A New Hunting Song,
Made on a FOX Chase.
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COME all you Foxhunters when ever you be,
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Repair to the Leven if Sportsmen youd see
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Such hounds and such horses of mettle and game;
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As are worthy to be recorded in Fame.
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Sing Ballinamona oro, Ballinamona oro,
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Ballinamona oro, the Lads of old Cleveland for me.
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Dexter and Delver and Dido for speed,
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All sprung from the Race of Charles Turners famd breed
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A sportsman so rare, and the first in renown,
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As witness the match over Feldom he won.
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Rover and Rally and Minor likewise,
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Old Spanker, so fierce the thick Cover he tries.
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Matcham and Merrylass Reynards sworn foe;
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He must be unkenneld, hark! I hear Tally O.
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Now my Lads spur your Horses and smoke em away,
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Jolly Bacchus and Sampson will shew you some play,
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Squire Hall, on his Wakefield that pampered Nag,
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Comes Neck over heels, and yet of him will brag.
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Burdon, so proud of his high mettled Steeds,
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And the Annals of fame record their great deeds,
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Yet in hunting hes bet sore against his desire,
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He sticks in the dirt, and hes passd by the Squire.
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George Baker, on Blacklegs how determind his looks,
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He defies the whole field over hedge, ditch, or brooks
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He keeps him quite tight and he only desires,
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A three hours chase Ill be damnd if he tires.
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See thumping along goes jolly old Walker,
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Whilst close at his heels lay the Gisborough Prior,
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With Powder and sweat, Lord! how awfull he looks,
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Damn you Matt did you mind how I leapd yonder brook.
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Watson, so fierce how he rides and so keen,
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He thinks hes well mounted and sure to be in,
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But if he keep running at this gallant pace,
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Tis twenty to one hes thrown out in the Chase.
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The first in the burst was Scroop on old Matchem,
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Straining hard to get in Tom swore he would catch em,
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Whilst screwing along see Smith only mind him,
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Hes topd the barrd Gate leaving numbers behind him
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Yonder goes Stockdale so tight and so trim
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How he strokes down his mare which he fancies so slim
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He nicks in and out till hes starvd with the cold,
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Go bid him but thirty and then hell ride bold.
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Preston, so brave with his heart full of glee,
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On his Gaylass well mounted as hed wish to be,
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He swears that hell ride till he dies in the field,
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As a true honest Sportsman he never will yield.
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Coates, on his Tyrant he creeps like a snail,
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He puffs and he blows, and how he rolls his Tail;
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Yet a Sportsman so bold he attempts at a flyer,
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Old Tyrant leaps short and hes down in the mire.
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The Baronet cautious is passd by his Brother,
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As like you would swear as one Eggs like another,
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When fully intending to lead the whole field
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A damnd Stell held em both till the Fox he was killd.
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The Doctor, you scarcely know where you have him,
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For sometimes hes dodging and sometimes hes dashing,
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But yet to the Chase will he eagerly rush
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And lose a good Patient for bold Reynards brush.
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Rowntree, a noted old Sporteman as good
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Who brags of his Greytail that choise bit of Blood,
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How at Stockesly so clever she won eery Race.
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And now that shes equally famd for the Chace.
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Flounders, the younger with Eyelids of Glass,
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So prim on his Stallion and fond of his flash,
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One single good run finishd off the gay Quaker,
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And now hes gone dumb with intent to turn speaker.
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Now our sport being over lets home wihout fail,
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And drown those misfortunes in Punch and good Ale;
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And if were thrown out well draw close to the fire
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And drink a good health to the Baronet and Squire.
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