Hark, hark ye, how echoes the horn…

Hark, hark ye, how echoes the horn in the vale, Whose notes do so sportingly dance on the gale, To charm us to barter for ignoble rest, The joys which true pleasure can raise in the breast: The morning is fair, and in labour with day, And the cry of the huntsman is hark, hark, away: Then wherefore defer we, one moment our joys? Haste, haste, let's away, so to horse, my brave boys.

What pleasure can equal the joys of the chase, Where meaner delights to more noble give place? While onward we press, and each sorrow defy, From valley to valley re-echoes the cry: Our joys are all sterling, no sorrows we fear, We bound o'er the lawn, and look back on old Care; Forgetful of labour we leap'd o'er the mounds. Led on by the horn, and the cry of the hounds.