Hark ! The brave North-easter !
Breast-high lies the scent, On by holt and headland,
Over heath and bent. Chime, ye dappled darlings,
Through the sleet and snow. Who can over-ride you?
Let the horses go ! Chime, ye dappled darlings,
Down the roaring blast; You shall see a fox die
Ere an hour be past. Go ! and rest to-morrow,
Hunting in your dreams, While our skates are ringing
O'er the frozen streams. Let the luscious South-wind
Breathe in lovers' sighs, While the lazy gallants
Bask in ladies' eyes. What does he but soften
Heart alike and pen? 'Tis the hard grey weather
Breeds hard Knglish men. What's the soft South-wester?
'Tis the ladies' breeze, Bringing home their true-loves
Out of all the seas: But the black North-easter,
Through the snowstorm hurled, Drives our Knglish hearts of oak
Seaward round the world.
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