Four Favourite Songs (2)/Old Towler

OLD TOWLER.

Bright Chanticlear proclaims the dawn,
 And spangles deck the thorn,
The lowling 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 winds they sweep along
 O’er fields, through brakes they fly,
The game is roused, too true the song,
 This day a stag must die.

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 chace;
Alike the generous sportsman burns
 To win the blooming fair,
But yet he honours each by turns,
 They each become his care.