The Echoing Horn

The echoing horn calls the sportsmen abroad, To horse, my brave boys, and away; The morning is up, and the cry of the hounds Upbraids our too tedious delay.

What pleasure we find in pursuing the fox! O'er hill and o'er valley he flies; Then follow, we'll soon overtake him—huzza! The traitor is seiz'd on and dies.

Triumphant, returning at night with the spoil, Like Bacchanals, shouting and gay, How sweet with the bottle and lass to refresh, And lose the fatigues of the day!

With sport, love, and wine, fickle fortune defy: Dull wisdom all happiness sours: Since life is no more than a passage at best, Let's strew the way over with flow'rs.