The Hunter's Song Poem by William Basse

Long e're the Morn
Expects the Return
Of Apollo from th' Ocean Queen;
Before the Creak
Of the Crow and the Break
Of the day in the welkin seen;
Mounted he'd hallow
And chearfully follow
To the Chace with his Bugle clear:
Eccho doth he make
And the Mountains shake
With the Thunder of his Career.
Oft doth he trace
Through Wood, Parke and Chase,
When he mounteth his Steed aloft:
Oft he doth runne
Beyond farre his home
And deceiveth his pillow soft:
Oft he expects,
Yet still hath defects,
For still he is crost by the Hare:
But more often he bounds
To the cry of his Hounds,
And doth thunder out his Careere.
Now bonny Bay
With his foame waxeth gray,
Dapple Gray waxeth bay with blood;
White Lilly stops
With the scent in her chaps,
And Black-Lady makes it good.
Sorrowful Watte
Her widowes estate
Forgets, these delights for to hear;
Nimbly she bounds
To the cry of the Hounds
And the Musick of their Career.
Hills with the heat
Of the Gallopers sweat,
Reviving their Frozen Tops;
The Dales purple Flowres,
The[y] spring from the showers
That down from the Rowels drops:
Swains their repast,
And Strangers their haste
Neglect when the Horns they do hear;
To see a fleet
Pack of Hounds in a Sheet,
And the Hunter in his Career.
Thus he Careers
Over Heaths, over Meers,
Over Deeps, over Downs, over Clay;
Till he hath wonne
The day from the Sunne,
And the Evening from the Day.
His sport then he ends,
And joyfully wends
Home again to his Cottage, where
Frankly he feasts
Himself and his Guests
And carouseth to his Career.