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Rh Whatever Party boasts thy glorious name, O reservd by Heavens benign decree To blast those artes that quench the British flame, And bid the meanest of the Land be free; Oh, much Humanity shall owe to Thee! And shall that palm unenvyd still remain! Yet hear, ye Lordlings, each severitie, And every woe the labouring tribes sustain, Upbraids the Man of Powre, and dims his honours vain.

While thus the Knights long smotherd fires broke forth, The rousing musicke of the horne he hears Shrill echoing through the wold; and by the North Where bends the hill, the sounding chace appears; The hounds with glorious peal salute his ears, And wood and dale rebound the swelling lay; The Youths on coursers fleet as fallow deers Pour through the downs, while, foremost of the fray; Away! the jolly Huntsman cries; and Echoe sounds, Away!