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The Song Book 29
Poor silly Wat,
In this wretched state, Forgets these delights to hear ;
Nimbly she bounds
From the cry of the hounds, And the music of their career.
Hills with the heat
Of the gallopers' sweat, Reviving their frozen tops,
And the dale's purple flowers,
That droop from the showers That down from the rowels drops.
Swains their repast,
And strangers their haste Neglect, when the horns they do hear;
To see a fleet
Pack of hounds in a sheet, And the hunter in his career.
Thus he careers
Over heaths, over meres, Over deeps, over downs, over clay ;
Till he hath won
The noon from the morn, And the evening from the day.
His sport then he ends,
And joyfully wends Home again to his cottage, where
Frankly he feasts
Himself and his guests, And carouses in his career.
Chappell. The Words from Wit & Drollery 1682. Tune from the Stralock & Skene MSS. |
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