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Well, all the yelping of hounds a skelping |
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Along the cover and out through the back. |
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Oh the galloping, oh the walloping, oh the cry of the Galaway Jack. |
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Off like a feather, he floats o'er the heather, |
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And Blackberry calls him a tune in his track. |
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There's Spot and Spider and Beauty beside her, |
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Then Red Rake and the rest of the pack. |
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Well, now they're losing him, now they're finding him, |
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Now they're winding him round by the stack. |
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Hark the hunt, to the hind we follow, and whoop and holler and for'ard and back. |
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Sure there's none brisker who faint cocked a whisker |
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Nor bustles more brisker than yonder old jack. |
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One more double across the stubble |
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And he's in trouble and tossed by the pack. |
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Then Brayer and Stayer are away to the stable |
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With jovial huntsmen the table attack. |
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It's meat we're munching and oats they're crunching |
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As bales are emptied and bottles are cracked. |
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Here's to the master none fairer, none faster, |
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To steady the ready and screw up the slack. |
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Here's to the hunt with your glasses a jingle, |
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With joy come mingle and here's to the pack. |
