Henry Fielding
¶[1707-1754]
A Hunting Song
¶THE dusky night rides down the sky,And ushers in the morn;The hounds all join in glorious cry,The huntsman winds his horn,And a-hunting we will go.
¶The wife around her husband throwsHer arms, and begs his stay;'My dear, it rains, and hails, and snows,You will not hunt to-day?'But a-hunting we will go.
¶'A brushing fox in yonder woodSecure to find we seek:For why? I carried, sound and good,A cartload there last week,And a-hunting we will go.'[502]Away he goes, he flies the rout,Their steeds all spur and switch,Some are thrown in, and some thrown out,And some thrown in the ditch;But a-hunting we will go.
¶At length his strength to faintness worn,Poor Reynard ceases flight;Then, hungry, homeward we return,To feast away the night.Then a-drinking we will go.