The Chichester Pack

'Twas six in the morn and the sky wore a dapple-grey, Cheerly the horn through the village resounds, Old Morpheus now took his leave of my bed, And the vapours of slumber all hastily fled, Say, who would not rise when the huntsman cries hark-away, Sluggards to horse and join the sweet hounds.

Let urbanical prigs, grown feeble by revelling, Come and behold of what pleasure we taste, Each sportsman mounts up on his steed with such grace, While health paints a ruddiness over each face, They all bid defiance to impotent drivelling, Exercise makes the blood vivid and chaste.

How pleasant's the sound when the huntsman is hollowing, Near to the skirt of some echoing wood, Each horseman with eagerness joins in the cry, And the glorious clamour resounds to the sky, While stretch'd all along the poor victim lies wallowing, Farmers with pleasure exult in his blood.