Such as its mournful way may force
Through all my hearing’s cavities,
And bring the tears into my eyes.
But let my due sight never fail,
Where beaten paths divide the vale,
With anxious skill and cunning care,
To prick the footsteps of the hare,
While I cheer the beagle’s toil,
With “hoo the way,” and “hark the foil!”
And when at last old age and gout