As a sly old rogue and merry wight,
Who loves the gay sound of the horn and hound
And gobbles chickens the livelong night.
“Such things may have been, but the times are changed;
Chickens are scarce, and the farmers keen,
And with all the hunting that’s going on,
I’m quite played out and am growing lean.
“Now, a neighbor was lately telling me
Of a land that sounds like Paradise,
Where instead of a fox they hunt a bag,