 | Sea Songs |  |
121
THE CHASE.
Tally-ho! tally-ho! the huntsman cries
As the pack on the scent he throws;
Tally-ho! each red-coat after him hies
And o'er fallow and five-bar goes;
But we, boys, we
Who ride the salt sea,
A nobler sport we know
When the sail-packed mast
Strains to the blast
In our chase of a scarce-seen foe.
As the pack on the scent he throws;
Tally-ho! each red-coat after him hies
And o'er fallow and five-bar goes;
But we, boys, we
Who ride the salt sea,
A nobler sport we know
When the sail-packed mast
Strains to the blast
In our chase of a scarce-seen foe.
122
Tally-ho! tally-ho! 'tis good to ride
With your cheeks by the morning kissed,
While a good mare lifts you with rattling stride
Through the silvery morning mist:
But a flying fox,
Can he give and take knocks
As on, for a brush, you go?
Can he give you his guns
As from you he runs
And shot at his huntsmen throw?
So we, boys, we
Who ride the salt sea
The noblest sport we know
When the shot whistle fast
By sail and mast
As we're chasing a fighting foe.
With your cheeks by the morning kissed,
While a good mare lifts you with rattling stride
Through the silvery morning mist:
But a flying fox,
Can he give and take knocks
As on, for a brush, you go?
Can he give you his guns
As from you he runs
And shot at his huntsmen throw?
So we, boys, we
Who ride the salt sea
The noblest sport we know
When the shot whistle fast
By sail and mast
As we're chasing a fighting foe.
Tally-ho! tally-ho! it's sport to win
Red Reynard's bristling brush
When at last the whooping whipper-in
Saves the prize from the pack's fierce rush;
But your chase of miles,
But wakes our smiles,
For a hundred leagues we go,
And end with a brush
And our boarders' rush
Ere our own is the fighting foe.
Oh! we, boys, we
Who ride the salt sea
The noblest sport we know
When the flag of the chase
To our own gives place
And a prize is our well-fought foe.
Red Reynard's bristling brush
When at last the whooping whipper-in
Saves the prize from the pack's fierce rush;
But your chase of miles,
But wakes our smiles,
For a hundred leagues we go,
And end with a brush
And our boarders' rush
Ere our own is the fighting foe.
123
Who ride the salt sea
The noblest sport we know
When the flag of the chase
To our own gives place
And a prize is our well-fought foe.
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