Song CXVII. a Hunting Song

The Sun from the East tips the Mountains with Gold, And the Meadows all spangled with Dew-drops behold, Hear the Lark's early Mattin proclaims the new Day, And the Horns cheerful Summons rebuke our delay With the Sports of the Field there's no Pleasure can vie, While jocound we follow the Hounds in full Cry.

Let the Drudge of the Town make Riches his Sport, And the Slave of the State hunt the Smiles of the Court, No Care nor Ambition our Patience annoy, But Innocence still gives it rest to our Joy.

Mankind are all Hunters in various degree, The Priest hunts a Living, the Lawers a Fee, The Doctor a Patient, the Courtier a Place, Tho' often (like us) they're flung out with Disgrace.

The Cit hunts a Plumb, while the Soldiers hunts Fame, The Poet a Dinner, the Patroit a Name; And the artful Coquet tho' she seem, to refuse, Yet in spite of her Airs she her Lover pursues.

Let the Bold and the Busy hunt Glory and Wealth, All the Blessings we ask is the Blessing of Health; With Hounds and with Horns to the Woodlands to roam, And when tir'd abroad, find Contentment at home.