’Tis forty minutes racing speed—we run him now in view;
His tongue hangs out, his brush lies low, whoop! he’s down, indeed!
Dismount, ye joyous ones, dismount! and light the soothing weed,
Ye first-rate English fox-hunters,
Men of the present time.
Thus, thus this gallant huntsman keeps up the merry game;
His head, his heart, his hand, my boys, for ever are the same
And a parting toast I’ll give you, with a ringing three times three,
May Jim long hunt “the Heythrop” and we be there to see
This first-rate English fox-hunter,