Twangin' a note on his battered horn
An' cappin' them into the Frenchman gorse.
They pushed a brown hare out of her form
An' swung on her line with a crash of tongues;
But a vixen crossed an' her scent was warm,
So they ran her, screechin' to burst their lungs.
They ran her into my lord's demesne,
Where my lady's fallows were grazing free;
They picked a stag and followed again,
Singing like souls in ecstasy.