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Hark! the horn, bring my horse, see, they're ready to

start, Tally ho! at the dawning of day.

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The sun from the east tips the mountains with gold,
And the meadows all spangled with dew-drops behold;
The lark's early matin proclaims the new day,
And the horn's cheerful summons rebukes our delay:
. With the sports of the field there's no pleasure can

While jocund we follow the hounds in full cry.
Let the drudge of the town make riches his sport,
And the slave of the state hunt the smiles of the court;
Nor care nor ambition our patience annoy,
But innocence still gives us zeal to our joy.

With the sports, &c.
Mankind are all hunters in varions degree;
The priest hunts a living, the lawyer a fee;
The doctor a patient, the courtier a place,
Though often, like uş, they're flung out with disgrace.

With the sports, &c.
The cit hunts a plum, the soldier hunts fame;
The poet a dinner, the patriot a name;
And the artful coquette, though she seems to refuse,
Yet, in spite of her airs, she her lover pursues.

With the sports, &c.
Let the bold and the busy hunt glory and wealth,
All the blessing we ask, is the blessing of health;
With hounds and with horns, through the woodlands to

And when tired abroad, find contentment at home.

With the sports, &c.

BRIGHT PHEBUS. BRIGHT Phæbus has mounted the chariot of day, And the hounds and the horns call each sportsman

away; Through meadows and woods with speed now they

bound, Whilst health, rosy health, is in exercise found

Hark! away, is the word to the sound of the horn,

And echo, blythe echo, makes jovial the morn. Each hill and each valley is lovely to view, While puss flies the covert, and dogs quick pursue, Behold where she flies o'er the wide spreading plain, While the loud open pack pursue her amain.

Hark! away, &c. At length puss is caught, and lies panting for breath, And the shout of the huntsman's the signal for death; No joys can delight like the sports of the field, To hunting all pleasure and pastime must yield.

Hark! away, &c.

TO THE CHASE. To the chase, to the chase, on the brow of the hill,

Let the hounds meet the sweet breathing morn, While full to the welkin their notes, clear and shrill,

Join the sound of the heart-cheering horn. What music celestial when urging the race,

Sweet echo repeats—to the chase! to the chase!
Our pleasure transports us, how gay flies the hour,

Sweet health and quick spirits attend;
Nor sweeter when ev’ning convenes to the bower,

And we meet the lov'd smile of a friend.
See the stag just before us! he starts at the cry!
He stops his strength fails speak, my friends

must he die.

His innocent aspect, while standing at bay,

His expression of anguish and pain,
All plead for compassion-your looks seem to say,

Let him bound o'er his forest again.
Quick, release him to dart o'er the neighboring plain;

Let him live-let him bound o'er the forest again.

THE FOX HUNTERS' ROUND. WHEN Sol from the east had illumined the sphere, And gilded the lawns and the riv’lets so clear, I rose from my bed, and like Richard, I'called For my horse, and my hounds, too, loudly I bawled, Hark forward! my boys, Billy Meadows, he cried: No sooner he spoke, but old Renard he spied; Overjoyed at the sight, we began for to skip; Tontoran went the horn: and smack went the whip. Tom Bramble scour'd forth, when, almost to his chin, O'erleaping a ditch-by the lord, he leaped in; When, just as it happ'd, but the sly master Ren Was sneakingly hastening to make to his den. Then away we pursued, brake, cover, and wood, Not quickest, nor thickest, our pleasures withstood! Soho! master Renard-Jack Rivers, he cried; Old Ren, you shall die, daddy Hawthorn replied. All gay as the lark, the green woodlands 'we traced, While the merry ton'd horn inspired as we chased? No longer poor Renard his strength could he boast, To the hounds he knocked under and gave up the


The sports of the field, when concluded and o’er,
We sound the horn back again over the moor;
At night take the glass, and most cheerily sing,
The fox-hunters' round, not forgetting the king.

AN ANGLER'S LIFE. AN angler's life has joys for me,

When blooming spring has clad the plain, Each spray then sounds with jocund glee,

For spring brings pleasure in her train. 'Tis then the angler's truest joy

To wander by the lonely stream; Success repays his mild employ,

And pleasure sheds her brightest beam. His finny, prey he gladly views,

The glittering dace, the spangled trout, The greedy pope with varying hues,

Together on the grass spread out. But trolling for the tyrant pike

He ever finds his greatest pride; This eager fish he joys to strike,

The monarch of the freshened tide. The angler envies no man's joys,

But his who gains the greatest sport, With peace he dwells far from the noise

And bustling grandeur of a court.

The bright rosy morning,
- Peeps over the hills;
With blushes adorning

The meadows and fields,
While the merry, merry horn,

Calls come, come away;
Awake froin your slumbers,

And hail the new day.
The stag rous'd before us,

Away seems to fly;

And pants to the chorus

Of hounds in full cry.
Then follow, follow, follow,

The musical chase;
Where pleasure and vigor,

And health all embrace.
The day's sport when over,

Makes the blood circle right;
And gives the brisk lover,

Fresh charms for the night.
Then let us, let us now enjoy,

All we can while we may;
Let love crown the night boys,

As our sports crown the day.

THE TIMID HARE. When morn 'twixt mountain and the sky

On tip-toe stands, how sweet to hear The hounds' melodious cheerful cry, As starts the game, possessed with fear;

O'er brook and brake

Our course we take,
The sportsman knows no grief or care;

· When sweet the horn,

Across the lawn,
Awakes the trembling timid hare.
Who panting flies, like freed from.pain,

As trembling, she resigns her breath,
The sportsman joyous, leaves the plain,
Well pleased to be in the death:

Then sweet the horn,

Across the lawn,
Re-echoes blithe both far and near;

O’er the meads and downs,

We know no bounds While coursing of the timid hare.

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