224 Adieu, good Wilkin, all beshrewd, Thy hunting nothing pleaseth me; But yet beware thy babbling hounds stray not abroad, 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, If the sun's excessive heat Make our bodies swelter, Without grudging; We are still contented. Or, we sometimes pass an hour Think and pray, Stops our breath : Other joys Are but toys, And to be lamented. WHEN A SHOOTING WE DO GO. Anonymous. Date uncertain. Eighteenth century. Let's take our guns and dogs; It sha'n't be said that we're afraid, When a shooting we do go, do go, do go; Now "Flora" she doth beat the scent, 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. It is not for ourselves we shoot, 'Tis to oblige our neighbours; And, when they eat, they may debate When a shooting, &c. Of shooting, then, let us partake; The Partridge gone, we'll charge each gun, When a shooting, &c. In friendship, and in harmony, 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, And a hunting we will go. The wife around her husband throws 46 Her arms to make him stay; My dear, it rains, it hails, it blows; 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 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. |