TALLY-HO 



The hounds all join in glorious cry, 

 The huntsman winds his horn. 



And a hunting we will go. 



Fielding. 



The First Day of the Season ^^ ^> 



''T^IS come — 'tis come — my gallant steed, 



J_ No longer shalt thou pine ; 

 From stall and bower to-day we're freed, 

 And swift as mountain-breeze shall speed 

 Once more o'er hill — and mount — and mead 



Those stalwart limbs of thine ! 



'Tis come — 'tis come — my hounds so true ! — 



The light cloud is on high — 

 Pale autumn gently crisps the dew, 

 Where leaves have donned their russet hue, 

 And gales sigh soft, as though they blew 



The welcome of the sky ! 



'Tis come — 'tis come — that soul-felt thrill ! 



My straining courser bounds ; 

 And echoing wide o'er copse and rill, 



The maddening chorus sounds ! 

 By Heaven ! He scales the distant hill ! 

 And hark ! the horn's wild summons shrill — 

 On, on ! my steed ! We're laggards still — 



On, on ! my gallant hounds ! 



New Sporting Magazine ( 1 83 1 ). 

 2o5 



