Bards call themselves a heav'nly race

Bards call themselves a heav'nly race,
Topers find heaven in wine,
We truly boast, who love the chase,
An origin divine.
The deities all hunters are:
Great Jove, who spends his life
In hunting of the willing fair,
Is hunted by his wife.
Then come and wake the drowsy morn,
While the swift game we follow;
The feather'd throng and tuneful horn
Shall join the hunter's hollow.

Gay Bacchus, on his tun, that hack,
Toasts for view hollows gives,
While Mercury, with his Bow-street pack,
Scours heav'n to hunt for thieves;
Bold Mars, a blood hound, hunts for fame,
Nor, till its latest breath,
Will he e'er leave the panting game,
But comes in at the death.
Then come, &c.

Diana in her sacred grove
Saw rash Acteon near,
And though she seemed to scorn his love,
She took him for her deer:
Yet vex'd to think this hint so sly
On the fool she could not pass,
From his own hounds she made him fly,
And kill'd him for an ass.
Then come, &c.

Great Juno, wretched restless fair,
On jealous fury bent,
Still in full cry is hunting care,
And still on a wrong scent;
Indeed the fair oft mount their nag,
By the hunting mania struck,
And if Acteon was a stag,
Poor Vulcan was a buck.
Then come, &c.