Page:A Selection of Original Songs, Scraps, Etc., by Ned Farmer (3rd ed.).djvu/111

 

A dog fox is running his hardest to find
A place to be safe in; the pack is behind,
With their heads in the air and their "sterns" drooping down,
At a rate that will soon do the cocktails all brown.
No bullfinch can frighten or timber appal;
We heed not a damper, nor care for a fall.

The pace is terrific, and burning the scent,
The pack cease their music by common consent,
Except now and then a stray challenge is heard,
The leading hound streaming away like a bird;
The tailing is awful, as you may expect,
And with "purling" and "pumping" the field gets select.

A good fifty minutes, yet still he's not done,
Pinks call for their second to finish the run;
Poor Reynard just now, though, has nothing to brag on,
His brush has got daggled, and put him the drag on;
He plays all he knows, but they race him in view,
And he dies in the open, as "good 'uns" should do.

The huntsman is rating away like a Turk,
He's off and among them, his whip is at work;
He's lifted poor Charley above his head high,
And "whoo-hoop!" mid the baying of hounds rends the sky;
The "bell-pull," as trophy, is kept to preserve,
And the hounds eat the fox they so richly deserve.

Whoo-hoop! whoo-hoop! whoo-hoop! whoo-hoop!
And the hounds eat the fox they so richly deserve.