’Tis here the laugh and joke and jest right merrily go round,
“But hark, my boys! pray, cease your noise; for now sly Reynard’s found!”
Cries our fine old hunting Squire, one of the present day.
Although threescore and ten his years, he boldly takes the lead,
And flies the gate, the brook, and wall, and sweeps along the mead;
He never swerves nor cranes—not he; his true heart’s in the sport.
Oh! our fine old hunting Squire is one of the right sort!
A fine old hunting Squire, one of the present day.
From scent to view they run him now, in vain fleet Reynard flies,
The ringing pack have doomed his death—he struggles, but he dies!