The hunte is up, the morne is bright and gray,
Hunting us hence with hunte's up to the day....
Beyond all beastys poor timorous Wat
The hunter's skille doth trye,
See how the houndes, with many a doubte
The cold fault cleanly single out!
Hark to their merrie crie!
They spende their mouthes, echoe replies,
Another chase is in the skies.
The hunte is up, the morne is bright and gray,