HUNTING SONG 



XVII 



Sprung from a knightly and time-honour'd race. 

 Pride of thy county, and chief of her chace ! 

 Though a stranger, not less is his sorrow sincere. 

 Who now weeps o'er the close of thy gallant career. 



XVIII 



Let Yorkshire, while England re-echoes her wail. 

 Bereft of her bravest, record the sad tale. 

 How Slingsby of Scriven, at Newby fell. 

 In the heat of that chace which he lov'd so well. 



H.tmti?ig So7ig 



OF all the recreations with which mortal man 

 is blest, 

 Go where he will, fox-hunting still is pleasantest and 



best ; 

 The hunter knows no sorrow here, the cup of life 



to him, 

 A bumper bright of fresh delight fill'd sparkling to 

 the brim. 



Away, away we go, 

 With a tally, tally-ho. 

 With a tally, tally, tally, tally, tally, tally-ho ! 



139 



