And slapt his leather thigh,
And sang the burthen of the song,
"This day a stag must die."
For all the livelong day before,
And all the night in bed,
Like Beckford, he had nourished "Thoughts
On Hunting" in his head.
Of horn and morn, and hark and bark,
And echo's answering sounds,
All poets' wit hath ever writ