It soothes the mind to sweetest rest,

Or savage thoughts might there entwine; Thus he alone is truly blest,

Whose joys are hunting, love, and wine. "Tis wine exhilarates the heart, When sinking under sorrow's smart; 'Tis that can ease the wretch's woe, And heighten ev'ry bliss we know. But wine's abuse makes man a beast, Be all with moderation mine; Life will appear one endless feast,

While blest with hunting, love, and wine.

From "Songs of the Chase," 1810.

YE darksome woods where Echo dwells,
Where every bud with freedom swells,
To meet the glorious day:

The morning breaks; again rejoice
And with old Ringwood's well known voice,
Bid tuneful Echo play.

We come, ye groves, ye hills, we come,
The vagrant Fox shall hear his doom,
And dread our jovial train.

The shrill horn sounds, the courser flies,
While every sportsman joyful cries,

There's Ringwood's voice again.

Ye meadows, hail the coming throng;
Ye peaceful streams that wind along,
Repeat the Hark-away:

Far o'er the Downs, ye gales that sweep,
The daring oak that crowns the steep,
The roaring peal convey.

The chiming notes of cheerful hounds,
Hark! how the hollow dale resounds;
The sunny hills how gay.

But where's the note, brave dog, like thine?
Then urge the steed, the chorus join,
'Tis Ringwood leads the way.

THE SKATERS' SONG.

From ARMIGER's "Sportsman's Vocal Cabinet"
THIS bleak and frosty morning,
All thoughts of danger scorning,
Our spirits brightly flow;
We're all in a glow,

Through the sparkling snow,
While a-skating we go,

With a fa, la, la, la, la, la, la,
To the sound of the merry horn.

From right to left we're plying,
Swifter than winds we're flying;

Spheres on spheres surrounding,
Health and strength abounding.
In circles we sleep;

Our poise still we keep,

Behold how we sweep

The face of the deep.

With a fa, la, la, la, la, la, la,

To the sound of the merry horn.

Great Jove looks on us smiling,
Who thus the time beguiling:
Though the waters he seal,
Still we row on our keel,

Our weapons are steel,

And no danger we feel,

With a fa, la, la, la, la, la, la,
To the sound of the merry horn.

See, see our train advances,

See how each skater lances;
Health and strength abounding,
While horns and oboes sounding;

The Tritons shall blow

Their conch-shells below,

And their beards fear to show,

While a-skating we go,

With a fa, la, la, la, la, la, la,

To the sound of the merry horn.

HARK! THE HOLLOW WOODS RESOUNDING.

From ARMIGER's "Sportsman's Vocal Cabinet."

HARK! the hollow woods resounding,
Echo to the hunter's cry;

Hark! how all the vales surrounding
To his cheering voice reply.

Now so swift o'er hills aspiring,
He pursues the gay delight,
Distant woods and vales retiring
Seem to vanish from his sight.

Flying still, and still pursuing,
See the fox, the hounds, the men
Cunning cannot save from ruin,
Far from refuge, wood, and den.

Now they kill him, homeward hie him,
To a jovial night's repast;

Thus no sorrow e'er comes nigh them,
Health continues to the last.

Hark! the hollow woods resounding,
Echo to the hunter's cry;

Hark! how all the vales surrounding
To his cheering voice reply.

There are several versions of this song.

THE TUNEFUL SOUND OF ROBIN'S HORN. Anonymous. Eighteenth Century.

THE tuneful sound of Robin's horn

Hath welcom'd thrice the blushing morn;
Then haste, Clorinda, haste away,

And let us meet the rising day.

And through the greenwood let us go,

With arrows keen and bended bow;

There breathe the mountain's fresh'ning gale,
Or scent the blossoms in the vale.

For nature now is in her prime,
'Tis now the lusty summer time,

When grass is green, and leaves are long,
And feather'd warblers tune their song.

At noon, in some sequester'd glade,
Beneath some oak tree's ample shade,
We'll feast, nor envy all the fare
Which courtly dames and barons share.

See, see in yonder glen appear
In wanton herds the fallow-deer;
Then haste, my love, O, haste away!
And let us meet the rising day.

THE FOX-HUNTER'S HALL.

YE fox-hunters, stag, ay, and hare-hunters too,
Whose aim is to rub off the furrows of care,
Like Nimrods the fleet-footed brusher pursue,
And taste of the sweets of the morn-breathing air!

Come hither, come hither, at jollity's call,
And join in the revels at Fox-Hunter's Hall!

To friendship, true friendship, the toast shall go round,
To love, and the pleasure derived from the chase;
For while love and friendship in union are found,
What bliss can of hunting, fox-hunting, take place?
Then hither, come hither, at jollity's call,
And join in the revels at Fox-Hunter's Hall!

The breeze of the morn, like the lip-kiss of love,
Invites us to hail it as something divine!

While the sound of the horn, like a harp from above,

Awakens a joy for which thousands repine.

Then hither, come hither, at jollity's call,

And join in the revels at Fox-Hunter's Hall!

What's life without love? and what's gold without health? A phantom, a fly-trap, or dream at the best;

While health, love, and friendship, are treasures of wealth,

And those that possess them with paradise blest;

Then hither, come hither, at jollity's call,

And join in the revels at Fox-Hunter's Hall!

THE HEALTH OF SPORTING.

Anonymous. Eighteenth century.

KEEP silence, good folks, and I pray you attend,
For I'm no common singer you'll find in the end.
Tally-ho! Tally-ho!

I'm a hunting physician, and cure ev'ry ill,
Disorders and pains, without bolus or pill.

Tally-ho, &c.

Let the man who's disturbed by misfortune and care,
Away to the woodlands and vallies repair.

Tally-ho, &c.

Let him hear but the notes of the sweet swelling horn,
With the hounds in full cry, and his troubles are gone.

Tally-ho, &c.

Let the lovers who secretly simper and sigh,
And droop at the sight of a blue or black eye;-

Tally-ho, &c.