There's a respite to snatch, death and ruin amid;
Do not tongues in the woodland fling echoes aloft?
Sounds the horn not as sweetly as ever it did?
When the Duke and his armies, a hundred years back,
Went Southward a courtlier foeman to seek,
High Leicestershire lent him a galloping pack,
And his stiff-stocked brigades hunted two days a week;
Oh, Portugal's foxes ran stoutly and fast,
And our grandfathers pounded in scarlet and blue,
And they hunted each rogue to his finish at last,