HUNTING SONGS.
HARK! hark! the joy inspiring morn,
Salute the rozy rising morn,
And echoes thro' the dale;
With clam'rous peals the hills resound,
The hounds quick-scented scour the ground,
And snuff the fragrant gale.
Nor gates nor hedges can impede
The brisk high-mettled darting steed,
The jovial pack pursue;
Like lightning darting o'er the plains,
The distant hill with speed he gains,
And sees the game in view.
Her path the timid hare forsakes,
And to the copse for shelter makes,
There pants awhile for breath;
When now the noise alarms her ear,
Her haunts descry, her fate is near,
She sees approaching death.
Directed by the well-known breeze,
The hounds their trembling victim seize,
She faints, she falls, she dies;
The distant coursers now come in,
And join the loud triumphant din,
'Till echo rends the skies.
