Count. Come, brother falconers, break up our rural camp, give the hawks wing, and let another day of pure exhilirating pastime crown those we have enjoyed.
SONG—count Roland.
I.
When the morning shines forth, and the zephyr's calm gale
Carries fragrance and health over mountain and dale,
Follow me, brother falconers, and share in those joys,
Which envy disturbs not, nor grandeur destroys:
Up hill, down the valley, all dangers we'll dare,
While our coursers spurn earth, and our hawks sail in air.
Dash on, my brave birds,
Your quarry pursue;
"Strike, strike!" be the words.
Lalleugh! lalleugh!
II.
O'er plain, heath, and woodland, with rapture we roam,
Yet, returning, still find the dear pleasure at home;
Where inspiring good humour gives honesty grace
And the heart speaks content in the smiles of the face.
Dash on, &c.
Count. To day concludes our sylvan holiday. (going.) Why, who comes here? As I live, my merry falconer, Christopher! And I'm impatient to be told the issue of his curious enterprise. Ha, ha, ha! to know if he's related to the house of Roland—
Enter Christopher.
Well, Christopher, am I to call you cousin?
Chris. You are, my Lord; and with your leave I sha'n't copy our aunt the countess's example, and not notice those beneath us. No. How d'ye do, my fine fellows—how d'ye do?