Classic Poem

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.