And to make a Methody swear.
We leave our troubles and toils behind,
Forget if we've got gray hair—
A parcel of boys, all frolic and noise,
Bidding begone dull care.
Bellever week is the bravest, &c.
There's never a run so brimming with fun,
Nor a pastime that may compare,
For master or horse, o'er heather and gorse,
As hunting a Dartmoor hare.