Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/Old Towler

For other versions of this work, see Old Towler.
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Old Towler.
Bright chanticleer proclaims the dawn,
 And spangles deck the thorn,
The lowing herds now quit the lawn,
 The lark springs from the corn;
 ​Dogs, huntsmen, round the window throng,
 Fleet Towler leads the cry,
Arise the burden of my song;—
 This day a stag must die,
  With a hey, ho, chevy!
  Hark forward, hark forward, tantivy
  Hark! hark! tantivy!
  This day a stag must die.

The cordial takes its merry round,
 The laugh and joke prevail,
The huntsman blows a jovial sound,
 The dogs snuff up the gale;
The upland wilds they sweep along,
 O'er fields through brakes they fly;
The game is roused; too true the song—
 This day a stag must die,
          With a hey, ho, &c.

Poor stag! the dogs thy haunches gore,
 The tears run down thy face,
The huntsman's pleasure is no more,
 His joys were in the chase;
Alike the generous sportsman burns
 To win the blooming fair,
But yet he honours each by turns,
 They each become his care.
          With a hey, ho, &c,

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