“A hunting we will go”

The Dusky night rides down the sky,   And ushers in the morn: The hounds all join in glorious cry,   The huntsman winds his horn,             And a hunting we will go. The wife around her husband throws   Her arms to make him stay; “My dear, it rains, it hails, it blows;   You cannot hunt to-day.”             Yet a hunting we will go. Away they fly to ’scape the rout,   Their steeds they soundly switch; Some are thrown in, and some thrown out,   And some thrown in the ditch.             Yet a hunting we will go. Sly Reynard now like lightning flies,   And sweeps across the vale; And when the hounds too near he spies,   He drops his bushy tail.             Then a hunting we will go. Fond Echo seems to like the sport,   And join the jovial cry; The woods, the hills, the sound retort,   And music fills the sky,             When a hunting we do go. At last his strength to faintness worn,   Poor Reynard ceases flight; Then hungry, homeward we return,   To feast away the night,             And a drinking we do go. Ye jovial hunters, in the morn   Prepare then for the chase; Rise at the sounding of the horn   And health with sport embrace,             When a hunting we do go.