See, how our train advances,
See how each skater lances;
Health and strength abounding,
While horns and oboes sounding;
The Tritons shall blow

Their conch-shells below,

And their beards fear to shew,
While a-skating we go:

With a fa la, la la, la la la,

To the sound of the merry horn.

Written for the Edinburgh Skating Club.

HARK! THE HOLLOW WOODS RESOUNDING.
From ARMIGER'S "Sportsman's Vocal Cabinet." Set as a glee by
J. STAFFORD SMITH.

HARK! the hollow woods resounding
Echo to the hunter's cry;
Hark! how all the vales surrounding
To his cheering voice reply.

Now swift over hills aspiring
He pursues the gay delight,
Distant woods and vales retiring
Seem to vanish from his sight.

Flying still, and still pursuing,
See the fox, the hounds, the men;
Cunning cannot save from ruin,

Far from refuge, wood, and den.

Now they kill him, homeward hie him,
To a jovial night's repast;

Thus no sorrow e'er comes nigh them,
Health continues to the last.

Hark! the hollow woods resounding
Echo to the hunter's cry;

Hark! how all the vales surrounding
To his cheering voice reply.

There are several versions of this song.

THE TUNEFUL SOUND OF ROBIN'S HORN.

Anonymous. Eighteenth century.

THE tuneful sound of Robin's horn

Hath welcom'd thrice the blushing morn;
Then haste, Clorinda, haste away,

And let us meet the rising day.

And through the greenwood let us go,
With arrows keen and bended bow;
There breathe the mountain's fresh'ning gale,
Or scent the blossoms in the vale.

For Nature now is in her prime,

'Tis now the lusty summer time,
When grass is green, and leaves are long,
And feather'd warblers tune their song.

At noon, in some sequester'd glade,
Beneath some oak tree's ample shade
We'll feast, nor envy all the fare

Which courtly dames and barons share.

See, see in yonder glen appear

In wanton herds the fallow-deer;
Then haste, my love, oh, haste away!
And let us meet the rising day.

FOX-HUNTER'S HALL.

Anonymous. Eighteenth century.

YE fox-hunters, stag, ay, and hare-hunters too,
Whose aim is to rub off the furrows of care,
Like Nimrods the fleet-footed brusher pursue,
And taste of the sweets of the morn-breathing air!
Come hither, come hither, at jollity's call,

And join in the revels at Fox-Hunter's Hall!

To friendship, true friendship, the toast shall go round, To love and the pleasure derived from the chase; For while love and friendship in union are found, What bliss can of hunting, fox-hunting, take place? Then hither, come hither, at jollity's call,

And join in the revels at Fox-Hunter's Hall!

The breeze of the morn, like the lip-kiss of love,
Invites us to hail it as something divine!

While the sound of the horn, like a harp from above,
Awakens a joy for which thousands repine.

Then hither, come hither, at jollity's call,

And join in the revels at Fox-Hunter's Hall!"

What's life without love? and what's gold without health? A phantom, a fly-trap, or dream at the best?

While health, love, and friendship, are treasures of wealth,
And those that possess them with Paradise blest.

Then hither, come hither, at jollity's call,
And join in the revels at Fox-Hunter's Hall!

THE HEALTH OF SPORTING.

Anonymous. Eighteenth century.

KEEP silence, good folks, and I pray you attend,
For I'm no common singer you'll find in the end:
Tally-ho! Tally-ho!

I'm a hunting physician, and cure ev'ry ill,
Disorders and pains, without bolus or pill.

Tally-ho, &c.

Let the man who's disturb'd by misfortune and care
Away to the woodlands and valleys repair:

Tally-ho, &c.

Let him hear but the notes of the sweet swelling horn,
With the hounds in full cry, and his troubles are gone.

Tally-ho, &c.

Tally-ho, &c.

Let the lovers who secretly simper and sigh,
And droop at the sight of a blue or black eye;-

Brush up to'em boldly and try'em again,
For women love sportsmen, as sportsmen love them.

Tally-ho, &c.

Should you chance to be bless'd with a tarmagant wife,

Who instead of the joy, is the plague of

your

life:

Tally-ho, &c.

go,

When madam her small-shot begins to let
Why draw on your boots, and away, tally-ho!

Tally-ho, &c.

Ye poor forlorn devils, oppress'd with the hip,
Who thus the sweet moments of pleasure let slip;
Tally-ho, &c.

As soon as the whimsy your fancy surrounds,
You have nothing to do but get after the hounds.

Tally ho, &c.

Come here, ye old codgers, whose nerves are unstrung, Come follow the hounds, and you'll hunt yourselves young: Tally-ho, &c.

"Twill cure the short cough and rheumatic pain;
Do but cry tally-ho! and you're all young again.
Tally-ho, &c.

If Death, that old poacher, to smuggle you strives,
Get astride on your saddle, and hunt for your lives:
Tally-ho, &c.

Never heed his grim looks if your gelding can go:
You cannot be caught while you cry tally-ho.
Tally-ho, &c.

THE HUNTSMAN'S DIRGE.

Sir WALTER SCOTT.

THE smiling morn may light the sky,
And joy may dance in beauty's eye,
Aurora's beams to see:

The mellow horn's inspiring sound
May call the blithe companions round,
But who shall waken thee,

Ronald?

Thou ne'er wilt hear the mellow horn,

Thou ne'er wilt quaff the breath of morn,

Nor join thy friends with glee;

No glorious sun shall gild thy day,
And beauty's fascinating ray

No more shall shine on thee,

Ronald!

Sir WALTER SCOTT. The music by Dr. JOHN CLARKE, of Hereford.

WAKEN, lords and ladies gay,

On the mountain dawns the day;

All the jolly chase is here,

With horse, and hawk, and hunting spear!

Hounds are in their couples yelling,

Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling

Merrily, merrily, mingle they,

"Waken, lords and ladies gay."

Waken, lords and ladies gay,

The mist has left the mountain grey;
Springlets in the dawn are streaming,
Diamonds on the brake are gleaming,
And foresters have busy been
To track the buck in thicket green-
Now we come to chant our lay,
"Waken, lords and ladies gay."