I.
Now crows the cock in Dunse’s streets;
The twittering sparrow morning greets;
The braying ass his trumpet blew,
For well the morning air he knew;
And hies the hostler to his care,
With bosom light as morning air.
The ruddy streaks of infant day
On Lammer’s hills and Chiviot’s play;
And freshly blows the morning breeze,
From Firth of Forth to German seas.
II.
The kennelled pack, with conscious ear,
Well know the huntsman to be near;
Their deep-toned notes, in concert rise,
As to the door each staunch hound flies;
And merry were the huntsman’s cries:
Full well he knew to cheer each hound,
Or quell his riot, by the sound
Of angry word, or cracking thong.
But now the pack as round they crowd,
In notes melodious, and loud,
Pour forth their morning song.
And, on my soul, the sound was dear,
And transport to the huntsman’s ear.
Out dashed the pack, a stauncher crew
Ne’er snuffed the pearly morning-dew:
And soon the huntsman’s sounding thong
Has checked the ardour of the throng:
In meet procession, quiet, slow,
Behind their master’s horse they go:
His two assistants after ride,
To bring them all to cover side.
III.
Meanwhile the hostled sportsmen rise,
With bosoms light, but heavy eyes;
For last night’s liquor still remained,
And some would liked to’ve lain in bed,
To ease a fevered, aching head;
But manly pride such ease disdained.
So all have risen, and all have dressed,
In jockey cap, and scarlet vest;
And now they’re met, and seated all
At breakfast, in the festal hall:
And question after question passed,
Who saw the goblin jockey last?
Disputes arise, but all agree
That mortal man he could not be;
And cried they, with a jovial air,
Faith, but he drank his liquor fair!
The hostess enters in to say,
The Goblin Groom had gone away,
And who his share of drink should pay.
And all agree ’twas passing fair,
As he had filled great D— —h’s chair,
That his account for jovial cheer,
Should be discharged by D— —h’s peer.
IV.
The hacks are pacing now before
The Hostel’s arch projecting door;
Full twelve miles off the cover lay;
The hunters went at peep of day:
And some, I’m told, went over night,
To be in better hunting plight.
Each sportsman mounts his cover steed,
And through the town with fiery speed,
Spurs on his ready hack:
One thinks a canter gives him grace,
Another thinks a trot the pace,
And knowingly looks back;
And pleased he looks, in sooth to find
His cantering comrade left behind.
Now one, now t’other takes the lead,
As jockey whim directs the speed.