“A hunting we will go”

Henry Fielding (1707–1754)

THE DUSKY night rides down the sky,

And ushers in the morn:

The hounds all join in glorious cry,

The huntsman winds his horn,

And a hunting we will go.

The wife around her husband throws

Her arms to make him stay;

“My dear, it rains, it hails, it blows;

You cannot hunt to-day.”

Yet a hunting we will go.

Away they fly to ’scape the rout,

Their steeds they soundly switch;

Some are thrown in, and some thrown out,

And some thrown in the ditch.

Yet a hunting we will go.

Sly Reynard now like lightning flies,

And sweeps across the vale;

And when the hounds too near he spies,

He drops his bushy tail.

Then a hunting we will go.

Fond Echo seems to like the sport,

And join the jovial cry;

The woods, the hills, the sound retort,

And music fills the sky,

When a hunting we do go.

At last his strength to faintness worn,

Poor Reynard ceases flight;

Then hungry, homeward we return,

To feast away the night,

And a drinking we do go.

Ye jovial hunters, in the morn

Prepare then for the chase;

Rise at the sounding of the horn

And health with sport embrace,

When a hunting we do go.