Page:A Selection of Original Songs, Scraps, Etc., by Ned Farmer (3rd ed.).djvu/111



A dog fox is running his hardest to find A place to be safe in; the pack is behind, With their heads in the air and their "sterns" drooping down, At a rate that will soon do the cocktails all brown. No can frighten or timber appal; We heed not a damper, nor care for a fall.

The pace is terrific, and burning the scent, The pack cease their music by common consent, Except now and then a stray challenge is heard, The leading hound streaming away like a bird; The tailing is awful, as you may expect, And with "purling" and "pumping" the field gets select.

A good fifty minutes, yet still he's not done, Pinks call for their second to finish the run; Poor Reynard just now, though, has nothing to brag on, His brush has got, and put him the drag on; He plays all he knows, but they race him in view, And he dies in the open, as "good 'uns" should do.

The huntsman is rating away like a Turk, He's off and among them, his whip is at work; He's lifted poor Charley above his head high, And "whoo-hoop!" mid the baying of hounds rends the sky; The "bell-pull," as trophy, is kept to preserve, And the hounds eat the fox they so richly deserve.

Whoo-hoop! whoo-hoop! whoo-hoop! whoo-hoop! And the hounds eat the fox they so richly deserve.