Hunting Song

Ye darksome Woods where Echo dwells, Where every bud with freedom swells To meet the glorious day: The morning breaks; again rejoice; And with old Ringwood's well-known voice Bid tuneful Echo play.

We come, ye Groves, ye Hills, we come: The vagrant Fox shall hear: his doom, And dread our jovial train. The shrill Horn sounds, the courser flies, While every Sportsman joyful cries, 'There's Ringwood's voice again.'

Ye Meadows, hail the coming throng; Ye peaceful Streams that wind along, Repeat the Hark-away: Far o'er the Downs, ye Gales that sweep, The daring Oak that crowns the steep, The roaring peal convey.

The chiming notes of chearful Hounds, Hark! how the hollow Dale resounds; The sunny Hills how gay. But where's the note, brave Dog, like thine? Then urge the Steed, the chorus join, 'Tis Ringwood leads the way.

LUCY:

A Song.

Thy favourite Bird is soaring still: My Lucy, haste thee o'er the dale; The Stream's let loose, and from the Mill All silent comes the balmy gale; Yet, so lightly on its way, Seems to whisper 'Holiday.'

The pathway flowers that bending meet And give the Meads their yellow hue, The May-bush and the Meadow-sweet Reserve their fragrance all for you. Why then, Lucy, why delay? Let us share the Holiday.

Since there thy smiles, my charming Maid, Are with unfeigned rapture seen, To Beauty be the homage paid; Come, claim the triumph of the Green. Here's my hand, come, come away; Share the merry Holiday.

A promise too my Lucy made, (And shall my heart its claim resign?) That ere May-flowers again should fade, Her heart and hand should both be mine. Hark 'ye, Lucy, this is May; Love shall crown our Holiday.