Hunting Songs, &c.

CAN TАТА.

RECITATIVE.

"TWAS

VAS rofy morn, when chafte Diana bright,
From balmy flumbers springing light,

Wak'd all her nymphs from pleasing rest,

And thus her sylvan train addrefs'd:

AIR.

From this high mount with me defcend,
And now to the joys of the chace,-
O'er hills and dales our flight we bend,
And match the fleet stag in our pace.

My filver bow is ready ftrung,-
My golden quiver graceful hung:
Away, my nymphs, away,—

Let fhouts to the welkin refound;
And the who strikes the deftin'd prey,
Shall Queen of the Forest be crown'd.

Yoix! yoix! tally-o!

After Reynard we go,

While echo on echo redoubles the fong.

CHо. We waken the woods, &c.

II.

Not the steeds of the fun

Our brave courfers outrun,

O'er the mound, horfe & hound, fee us bound in full cry;

Like Phoebus we rize

To the heights of the skies,

And careless of danger five bars we defy.

CHо. We waken the woods, &c.

III.

At eve, Sir, we rush,

And are hard at his bruff,

Already he dies,--see him panting for breath.

Each feat and defeat

We renew and repeat,

Regardless of life, fo we're in at the death.

CHо. We waken the woods, &c.

Y

IV.

With a bottle at night,

We prolong the delight;

Much Trimbush we praife, & the deeds that were done. And yoix! tally-o!

Next morning we go

With Phoebus to end-as we mount with the fun.

HUNTING SON G.

THE

RECITATIVE.

HE whift'ling ploughman hails the blushing dawn,
The thrush melodious drowns the ruftic note;

Loud fings the blackbird through refounding groves,
And the lark foars to meet the rising fun.

AIR.

Away, to the copfe lead away;

And now, my boys, throw off the hounds;

I'll warrant he fhews us fome play:

See yonder he skulks through the grounds. Then spurn your brisk courfers, and smoke 'em, my bloods;

"Tis a delicate fcent-lying morn :

What concert is equal to thofe of the woods,

Betwixt echo, the hounds, and the horn?

Each earth fee he tries at in vain,
In cover no safety can find;

So he breaks it, and fcours amain,
And leaves us at diftance behind.

O'er rocks, o'er rivers, and hedges we fly,
All hazard and danger we fcorn;

Stout Reynard we'll follow until that he die;
Chear up the good dogs with the horn.

And now he scarce creeps through the dale,-
All parch'd from his mouth hangs his tongue;
His fpeed can no longer avail,

Nor his life can his cunning prolong.

From our ftaunch and fleet pack 'twas in vain that

he fled,

See his brush falls bemir'd, forlorn;

The farmers with pleasure behold him lie dead,
And fhout to the found of the horn.

A

HUNTING SON G.

WAY to the field, fee the morning looks grey, And, fweetly bedappl'd, forbodes a fine day; The hounds are all eager the sports to embrace, And carol aloud to be led to the chace,