Each Pleasure to Hunting Must Yield

Ye sportsmen for pleasure and exercise born, For shame, leave your beds, and arise with the morn, The Goddess Diana leads forth to the chace, And day, my brave fellows, breaks on us apace; The morn is a fine one, right healthy and clear, Fine sport will attend us, my boys, never fear. And now we're all ready, huzza! for the field, Each pleasure to hunting, &c.

Our steeds are sure-footed, our dogs staunch and good, Prepar'd to encounter with lake, fence, and wood, Now, Reynard, have at ye; the hounds have the scent, And eager for blood, on destruction are bent. Hark! hark! how the clamour resounds thro' the spheres, The glorious confusion enraptures the ears; Old Crafty still heads them the length of a field, Each pleasure to hunting, sweet hunting must yield. Each pleasure to hunting, &c.

By Nimrod, how charming the chace does improve! Hills, vallies, and mountains apparently move; The fox is a stager, how daring he flies! Dogs, horses, and huntsmen, the brusher defies: But, see, how he trembles, and halts to gain breath, Now nothing can save him from imminent death; The harriers have seiz'd him, what shouts rend the field! Each pleasure to hunting, sweet hunting must yield. Each pleasure to hunting, &c.