Of chases now past let our narrative be,

Till Winter’s pale hand shall dismantle the tree;

Then, then to the forest exultingly stray,

And cheer the fleet harriers with hark, hark away.

With hark, hark away, &c.

Then fill up your glasses—yet fill as you chuse,

Here’s a health, brother sportsmen, which none can refuse;

A health that with pleasure our club shall inspire,

While hunting delights, or while hounds we admire:—

See, see, how I fill it—’tis Colpitts[66] I toast,