There are several versions of this song, of various degrees of length and of merit. "This song," says Mr. Chappell, in his collection of national English airs, "was originally to the tune of 'A Begging we will go,' (1660.)" The words by Fielding are contained in his ballad opera of Don Quixote in England, but have been since somewhat altered.
Anonymous. Eighteenth century.
BRIGHT Chanticleer proclaims the dawn,
And spangles deck the thorn,
The lowing herds now quit the lawn,
The lark springs from the corn:
Dogs, huntsmen, round the window throng,
Fleet Towler leads the cry,
Arise the burden of my song,
This day a stag must die.
With a hey, ho, chevy!
Hark forward, hark forward, tantivy !
Hark! hark! tantivy !
This day a stag must die.
The cordial takes its merry round,
The laugh and joke prevail,
The huntsman blows a jovial sound,
The dogs snuff up the gale ;
The upland wilds they sweep along,
O'er fields, through brakes they fly,
The game is roused, too true the song,
This day a stag must die.
With a hey, ho, &c.
Poor stag! the dogs thy haunches gore,
The tears run down thy face,
The huntsman's pleasure is no more,
His joys were in the chase;
Alike the gen'rous sportsman burns,
To win the blooming fair,
But yet he honours each by turns,
They each become his care.
SEE, the course throng'd with gazers, the sports are begun,
What confusion, but hear!" I'll bet you, Sir!"-" Done, done!"
A thousand strange murmurs resound far and near,
Lords, hawkers, and jockeys, assail the tired ear;
While, with neck like a rainbow, erecting his crest,
Pamper'd, prancing, and pleased, his head touching his breast, Scarcely snuffing the air, he's so proud and elate,
The high-mettled racer first starts for the plate.
Next Reynard's turn'd out, and o'er hedge and ditch rush
Hounds, horses, and huntsmen, all hard at his brush;
They run him at length, and they have him at bay,
And by scent or by view, cheat a long tedious day;
While alike born for sports in the field or the course,
Always sure to come thorough-a staunch and fleet horse;
And when fairly run down, the fox yields up his breath,
The high mettled racer is in at the death.
Grown aged, used up, and turn'd out of the stud,
Lame, spavin'd, and wind-gall'd, but yet with some blood;
While knowing postilions his pedigree trace,
Tell his dam won that sweepstakes, his sire won that race;
And what matches he'd won to the ostlers count o'er,
As they loiter their time by some hedge-alehouse door;
Whilst the harness sore galls, and the spurs his sides goad,
The high-mettled racer's a hack on the road.
At length, old and feeble, trudging early and late,
Bow'd down by diseases, he bends to his fate;
Blind, old, lean, and feeble, he tugs round a mill,
Or draws sand, till the sand of his hour-glass stands still;
And now, cold and lifeless, exposed to the view
In the very same cart which he yesterday drew;
Whilst a pitying crowd his sad relics surrounds
The high-mettled racer is sold to the hounds.
You all knew Tom Moody, the whipper-in, well;
The bell just done tolling was honest Tom's knell,
A more able sportsman ne'er followed a hound
Through a country well known to him fifty miles round.
No hound ever open'd, with Tom near the wood,
But he'd challenge the tone, and could tell if 'twere good;
And all with attention would eagerly mark,
When he cheered up the pack," Hark! to Rockwood, hark! hark!
High!-wind him! and cross him!
Six crafty earth-stoppers, in hunter's green drest,
Supported poor Tom to " an earth" made for rest:
His borse, which he styled his " Old Soul," next appear'd,
On whose forehead the brush of his last fox was rear'd;
Whip, cap, boots, and spurs, in a trophy were bound,
And here and there follow'd an old straggling hound.
Ah! no more at his voice yonder vales will they trace!
Nor the welkin resound to his burst in the chase!
With "High over!--Now press him!
Thus Tom spoke his friends, ere he gave up his breath:
"Since I see you're resolved to be in at the death,
One favour bestow-'tis the last I shall crave,
Give a rattling view-halloo thrice over my grave;
And unless at that warning I lift up my head,
My boys, you may fairly conclude I am dead!"
Honest Tom was obey'd, and the shout rent the sky,
For ev'ry voice join'd in the tally ho cry,
Tally ho! Hark forward!
WHEN first I strove to win the prize,
I felt my youthful spirits rise;
Hope's crimson flush illumed my face,
And all my soul was in the race.
When weigh'd and mounted, 'twas my pride,
Before the starting-post to ride;
My rival's drest in red and green,
But I in simple yellow seen.
In stands around fair ladies swarm,
And mark with smiles my slender form;
Their lovely looks new ardour raise,
For beauty's smile is merit's praise!
The flag is dropt-the sign to start-
Away more fleet than winds we dart,
And tho' the odds against me lay,
The boy in yellow wins the day!
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