The Ecchoing horn

The ecchoing horn calls the Sportsmen abroad

To horse, my brave Boys, and away

The morning is up and the Cry of the hounds

Upbraids our too tedious Delay.

What Pleasure We find in pursuing the Fox

O’er hills and o’er Valleys he flies

Then follow, W’ell soon overtake him. Huzza

The Traitor is seized on and dies.

Tryumphant returning at night with our Spoils

Like Bacchanals shouting and gay

How Sweet with a Bottle and Lass to refresh

And loose the Fatigues of the Day.

With Sport, Love and Wine fickle Fortune defy

Dull Wisdom all Happiness sours

Since Life is no more than a Passage at best

Let’s strew the Way over with Flowers.