Classic Poem

Come rise , lads, and mount , the brisk fox-hunters cry,
We've got a strong SCENT and a favouring sky;
The horns sprightly notes and the larks early song ,
With their musick expose you for sleeping so long.

Bright Phaebus has shewn you a glimpse of his face,
Peeps in at your windows, and calls to the chace;
He soon will be up , for his dawn wears away,
And he'll make the field blush for your idle delay.

Sweet Molly may teaze you again to lie down,
And if you should leave her, perhaps she will frown ;
But tell her soft love must to hunting give place,
For as well as her charms there are charms in a chace .

A CTÆON the hunter , as poets suppose,
When bathing D IANA her charms did expose,
Grew wanton, and swore at the goddess he'd peep,
For who from the sight of such beauties could keep.

For his boldness, and fearing the peeper might brag,
Poor Actaeon her G O ESSHIP turn'd to a stag ;
Set his own hounds upon him, O terrible luck!
And has ever since dubb'd the young sportsman a Buck .

Then we'll over the hedges, nor stop at the gate,
Nor mind fearful riders of danger who prate:
N ECK or nothing , my boys, is the fox-hunters cry,
And Elysium 's our field , if in this we should die.

Look yonder, look yonder, O LD R EYNARD I see,
Sweet Flora and Chanter at his brush soon will be:
Hark forward , they've snapt him, look his eye-balls they rowl,
Let's be in at the death , then go home to our B OWL .

T HERE the chace we'll renew , fill a glass to the king,
From a bumper fresh sport and fresh duty will spring.
To great George peace and glory may heaven dispense,
And F OX-HUNTING flourish a thousand years hence.