6
They hunted o'er fallow, o'er field and on moor,
And never a hound, man or horse would give o'er.
Sly Reynard kept distance for many a mile,
And no one dismounted for gate or for stile.
Sing fol-de-rol, &c.
7
"How far do you make it?" said Simon, the Son,
"The day that's declining will shortly be done."
"We'll follow till Doom's day," quoth Arscott. Before
They hear the Atlantic with menacing roar.
Sing fol-de-rol, &c.
8
Thro' Whitstone and Poundstock, St. Gennys they run,
As a fireball, red, in the sea set the sun.
Then out on Penkenner—a leap, and they go,
Full five hundred feet to the ocean be-low.
Sing fol-de-rol, &c.
9
When the full moon is shining as clear as the day,
John Arscott still hunteth the country, they say;
You may see him on Black-Bird, and hear, in full cry
The pack from Pencarrow to Dazard go by.
Sing fol-de-rol, &c.
10
When the tempest is howling, his horn you may hear,
And the bay of his hounds in their headlong career;
For Arscott of Tetcott loves hunting so well,
That he breaks for the pastime from Heaven—or Hell.
Sing fol-de-rol, &c.