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SONOS, |
ET«. |
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SON G.
Come, fuddle, fuddle, drink about,
And let us merry be ; Our creel is full, we'll turn it out,
And then all hands shall see.
Fine trout, and barbel here are caught,
And eels to grace the lot ; Then cheer up, boys, no ill there's fraught,
And push about the pot.
The racer's call'd from horse to horse,
And swiftly rides the race ; More simple joys lie in our course,
When we are hooking dace.
When horns and shouts the forest rend, His pack the huntsman cheers ;
Our sports are these, that freshly send, The music of the spheres.
We roam about, where joys do smile, With sweethearts and with wives ; From canker'd cares, our heart beguile, In pleasures pass our lives.
H. Banks of tih; Trent. 1764 |
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