Doctor Moff once more employs the burden of my song,

He drinks a health to him that’s blest with constitution strong:

He laughs and winks at him that drinks, and he’ll bett five pounds, sir,

He’ll toast his lass, and drink his glass, and tally O the hounds, sir.

And every morn this priest does rise, he does put on his boots, sir,

For chance the hounds may come this way, to join in the pursuit, sir:

He’ll risk a fall, o’er hedge or wall, or nearest the hounds, sir,

And if he can, he leads the van, and tally O the hounds, sir.

Saint Stephen’s day, that holy morn, as he was reading mass sir,

He heard the music of the hounds, the bugles they came past, sir;

He shut the book, his flock forsook, and streight threw off his gown, sir,

He mounts his horse, to join the course, and tally O the hounds, sir.

This parson had a pair to wed, the hounds they came in view sir,

He threw his surplice o’er his head, and bad the pair adieu, sir:

They both did pray, that he might stay, for they were not half bound, sir!

He bid them go to bed that night, he’d tally O the hounds, sir.

What think you of this priest of mine, he’s sure an honest heart, sir,

His praise is worthy of my song, he has neither pride nor art, sir:

He ne’er opprest, the poor distrest, none e’er his praise disowns, sir,

As he thinks’t no crime, at any time, to tally O the hounds, sir.