If the sun's excessive heat Make our bodies swelter, We are still contented. Or we sometimes pass an hour Think and pray, Stops our breath: Other joys Are but toys, OLD TOWLER. Anonymous. Eighteenth century. The music by W. SHIELD. BRIGHT chanticleer proclaims the dawn, And spangles deck the thorn, The lowing herds now quit the lawn, The lark springs from the corn: Dogs, huntsmen, round the window throng, Fleet Towler leads the cry, Arise the burden of my song, This day a stag must die. With a hey, ho, chevy! Hark forward, hark forward, tantivy! Hark! hark! tantivy ! This day a stag must die. The cordial takes its merry round, The upland wilds they sweep along, With a hey, ho, &c. Poor stag! the dogs thy haunches gore, But yet he honours each by turns, They each become his care. With a hey, ho, &c. THE HIGH-METTLED RACER. CHARLES DIBDIN. SEE the course throng'd with gazers, the sports are begun, Pamper'd prancing, and pleased, his head touching his breast, Next Reynard's turn'd out, and o'er hedge and ditch rush While alike born for sports in the field or the course. Always sure to come thorough-a staunch and fleet horse; And when fairly run down, the fox yields up his breath, The high-mettled racer is in at the death. Grown aged, used up, and turn'd out of the stud, Lame, spavin'd, and wind-gall'd, but yet with some blood; Tell his dam won that sweepstakes, his sire won that race; At length, old and feeble, trudging early and late, THE season's in for partridges, Let's take our guns and dogs; It sha'nt be said that we're afraid Of quagmires or of bogs, When a shooting we do go, do go, do go. Now Flora she doth beat the scent, And after follows Phillis; Through hedge and brake the way let's take, For all our aim to kill is, When a shooting, &c. And should success attend us, What pleasure it will prove; Let's charge, and prime, and lose no time, While through the fields we rove, When a shooting, &c. |