A hunting Song

The sun from the east tips the mountains with gold, And the mead was all spangled with drew-drops behold: The larks early mattin proclaims the new day, And the horn's cheerful summons rebukes our delay: With the sports of the field there's no pleasures can vie, While jocund we follow the hounds in full cry.

Let the drudge of the town make riches his sport, And the slaves of the state hunt the smiles of the court: No care nor ambition our patience annoy, But innocence still gives a zest to our joy. With the sports of the field, &c.

Mankind are all hunters in various degrees; The priest hunts a living, the lawyer his fees; The doctor a patient, the courtier a place— Tho' often, like us, they're flung out with disgrace. With the sports of the field, &c.

The cit hunts a plumb, the soldier hunts fame; The poet a dinner, the patriot a name; And the artful coquette, tho' she seems to refuse, Yet, in spite of her airs, she her lover pursues. With the sports of the field, &c.

Let the bold and the busy hunt glory and wealth— All the blessing we ask, is the blessing of health: With hounds and with horns, thro' the woodlands we roam, And when tir'd abroad, find contentment at home. With the sports of the field there's no pleasures can vie, While jocund we follow the hounds in full cry.