Hunting Song

The sun from the East tips the mountains with gold;
The meadows all spangled with dew-drops behold!
Hear! the lark's early matin proclaims the new day,
And the Horn's chearful summons rebukes our delay.
With the sports of the Field there's no pleasure can vye,
While jocund we follow the Hounds in full cry.

Let the Drudge of the Town still make Riches his sport
The Slave of the State hunt the smiles of a Court;
No care and ambition our pastime annoy,
But innocence still gives a zest to our joy.
With the sports, &c.

Mankind are all hunters in various degree;
The Priest hunts a Living—the Lawyer a Fee,
The Doctor a Patient—the Courtier a Place,
Though often, like us, he's flung-out in the chace.
With the sports, &c.

The Cit hunts a Plumb—while the Soldier hunts Fame,
The Poet a Dinner—the Patriot a Name;
And the practis'd Coquette, tho' she seems to refuse,
In spite of her airs, still her Lover pursues.
With the sports, &c.

Let the Bold and the Busy hunt Glory and Wealth;
All the blessing we ask is the blessing of Health,
With Hound and with Horn thro' the woodlands to roam,
And, when tired abroad, find Contentment at home.
With the sports of the Field there's no pleasure can vie,
While jocund we follow our Hounds in full cry.