A Selection of Original Songs, Scraps, Etc., by Ned Farmer (3rd ed.)/The Morning is Breaking
The Morning is Breaking.
Hunting song.
Dedicated to all lovers of Fox Hunting.
Set to Music by Charles Coote, Esq.
The morning is breaking, the fog clears away;
The wind's blowing soft, it's a fine hunting day;
Capp'd, booted, and spurr'd, and the breakfast well o'er,
The groom leads your cover hack up to the door;
In health and in spirits you mount on his back,
And canter away to some favourite pack.
Arrived at the " meet," friendly greetings are there;
Such praising this horse, and admiring that mare;
Discuss'd are the merits of pig-skin and bit;
Pocket pistols are primed, and Havannas are lit,
Till the Master (glad sound) says it's time to begin,
When it's "Heigh into cover! hark over! you in!"
Now, down with cigars, take a pull at your girth,
We're sure of a "find" if there's no open earth;
Hold hard! there, you youngster, keep out of that ride,
When hounds are in cover your place is outside.
All is silent as death, save the covert resounds
With the crack of a whip, or a cheer to the hounds.
Loo' in there! have at him! you, wind him, good lads!
Are sounds very fatal to brushes and pads.
"Hark to, Monarch! yoi, Fatal! get to him!" the cry;
"Hi, Bounty! yoi, Tell Tale! have at him, old boy!
Be steady, it's right, boys, as sure as we're born,
Tally-ho! tally-ho! hark! there goes the horn!"
A dog fox is running his hardest to find
A place to be safe in; the pack is behind,
With their heads in the air and their "sterns" drooping down,
At a rate that will soon do the cocktails all brown.
No bullfinch can frighten or timber appal;
We heed not a damper, nor care for a fall.
The pace is terrific, and burning the scent,
The pack cease their music by common consent,
Except now and then a stray challenge is heard,
The leading hound streaming away like a bird;
The tailing is awful, as you may expect,
And with "purling" and "pumping" the field gets select.
A good fifty minutes, yet still he's not done,
Pinks call for their second to finish the run;
Poor Reynard just now, though, has nothing to brag on,
His brush has got daggled, and put him the drag on;
He plays all he knows, but they race him in view,
And he dies in the open, as "good 'uns" should do.
The huntsman is rating away like a Turk,
He's off and among them, his whip is at work;
He's lifted poor Charley above his head high,
And "whoo-hoop!" mid the baying of hounds rends the sky;
The "bell-pull," as trophy, is kept to preserve,
And the hounds eat the fox they so richly deserve.
Whoo-hoop! whoo-hoop! whoo-hoop! whoo-hoop!
And the hounds eat the fox they so richly deserve.