of sport.
And one toast forget not, on any pretence,