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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 them for the chase; Rise at the sounding of the horn And health with sport embrace. When a hunting we do go. – HENRY FIELDING |
copyright, Kellscraft Studio, 1999 (Return to Web Text-ures) |
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