In yon stubble field we shall find her below,
So ho! cries the huntsman; hark to him, So ho!
See, see, where she goes, and the hounds have a view!
Such harmony Handel himself never knew.
Gates, hedges, and ditches to us are no bounds,
But the world is our own while we follow the hounds!
Hold, hold! ’tis a double; hark! hey, Tanner, hey!
If a thousand gainsay it, a thousand shall lie;
His beauty surpassing, his truth has been try’d—
At the head of a pack an infallible guide.