Bliss Carman, et al., eds. The World’s Best Poetry. 1904.
III. The SeasonsA hunting we will go
Henry Fielding (17071754)T
And ushers in the morn:
The hounds all join in glorious cry,
The huntsman winds his horn,
And a hunting we will go.
Her arms to make him stay;
“My dear, it rains, it hails, it blows;
You cannot hunt to-day.”
Yet a hunting we will go.
Their steeds they soundly switch;
Some are thrown in, and some thrown out,
And some thrown in the ditch.
Yet a hunting we will go.
And sweeps across the vale;
And when the hounds too near he spies,
He drops his bushy tail.
Then a hunting we will go.
And join the jovial cry;
The woods, the hills, the sound retort,
And music fills the sky,
When a hunting we do go.
Poor Reynard ceases flight;
Then hungry, homeward we return,
To feast away the night,
And a drinking we do go.
Prepare then for the chase;
Rise at the sounding of the horn
And health with sport embrace,
When a hunting we do go.