A FOX, a fox, up gallants to the fields! List to the merry cry that sweetness yields; Jove's high-bred boy rides mounted on a tun; Selenia makes his lazy ass to run In pursuit of the chase, With which may none compare, Neither for four miles race, Nor hunting of the hare. Join Music to the cry, that hollow rocks May echo forth the hunting of the fox. The fox hath lost the field and left the town, And up your barley hill scours up and down: With fear enforced, weak Reynard seems to daunt The courage of the warlike Elephant; But hark! the horns do blow, And all the huntsmen shout; There goes the game, I know, But Tickler drives him out. Join Music to the cry, that hollow rocks May echo forth the hunting of the fox. Ride, ride, St George, he's stole into the bush, Old swag-pot makes him straight from thence to rush; Then creeps into the vine, and there doth earth; O heavenly cry, exceeding earthly mirth! Hark! Youland and Pottle, Old Gusquin and Rainsbolt, But hark how Pim doth tattle Now he's got to the hole! Join Music to the cry, that hollow rocks May echo forth the hunting of the fox. The fox, quite spent, about the town he reels, And now in view he's followed at the heels; Then climbs the tree—that climbing was his fall, And to that fall came in the huntsmen all: Then Sug, and Soot, Swilback, Cavil, and speckled Dyer, Toss, Swagger, and Spendall Tug him through dirt and mire; Now join our horn and voices all, that hollow rocks May echo forth the hunting of the fox. |