A Hunting Song

To the chace let's away the hounds are in sight,
And hark their full tones to the forest invite.
See they lead let's pursue
For the Fox is in view,
Hark away hark hark away
To the sport of the day.
Who'd tarry behind such joys being nigh
As the Fox full in sight, and the hounds full in cry.
O the joys of the chace,
See he slackens his pace,
See he pants as he flies,
Now he totters and dies.
Not long was the sport, but each joyous soul
In song shall renew it at night o'er the bowl.
Sly Reynard again shall die in the strain
While the sport breathing song,
We in chorus prolong
And cry while mirth beams on each health-speaking face
'No joys sure can equal the joys of the chace.'