A HUNTING WE WILL GO.

The dusky night rides down the sky, And ushers in the morn; The hounds all join in glorious cry, The huntsman winds his horn. And a hunting we will go.

The wife around her husband throws Her arms to make him stay: "My dear, it rains, it hails, it blows; You cannot hunt to-day." Yet a hunting we will go.

Away they fly to 'scape the rout, Their steeds they soundly switch; Some are thrown in, and some thrown out, And some thrown in the ditch. Yet a hunting we will go.

Sly Reynard now like lightning flies, And sweeps across the vale; And when the hounds too near he spies, He drops his bushy tail. Then a hunting we will go.

Fond echo seems to like the sport, And join the jovial cry; The woods, the hills the sound retort, And music fills the sky. When a hunting we do go.

At last his strength to faintness worn, Poor Reynard ceases flight; Then hungry, homeward we return, To feast away the night. And a drinking we do go.

Ye jovial hunters, in the morn Prepare then for the chase; Rise at the sounding of the horn And health with sport embrace. When a hunting we do go.

Henry Fielding.