Chorus. With my, &c.
Never heeding a tumble, a scratch, or a fall,
Laying close in his quarter, see Scott of Woodhall;[220]
And mind how he cheers them, with "Hark to the cry!"
Whilst on him the peer keeps a pretty sharp eye.
Chorus. With my, &c.
And next him on Morgan, all rattle and talk,
Cramming over the fences, comes wild Martin Hawke,[221]
But his neck he must break, surely sooner or late,