A Cantata

Wak'd by the horn, Like the spring deck'd in green; Betimes in the morning the hunters are seen; With joy on each brow they enliven the place, And impatiently wait to join in the chase.

From his close covert rous'd, the stag swiftly flies, As the arrow that's shot from the bow; O'er rivers and mountains, all dangers defies, And fears nothing but man his worst foe. And now they chace him thro' the copse. Panting, struggling, see he drops! Hark, rude clamours rend the skies, While the dappled victim dies.

Thus Briton's sons in Harry's reign, Pursu'd the trembling Gaul; Thro' streams of blood, o'er hills of slain, And triumph'd in his fall, Now hostile foes alarm, Arm, arm, Britannia arm.

Then away to the Field, tis greet George gives the word, Quit the horn for the trumpet, the whip for the sword; Like our valiant forefathers, stern death let us face. Be as glorious in war, as we are in the chace.