Except the folks that's fast asleep

Except the folks that's fast asleep,
All nature now is waking,
Aurora at the world a peep
Is in her nightcap taking:
Hark all the tory rory boys,
Making a devil of a noise,
To cure the headach of last night
The paceable king's subjects fright,
And helter skelter come apace
To enjoy the pleasures of the chase.

How sweet to be, as on we rush,
By the pig-tail entangling,
Amidst a lovely torny bush,
Or on a tree left dangling!
Ah musha gra than wine or love
The joy of hunting's far above;
Can either Cupid or the bowl
Such pleasures give? ah by my soul!
Briars and torns may scratch your face,
Still great's the pleasure of the chase.

Then when our mettle's at its pitch,
While tally-ho we're bawling,
Safe landed in a muddy ditch
To be genteelly sprawling:
Ah musha gra than wine or love
The joy of hunting's far above;
Can either Cupid or the bowl
Such pleasure give? Ah by my soul!
Let muddy ditches wash your face,
Still great's the pleasure of the chase.

Then dripping like a drowning rat,
At night you would not think it,
What glorious wine, if it were not
We're too fatigued to drink it:
Ah bodder not of love and war,
The joy of hunting's greater sar;
Hark echo, in melodious tones,
Hollas, and whistles, and sings, and groans,
While many a broken sconce and face
Proclaim the pleasures of the chase.