The Charmer, Recitative

The whistling ploughman hails the blushing dawn, The thrush melodious drowns th' rustic note; Loud sings the blackbird thro' resounding groves, And the lark soars to meet the rising sun.

Away, to the copse lead away, And now, my boys, throw off the hounds; I'll warrant he shows us some play; See, yonder he skulks thro' the grounds.

Then spur your brisk coursers, and smoke 'em, my bloods, 'Tis a delicate scent-lying morn: What concert is equal to those of the woods, Betwixt echo, the hounds, and the horn!

Each earth he tries at in vain, In cover no safety can find; So he breaks it and scours amain, And leaves us a distance behind.

O'er rocks, and o'er rivers, and hedges we fly, All hazard and danger we scorn; Stout Reynard we'll follow until that he die; Cheer up the good dogs with the horn.

And now he scarce creeps thro' the dale, All parch'd from his mouth hangs his tongue; His speed can no longer avail, Nor his life can his cunning prolong.

From our staunch and fleet pack, 'twas in vain that he fled, See his brush falls bemir'd, forlorn; The farmers with pleasure behold him lie dead. And shout to the sound of the horn.