To his cry the wild welkin with thunder resounds
The darling of hunters, the glory of hounds!
O’er high lands and low lands and woodlands we fly,
Our horses full speed and the hounds in full cry;
So match are their mouths and so even they run,
As the tune of the spheres and their race with the sun.
Health, joy, and felicity dance in the rounds,
And bless the gay circle of hunters and hounds!
The old hounds push forward, a very sure sign
That the hare, though a stout one, begins to decline.