The Echo, Song CI

No pastime, no sport can with hunting compare, Let each lad and each lass to the field then repair; While health, rosy health, with delight shall keep pace, And prove there's no joys like the joys of the chace: When the horn's sprightly notes calls the huntsman away, Tantivy, tantivy, hark forward, huzza, huzza.

Let fashion and scandal, and cards share the time, Of your fine London ladies who murder their prime; Give me the delights that enliven this place, While echo, re-echo'd, gives joy to the chace. Hark forward, tantivy, huzza.

O'er mountain, o'er valley, with speed haste away, No longer our innocent pastime delay: Aurora to welcome with bright ruddy face, Let echo, re-echo'd, give joy to the chace. Hark forward, tantivy, huzza.