copyright, Kellscraft Studio, 1999
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A HUNTING WE WILL GO


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 will 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 faintness 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 them for the chase;
Rise at the sounding of the horn
     And health with sport embrace.
          When a hunting we do go.

                                 HENRY FIELDING



 
copyright, Kellscraft Studio, 1999
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