 | Hunting Songs |  |
Hunting Song.
I
Of all the recreations with which mortal man is blest,Go where he will, fox-hunting still is pleasantest and best;
The hunter knows no sorrow here, the cup of life to him,
A bumper bright of fresh delight fill'd sparkling to the brim.
Away, away we go,
With a tally, tally ho,
With a tally, tally, tally, tally, tally, tally-ho!
O! is it not—O! is it not—a spirit-stirring sound,
The eager notes from tuneful throats that tell a fox is found?
O! is it not—O! is it not—a pleasant sight to see
The chequer'd pack, tan, white, and black, fly scudding o'er the lea?
156
O! is it not—O! is it not—a pleasant sight to see
The chequer'd pack, tan, white, and black, fly scudding o'er the lea?
Chorus.
How keen their emulation in the bustle of the burst,
When side by side the foremost ride, each struggling to be first;
Intent on that sweet music which in front delights their ear,
The sobbing loud of the panting crowd they heed not in the rear.
When side by side the foremost ride, each struggling to be first;
Intent on that sweet music which in front delights their ear,
The sobbing loud of the panting crowd they heed not in the rear.
Chorus.
The field to all is open, whether clad in black or red,
O'er rail and gate the feather-weight may thrust his thorough-bred;
While heavier men, well mounted, though not foremost in the fray,
If quick to start and stout of heart, need not be far away.
O'er rail and gate the feather-weight may thrust his thorough-bred;
While heavier men, well mounted, though not foremost in the fray,
If quick to start and stout of heart, need not be far away.
Chorus.
157
And since that joy is incomplete which Beauty shuns to share,
Or maid or bride, if skill'd to ride, we fondly welcome there;
Where woodland hills our music fills and echo swells the chorus,
Or when we fly with a scent breast high, and a galloping fox before us.
Or maid or bride, if skill'd to ride, we fondly welcome there;
Where woodland hills our music fills and echo swells the chorus,
Or when we fly with a scent breast high, and a galloping fox before us.
Chorus.
1868.
| Hunting Songs | |