The Hunting of the Hare.
With her last Will and Testament.
As 'twas perform'd on Bamstead-Downs,
By Conny-Catchers, and their Hounds.
To a pleasant new Tune.
|
OF all delights that Earth doth yield,
|
Give me a pack of hounds in the field,
|
Whose Eccho shall (throughout the Sky)
|
Make Jove admire our Harmony;
|
And wish that he a Mortal were,
|
To view the pastime we have here.
|
I will tell you of a rare Scent,
|
Where many a gallant Horse was spent,
|
On Bamsted-Downs a Hare we found,
|
Which led us all a smoaking round;
|
O're Hedge and Ditch away she goes,
|
Admiring her approaching foes.
|
But when she found her strength to waste,
|
She Parley'd with the Hounds at last;
|
Kind Hounds (quoth she) forbear to kill
|
A harmless Hare that ne'r thought ill;
|
And if your Master sport do crave,
|
I'll lead a Scent as he would have.
|
Away, away, thou art alone,
|
Make haste, I say, and get thee gone,
|
We'll give thee Law for half a mile,
|
To see if thou canst us beguile;
|
But then expect a thundring cry,
|
Made by us and our Harmony.
|
Now since you set my life to flight,
|
I'll make black-Sloven turn to white,
|
And Yorkshire-Gary that runs at all,
|
I'll make him wish he were in Stall;
|
And Sorrel (he) that seems to flye,
|
I'll make him supple e're he dye.
|
And Barnard-Boy, do what he can,
|
Or Barons-Bay, that now and than
|
Did interrupt me in the way,
|
I'll make him neither jet nor play,
|
Or constant Robin, though he lye
|
At his advantage, what care I.
|
Will. Hatton he hath done me wrong,
|
He struck me as I ran along;
|
And with one pat made me so sore,
|
That I ran reeling too and fro:
|
But if I dye, his Master tell,
|
That fool shall ring my Passing-Bell.
|
Alas, poor Hare, it is our Nature,
|
To kill thee, and no other Creature;
|
For our Master wants a bit,
|
And thou wilt well become the Spit,
|
He'll eat thy flesh, we'll pick thy bone,
|
This is thy doom, so get thee gone.
|
Your Master may have better Chear,
|
For I am dry, and Butter's dear;
|
But if he please to make a Friend,
|
He'd better give a Puddings-end,
|
For, I being kill'd, he sport will lack,
|
And I must hang on th' Huntsmans back,
|
Alas, poor Hare, we pitty thee,
|
If with our nature 'twould agree,
|
But all thy doubling shift, I fear,
|
Will not prevail, thy Death's so near;
|
Then make thy Will; it may be that
|
May save thee, or I know not what.
|
Then I bequeath my Body free,
|
Unto your Masters Courtesie;
|
And if he please my Life to grant,
|
I'll be his Game, when sport is scant;
|
But if I dye, each greedy Hound
|
Divides my Intrails on the ground.
|
Imprimis, I bequeath my Head
|
To him that a fair fool doth wed,
|
Who hath before her Maiden-head lost,
|
I would not have the Proverb crost
|
Which I've heard 'mongst many quiblets,
|
set the Harts-head 'ginst the goose-giblets.
|
Item, I do give and bequeath
|
To men in Debt (after my Death)
|
My subtile Scent, so that they may
|
Beware of such as would betray
|
Them to a miserable fate,
|
By blood-hounds from the Counter-gate
|
Item, I to a Turn-Coat give
|
(That he may more obscurely live)
|
My swift and sudden Doublens, which
|
Will make him politick and rich:
|
Though at the last, with many wounds,
|
I wish him kill'd by his own Hounds.
|
Item, I give into their hands,
|
That purchase Deans and Chapters lands
|
My wretched jealousies and fears,
|
Mix'd with the Salt of Orphans tears,
|
That long vexations may persever
|
To plague them and their heirs for ever
|
Before I dye, for life is scant,
|
I would supply mens proper want,
|
And therefore I bequeath unto
|
The Scrivener (give the Devil his due)
|
That forgeth, swears, and then forswears
|
(To save his credit) both my ears.
|
I give to some Sequestered Man
|
My Skin, to make a Jacket on;
|
And I bequeath my feet to they
|
That shortly mean to run away,
|
When truth is speaker, falshoods dumb,
|
Foxes must flye, when Lyons come.
|
To Fidlers (for all trades must live)
|
To serve for strings, my Guts I give;
|
For Gamesters that do play at Rut,
|
And love the sport, I give my Skut.
|
But last of all, in this sad dump,
|
To Tower-Hill I bequeath my Rump.
|
Was ever Hounds so basely crost,
|
Our Masters calls us home so fast,
|
That we the scent have almost lost,
|
And they themselves must rule the roast?
|
Therefore, kind Hare, we'll pardon you,
|
Thanks, gentle Hounds, and so adieu.
|
And since your Master hath pardon'd me,
|
I'll lead you all to Banbury;
|
Where John Turner hath a large Room
|
To entertain all Guests that come,
|
To laugh and quaff in Wine and Beer,
|
A full Carrouse to your Galleer.
|
|
|
|
|
|