  I. With fleet-limbed steeds and baying pack They follow close on Reynard's track, And wake the slumbering echoes round With music of the horn and hound; Through wood and field, o'er hill and dale, They course him in the moonlight pale, And sport they find which brings delight— These reckless riders of the night! II. The game is up! away, away! Nor hedge nor fence their course can stay; They clear them at a single leap, And like the wind they onward sweep! O'er fallen trunk and hidden ditch The fearless horsemen plunge and pitch, And heedless all they follow on With ringing shout and winding horn! III. Thy wondrous ride, oh Tam O'Shanter, To speed like theirs was but a canter; Had you bestrode that night instead Of gray mare Meg a thoroughbred (Such as Kentuckians only breed— To Scotia then an unknown steed), No carline could have caught his rump And left your brute with scarce a stump! IV. His foaming horse with throbbing sides Unslackened yet his pace he rides, Till in among the yelping hounds The foremost huntsman proudly bounds, And sees the leaders of the chase (Two matchless dogs that set the pace) O'ertake the game and win the race! And then dismounts and feels the flush Of victory as he takes the brush! V. O royal sport, befitting kings! It bids the demon Care take wings, And the rose's hue to the cheek it brings! And sweeter music none can hear Than that which greets the list'ning ear— By distance mellowed to a key That breathes divinest harmony— And wakes the slumbering echoes round— The winding horn and baying hound! |
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