Here’s to the fox in his earth below the rocks,
And here’s to the line that we follow,
And here’s to the hound with his nose upon the ground,
Tho’merrily we whoop and we halloa.
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Then drink, puppy drink,
And let ev’ry puppy drink
That is old enough to lap and to swallow,
For he’ll grow into a hound
So we’ll pass the bottle round,
And merrily we’ll whoop and we’ll holloa.
Here’s to the horse, and the rider too, of course;
And here’s to the rally o’ the hunt, boys;
Here’s a health to ev’ry friend who can struggle to the end,
And here’s to the “Tally-Ho” in front, boys.
Here’s to the gap, and the timber that we rap,
Here’s to the white thorn, and the black too;
And here’s to the pace that puts life into the chase,
And the fence that gives a moment to the pack, too.
Oh, the pack is staunch and true now they run from scent to view,
And it’s worth the risk of life and limb and neck, boys;
To see them drive and stoop till they finish with ‘Who Whoop.’
Forty minutes on the grass without a check, boys.
G. J. Whyte-Melville, 1821-1878