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It is not for ourselves we shoot,

'Tis to oblige our neighbours;
And when they eat, they may debate
On the produce of our labours,

When a shooting, &c.

Of shooting, then, let us partake;

What pastime is so pleasant ?
The partridge gone, we'll charge each gun,
And so proceed to pheasant,

When a shooting, &c.

And when those seasons they are o'er,

Perchance, if we've good luck,
We'll take the chase, and never cease
Till we have shot a buck,

When a shooting, &c.

How sumptuously we then shall feast,

On ven’son steep'd in wine;
On dainties rare, how we shall fare,
Like Alexanders dine!

When a shooting, &c.

In friendship and in harmony,

Let's join in social bands;
And try who most his friend can toast,
And so unite our hands.

And a shooting, &c.

The chorus or burden of this and the following song appears to have been a great favourite with the popular writers of the last century. It has been reproduced in an almost countless number of songs, upon every variety of subject. The liberality of the sportsmen of former days, mentioned in the fourth stanza, might well be imitated by their mercenary successors,

A HUNTING WE WILL GO.

HENRY FIELDING, born 1707, died 1754.

The dusky night rides down the sky,

And ushers in the morn ;
The hounds all join in glorious cry,
The huntsman winds his horn.

And a hunting we will go.

The wife around her husband throws

Her arms to make him stay:
My dear, it rains, it hails, it blows;
You cannot hunt to-day.”

Yet a hunting we will go.

Away they fly to 'scape the rout,

Their steeds they soundly switch;
Some are thrown in, and some thrown out,
And some thrown in the ditch.

Yet a hunting we wiil go.

Sly Reynard now like lightning flies,

And sweeps across the vale;
And when the hounds too near he spies,
He drops his bushy tail.

Then a hunting we will go.

Fond echo seems to like the sport.

And join the jovial cry;
The woods, the hills, the sound retort,
And music fills the sky.

When a hunting we do go.

At last his strength to faintress worn,

Poor Reynard ceases flight;
Then hungry, homeward we return,
To feast away the night.

And a drinking we do go.

Ye jovial hunters, in the morn

Prepare then for the chase;
Rise at the sounding of the horn,
And health with sport embrace.

When a hunting we do go.

There are several versions of this song, of various degrees of length and of merit. “This song,' says Mr. Chappell, in his collection of national English airs,“ was originally to the tune of Ă begging we will go (1660).” The words by Fielding are contained in his ballad opera of“ Don Quixote in England," but have been since somewhat altered.

TOM MOODY.

Words by ANDREW CHERRY. The music by WM. SHIELD.

You all knew Tom Moody, the whipper-in, well;
The bell just done tolling was honest Tom's knell;
A more able sportsman ne'er follow'd a hound
Through a country well known to him fifty miles round.
No hound ever open’d with Tom near the wood,
But he'd challenge the tone, and could tell if 'twere good;
And all with attention would eagerly mark,
When he cheer'd up the pack, “Hark! to Rookwood, hark! hark!

High !-wind him! and cross him!
Now, Rattler, boy!—Hark!”

Six crafty earth-stoppers, in hunter's-green drest,
Supported poor Tom to an earth” made for rest;
His horse, which he styled his Old Soul, next appear'd,
On whose forehead the brush of his last fox was rear'd;
Whip, cap, boots, and spurs, in a trophy were bound,
And here and there follow'd an old straggling hound.
Ah! no more at his voice yonder vales will they trace,
Nor the welkin resound to his burst in the chase!

With “ High over !—now press him!
Tally-ho !

-Tally-ho!”

Thus Tom spoke his friends ere he gave up his breath“Since I see you're resolv'd to be in at the death,

One favour bestow~'tis the last I shall crave,-
Give a rattling view-halloo thrice over my grave;
And unless at that warning I lift up my head,
My boys you may fairly conclude I am dead!"
Honest Tom was obey'd, and the shout rent the sky,
For every voice join'd in the tally-ho cry-

Tally-ho! Hark forward !
Tally-ho! Tally-ho!"

THE CRICKETER.

Anonymous. Eighteenth Century,

To live a life free from gout, pain, or phthisic,
Athletic employment is found the best physic;
The nerves are by exercise harden'd and strengthen'd,
And vigour attends it, by which life is lengthen'd.

Derry down, &c.

What conduces to health deserves commendation,
'Twill entail a strong race on the next generation ;
And of all the field-games ever practised or known,
That cricket stands foremost each Briton must own.

Derry down, &c.

Let dull pensive souls boast the pleasure of angling, And o'er ponds and brooks be eternally dangling; Such drowsy worm-killers are fraught with delight, If but once in a week they obtain a fair bite.

Derry down, &c.

The cricketer, noble in mind as in merit,
A taste for oppression can never inherit;
A stranger to swindling, he never would wish
To seduce by false baits and betray a poor fish.

Derry down, &c.

No stings of remorse hurts the cricketer's mind,
To innocent animals never unkind,

The guiltless his doctrine is ever to spare,
Averse to the hunting or killing the hare.

Derry down, &c.
To every great duke, and to each noble lord,
Let each fill his glass with most hearty accord;
And to all brother knights, whether absent or present,
Drink health and success, from the peer to the peasant.

Derry down, &c.

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Now hark! the woodland haunt is found !
For now the merry bugles sound

Their sylvan lay:
As each sweet measure floats along,
Sweet Echo wakes her inimic song

Far away

The stag now rous'd right onward speeds;
O’er hill and dale, o'er moor and meads,

He's fain to stray ;
His flight the shouting peasants view;
His steps the dashing hounds pursue,

Far away.

All day untir'd, his route we trace,
Exulting in the joyous chase

Of such a day!
At length, at mild eve's twilight gleam,
He's taken in the valley stream

Far away.

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