It is not for ourselves we shoot, When a shooting, &c. Of shooting, then, let us partake; The partridge gone, we'll charge each gun, When a shooting, &c. And when those seasons they are o'er, We'll take the chase, and never cease When a shooting, &c. How sumptuously we then shall feast, On dainties rare, how we shall fare, When a shooting, &c. In friendship and in harmony, Let's join in social bands; And try who most his friend can toast, And a shooting, &c. The chorus or burden of this and the following song appears to have been a great favourite with the popular writers of the last century. It has been reproduced in an almost countless number of songs, upon every variety of subject. The liberality of the sportsmen of former days, mentioned in the fourth stanza, might well be imitated by their mercenary successors. A HUNTING WE WILL GO. HENRY FIELDING, born 1707, died 1754. THE dusky night rides down the sky, The hounds all join in glorious cry, The huntsman winds his horn. And a hunting we will go. The wife around her husband throws "My dear, it rains, it hails, it blows; Yet a hunting we will go. Away they fly to 'scape the rout, Some are thrown in, and some thrown out, Yet a hunting we will go. Sly Reynard now like lightning flies, 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, Then hungry, homeward we return, To feast away the night. And a drinking we do go. Ye jovial hunters, in the morn When a hunting we do go. There are several versions of this song, of various degrees of length and of merit. "This song,' says Mr. Chappell, in his collection of national English airs, "was originally to the tune of 'A begging we will go' (1660)." The words by Fielding are contained in his ballad opera of" Don Quixote in England," but have been since somewhat altered. TOM MOODY. Words by ANDREW CHERRY. The music by WM. SHIELD. You all knew Tom Moody, the whipper-in, well; But he'd challenge the tone, and could tell if 'twere good; When he cheer'd up the pack, "Hark! to Rookwood, hark! hark! 66 Six crafty earth-stoppers, in hunter's-green drest, Thus Tom spoke his friends ere he gave up his breath→ "Since I see you're resolv'd to be in at the death, One favour bestow-'tis the last I shall crave,- THE CRICKETER. Anonymous. Eighteenth Century. To live a life free from gout, pain, or phthisic, What conduces to health deserves commendation, Let dull pensive souls boast the pleasure of angling, And o'er ponds and brooks be eternally dangling; Such drowsy worm-killers are fraught with delight, If but once in a week they obtain a fair bite. Derry down, &c. The cricketer, noble in mind as in merit, Derry down, &c. No stings of remorse hurts the cricketer's mind, The guiltless his doctrine is ever to spare, Derry down, &c. To every great duke, and to each noble lord, Now hark! the woodland haunt is found! Their sylvan lay: As each sweet measure floats along, The stag now rous'd right onward speeds; His flight the shouting peasants view; At length, at mild eve's twilight gleam, Far away. |