The ecchoing horn calls the Sportsmen abroad
To horse, my brave Boys, and away
The morning is up and the Cry of the hounds
Upbraids our too tedious Delay.
What Pleasure We find in pursuing the Fox
O'er hills and o'er Valleys he flies
Then follow, W'ell soon overtake him. Huzza
The Traitor is seized on and dies.
Tryumphant returning at night with our Spoils
Like Bacchanals shouting and gay
How Sweet with a Bottle and Lass to refresh
And loose the Fatigues of the Day.
With Sport, Love and Wine fickle Fortune defy
Dull Wisdom all Happiness sours
Since Life is no more than a Passage at best
Let's strew the Way over with Flowers.