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Adieu, good Wilkin, all beshrewd,

Thy hunting nothing pleaseth me; But yet beware thy babbling hounds stray not abroad,

For ang‘ring of thy ladye.

My hounds shall be led in the line,

So well I can assure it thee;
Unless by view of strain some pursue I may find,

To please my sweet ladye.

With that the ladye she came in,

And will'd them all for to agree;
For honest hunting never was accounted sin,

Nor never shall for me,

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If the sun's excessive heat

Make our bodies swelter,
To an osier hedge we get,
For a friendly shelter;

Where-in a dyke,
Perch or pike,
Roach or daice,
We do chase,
Bleak or gudgeon,

Without grudging;
We are still contented.
Or, we sometimes pass an hour

Under a green willow,
That defends us from a shower,
Making earth our pillow;

Where we may
Think and

Before death
Stops our breath :
Other joys

Are but toys,
And to be lamented.

Anonymous. Date uncertain. Eighteenth century.
The season's in for Partridges,

Let's take our guns and dogs;
It sha'n't be said that we're afraid,
Of quagmires, or of bogs,
When a shooting we do go,


go; When a shooting we do go. Now “Flora” she doth beat the scent,

And after follows “ Phillis ;"
Thro' hedge and brake the way let's take,
For all our aim to kill is.

When a shooting, &c.
And should success attend us,

What pleasure it will prove
Let's charge, and prime, and lose no time,
While through the fields we rove.

When a shooting, &c.

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It is not for ourselves we shoot,

'Tis to oblige our neighbours; And, when they eat, they may debate On the produce of our labours.

When a shooting, &c.

Of shooting, then, let us partake;

Wbat pastime is so pleasant ? The Partridge gone, we'll charge each gun, And so proceed to Pheasant.

When a shooting, &c.

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How sumptuously we then shall feast

On ven'son, steep'd in wine!
On dainties rare, how we shall fare!
Like Alexanders dine!

When a shooting, &c.

In friendship, and in harmony,

Let's join in social bands ;
And try who most his friend can toast,
And so unite our hands!

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 centary. 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.


Heney Fielding, born 1707, died 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.

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