The leaders lie down to their work with a will, 

 Each horse in his place as he faces the hill, 

 The carriage is balanced, the traces are level, 

 The fox-hunting peer has the nerve of the devil. 



And last, but not least, in postilion attire, 

 He gallops away through the slush and the mire. 

 The hunter he rides with the Cottesmore and Quorn, 

 So good at his work with the hound and the horn, 



Soon warms to the pace, while the mare at his side 

 Is soon at her best in the galloping stride. 

 For fifty-six minutes and seconds a few, 

 The pace is kept up by the yellow and blue ; 



And twenty good miles is the record to show 

 The fox-hunting peer is a good one to go. 

 The sport of Old England revives with the year, 

 The pluck that has made us will last, never fear. 



And could we awaken the coachmen of old, 

 And show them to-day we should surely be told, 

 The science of driving is ever sublime. 

 The art they invented has grown with the time. 



