Anonymous.
1850.
THREE HUNTING SONGS.
I.
Over the valley, over the level,
Through the wide jungle we'll ride like the devil!
Hark! for'ard a boar! Away we go,
Sit down and ride straight, Tally-ho! Tally-ho!
He's a true-bred one, none of your jinking.
Straight across country, no time for thinking.
The nullah in front yawns deep as hell,
But the boar's gone through—we must go as well.
The ditches and banks are wide and steep,
The earth is rotten, the water deep;
The boldest horseman holds his breath,
But he must cross it to see the death.
Over we go, the game's nearly done.
The field is gaining, the race is won;
An arm upraised, then a dash, a cheer
And the boar has felt the deadly spear.
See how he flashes his fiery eye
Ready to charge, to cut and die;
A boar that will charge like the light brigade
Is the bravest brute that e'er was made.
Swiftly he rushes panting and blowing,
Swifter the life-blood torrents are flowing.
Game to the last with defiant eye
In silent courage he falls to die.
Gentlemen, I won't detain you a minute,
I hope every glass has got something in it;
Come fill them up with a bumper more,
Are your glasses charged? Mr. Vice, the Boar!
