On some hill side beneath the wind,
On fallows rough or stubbles dry,
Where the lone leveret loves to lie,
While such mean merriment invites,
Doing thy sadly-pleasing rites.
Oft, on a plat of rising ground,
I see the fat pack puzzling round,
Where the game went long before,
Sounding sad with sullen roar;
With slow-paced heed, and tedious cunning,