Are soon, alas! transform’d to meat.
O! little faithfuls,—eat and drink,
For on to-morrow you must fall:
’Tis good thou hast no thought to think;
Were ’t so thy life-time would be gall.
Suppose it’s March: the fields[69] are bare;
The hunter’s horn rides on the gale;
And suddenly a fox, or hare,
Comes bounding over hedge or pale,
Then see them how they’ll gather round,