Tho' now no more we seek the race,
I trust the jockey keeps his place;
For still to win the prize, I feel
An equal wish, an equal zeal:
And still can beauty's smile impart
Delightful tremors through this heart:
Indeed, I feel it flutter now—
Yes, while I look, and while I bow!
My tender years must vouch my truth-
For candour ever dwells with youth;
Then sure the sage might well believe,
A face-like mine-could ne'er deceive,
If here you e'er a match should make,
My life upon my luck I'll stake;
And 'gainst all odds, I think you'll say,
The boy in yellow wins the day.
Anonymous. Eighteenth century.
To live a life, free from gout, pain, or phthisic,
Athletic employment is found the best physic;
The nerves are by exercise hardened and strengthened,
And vigour attends it, by which life is lengthened.
Derry down, &c.
What conduces to health deserves recommendation,
"Twill entail a strong race on the next generation;
And of all the field-games ever practised or known,
That cricket stands foremost each Briton must own.
Derry down, &c.
Let dull pensive souls boast the pleasure of angling, And o'er ponds and brooks be eternally dangling; Such drowsy worm-killers are fraught with delight, If but once in a week they obtain a fair bite.
The cricketer noble in mind as in merit,
A taste for oppression can never inherit,
A stranger to swindling, he never would wish
To seduce by false baits, and betray a poor fish.
Derry down, &c.
No stings of remorse hurt the cricketer's mind,
To innocent animals never unkind,
The guiltless his doctrine is ever to spare,
Averse to the hunting or killing the hare.
To every great duke, and to each noble lord,
Let each fill his glass with most hearty accord;
And to all brother knights, whether absent or present,
Drink health and success, from the peer to the peasant.
Now hark! the woodland haunt is found!
For now the merry bugles sound
Their sylvan lay :
As each sweet measure floats along,
Sweet Echo wakes her mimic song,
The stag now rous'd, right onward speeds,
O'er hill and dale, o'er moor and meads,
He's fain to stray:
His flight the shouting peasants view;
His steps the dashing hounds pursue,
Far away.
All day untir'd, his route we trace,
Exulting in the joyous chase,
At length, at mild eve's twilight gleam,
He's taken in the valley stream,
NOW NIGHT HER DUSKY MANTLE FOLDS.
From "Songs of the Chase," 1810.
Now night her dusky mantle folds,
The larks are soaring high;
And morn her golden shafts has shot,
To gild the eastern sky;
We sportsmen scour the distant plains,
The hounds pursue their prey;
While echoes round the valleys sound,
Hark forward, hark away!
O'er mountain top, and river deep,
The fox for shelter flies,
And cowering into coverts strong,
His cunning vainly tries;
His death proclaims the sportsman's joy,
The dogs they seize their prey;
While echoes round the valleys sound,
Hark forward, hark away!
HUNTING, LOVE, AND WINE.
From "Songs of the Chase," 1810.
SAY, what is wealth without delight?
'Tis dross, 'tis dirt, 'tis useless quite;
Better be poor, and taste of joy,
Than thus your wasted time employ.
Then let a humble son of song,
Repeat those pleasures most divine;
The joys that life's best hours prolong,
Are those of hunting, love, and wine.
For hunting gives us jocund health,
We envy not the miser's wealth,
But chase the Fox or timid Hare,
And know delight he cannot share.
Then home at eve we cheerly go,
Whilst round us brightest comforts shine;
With joy shut in, we shut out woe,
And sing of hunting, love, and wine.
Mild love attunes the soul to peace,
And bids the toiling sportsman cease;
This softer passion's pleasing pow'r,
With bliss ecstatic wings the hour.
It soothes the mind to sweetest rest,
Or savage thoughts might there entwine; Thus he alone is truly blest,
Whose joys are hunting, love, and wine. 'Tis wine exhilarates the heart, When sinking under sorrow's smart; "Tis that can ease the wretch's woe, And heighten ev'ry bliss we know. But wine's abuse makes man a beast, Be all with moderation mine;
Life will appear one endless feast,
While blest with hunting, love, and wine.
From "Songs of the Chase," 1810.
YE darksome woods where Echo dwells,
Where every bud with freedom swells,
To meet the glorious day:
The morning breaks; again rejoice
And with old Ringwood's well known voice,
Bid tuneful Echo play.
We come, ye groves, ye hills, we come,
The vagrant Fox shall hear his doom,
And dread our jovial train.
The shrill horn sounds, the courser flies,
While every sportsman joyful cries,
There's Ringwood's voice again.
Ye meadows, hail the coming throng;
Ye peaceful streams that wind along,
Repeat the Hark-away:
Far o'er the Downs, ye gales that sweep,
The daring oak that crowns the steep,
The roaring peal convey.
The chiming notes of cheerful hounds,
Hark! how the hollow dale resounds;
The sunny hills how gay.
But where's the note, brave dog, like thine?
Then urge the steed, the chorus join,
'Tis Ringwood leads the way.
THE SKATERS' SONG.
From ARMIGER's "Sportsman's Vocal Cabinet."
THIS bleak and frosty morning,
All thoughts of danger scorning,
Our spirits brightly flow;
We're all in a glow,
Through the sparkling snow,
While a-skating we go,
With a fa, la, la, la, la, la, la,
To the sound of the merry horn.
From right to left we're plying,
Swifter than winds we're flying;
Spheres on spheres surrounding,
Health and strength abounding.
In circles we sleep;
Our poise still we keep,
Behold how we sweep
The face of the deep.
With a fa, la, la, la, la, la, la,
To the sound of the merry horn.
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