OLD TOWLER.
Bright Chanticlear proclaims the dawn,
And spangles deck the thorn,
The lowling herds now quit the lawn,
The lark springs from the corn;
Dogs, huntsmen, round the window throng,
Fleet Towler leads the cry;
Arise the burden of my song,
This day a stag must die.
And spangles deck the thorn,
The lowling herds now quit the lawn,
The lark springs from the corn;
Dogs, huntsmen, round the window throng,
Fleet Towler leads the cry;
Arise the burden of my song,
This day a stag must die.
With a hey, ho, chevy,
Hark forward, hark forward, tantivy,
Hark, hark, tantivy,
This day a stag must die.
Hark forward, hark forward, tantivy,
Hark, hark, tantivy,
This day a stag must die.
The cordial takes its merry round,
The laugh and joke prevail,
The huntsman blows a jovial sound,
The dogs snuff up the gale;
The upland winds they sweep along
O’er fields, through brakes they fly,
The game is roused, too true the song,
This day a stag must die.
The laugh and joke prevail,
The huntsman blows a jovial sound,
The dogs snuff up the gale;
The upland winds they sweep along
O’er fields, through brakes they fly,
The game is roused, too true the song,
This day a stag must die.
Poor stag! the dogs thy haunches gore,
The tears run down thy face,
The huntsman’s pleasure is no more,
His joys were in the chace;
Alike the generous sportsman burns
To win the blooming fair,
But yet he honours each by turns,
They each become his care.
The tears run down thy face,
The huntsman’s pleasure is no more,
His joys were in the chace;
Alike the generous sportsman burns
To win the blooming fair,
But yet he honours each by turns,
They each become his care.