The London Hunt

THO' far from Field Sports, we will Field Sports apply,
Hark! hark! social Sportsmen, hark forward and try;
Nor think we want Game, tho' we're settl'd in Town,
It's Follies are Game, which we here will hunt down.

We break Cover first, and throw off 'mong the Great,
By Babblers surrounded, call'd Flatt'rers of State;
Whip them off, for they're vermin unworthy a chace,
Their Patron's dishonour, and Bounty's disgrace.

Like Pageants, the Nimrods of Nabobs behold!
Midst all they have purchas'd by strange gotten Gold;
Tho' large packs of Livery Couples they own,
When Conscience starts up, can they all hunt it down?

In French varnish'd chariots see Quacks drawn along,
Like Death, looking down on their Victims, the Throng;
With tales of their Med'cines each paper abounds,—
Hunt their Nostrums;—no, no!—they wou'd poison our hounds.

Disappointment against the Successful exclaims,
And Envy will always make Uproar call names.
Those pests of the public to Clamour make court,
To kennel such curs, for they only spoil sport.

The Outs 'gainst the Ins will for ever take aim,
And Ministers must be the Multitude's game;
'Tis Tempests and Tides which preserve the pure Sea,
We soon shou'd be stagnate if all shou'd agree.

Beat about for fresh sport, thro' yon' Hall let us draw,
It abounds in Black Game, and that Game is the Law;
Call the Dogs off I say,—there have nothing to do,—
If you meddle with them they'll soon turn and hunt you.

We're at fault, but whose is it? come, Sportsmen, try back,
Hark to Honesty, that's the prime hound in our pack;
We are all sound and staunch, for a brisk Burst prepare,
Talio! tis a Bumper,—fill free and drink fair.

Here's the Queen of our Hunt, 'tis Britannia's our boast;
Old England for ever! let that be the Toast;
See a fresh bottle starts, one view hollow;—huzza!
The Fox Brush, and Beauty's Brush, brush them away.