SONG CXXI. A new HUNTING SONG

The Morning is charming, all Nature is gay, Away, my brave Boys, to your Horses away; For the Prime of your Pleasure, and questing the Hare, We have not so much as a Moment to spare. Hark! the lively toned Horn, how melodious it sounds, How melodious it sounds, To the musical Song, To the musical Song of the merry-mouth'd Hounds.

In yon Stubble Field we shall find her below; Sono! cries the Huntsman Hark to him Soho! See, see where she goes and the Hounds have a View; Such Harmony, Handel himself never knew;

Gates Hedges and Ditches to us are no Bounds, But the World is our own while we follow the Hounds.

Hold, Hold 'tis a double; hark, hey! Bowler, hey! If a thousand gainsay it a thousand shall lye; His Beauty surpasing his Truth has been try'd, At the Head of the Pack an infallible Guide;

At his Cry the wide Welking with Thunder resounds The Darking of Hunters the Glory of Hounds.

O'er Highlands and Lowlands and Woodlands we fly, Our Horses full speed and our Hounds in full cry So matcht in their Mouths and so even they run, Like the turn of the Spheres and the Race with the Sur

Health Joy and Fericity dance in the Rounds, And bless the gay Circle of Hunters and Hounds.

The old Hounds push Forward a very sure Sign That the Hare tho' a stout one begins to decline, A Chace of two Hours or more she has led, She's down, look about ye, they have her, where dead;

How glorious a Death to be honour'd with Sounds Of Horns, and a Shout to the Chorus of Hounds.

Here's a Health to all Hunters, and long be their Lives, May they never be crost by their Sweethearts or Wives; May they rule their own Passions, and ever at Rest. As the most happy Men, be they also the best:

And free from the Care, which the many surrounds Be happy at last, when they see no more Hounds.