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Tally-ho ! tally-ho ! 'tis good to ride
With your cheeks by the morning kissed, While a good mare lifts you with rattling stride Through the silvery morning mist:
But a flying fox,
Can he give and take knocks As on, for a brush, you go ?
Can he give you his guns
As from you he runs And shot at his huntsmen throw ?
So we, boys, we
Who ride the salt sea The noblest sport we know
When the shot whistle fast
By sail and mast As we're chasing a fighting foe.
Tally-ho ! tally-ho ! it's sport to win
Red Reynard's bristling brush When at last the whooping whipper-in
Saves the prize from the pack's fierce rush ;
But your chase of miles,
But wakes our smiles, For a hundred leagues we go,
And end with a brush
And our boarders' rush Ere our own is the fighting foe.