( 47 )
A CANTATA.
RECITATIVE.
THE whittling ploughman hails the blufningdawn, The thru ih melodious drowns the ruftic note, Loud (ings the blackbird tiiro' refounding groves, And the lark fours to meet the rifing fun.
AIR.
Away, to your copfe lead away ; And now, my boys, thro AT otf the hounds ;
I'll warrant he mews us feme plav, See, yonder hefkulks thro' the grounds Then fpur your brifk courfers, and Imokc 'enft my
bloods,
'Tis a delicate fcent-lyingfnorn; What confort is equal to thofe of the woods, Betwixt echo, the hounds and the horn.
Each earth fee he tries at in vain, In covert no fafety can find ;
So he breaks it, and fcours amain, And leaves us at diftance behind. O'er rocks, and o'er rivers, and hedges we fly,
All hazards and dangers we fcorn ; Stout Reynard we'll r oilow untill that he die j
Cheer up the good uogs with the horn.
And now I e fcarxe creeps thro* the dale,
See his brufli, how it drops ! fee his tongue !
His fpeed an no longer avail ;
Wi.o of late wa^ fo cuiii-.ing and ftrong
From our (launch and fleet pack, 'twas in vain that he fled,
See they tear him bemir'd forlorn
Tiu' farmers with pleafme behold him lie dead, And fiiout to tue iouna of tire horn.
HOW
�� �
