A fine hunting song of unknown(?) origin.

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 their song -
“This day a stag must die.”

With a hey, ho, chivey!
Hark forward, hark forward, tantivy!
Hark forward, hark forward, hark forward, hark forward!
Hark! Hark! Hark! Tally ho! tally ho! tally ho
Arise the burden of our song,
“This day a stag must die.”


The cordial makes its merry round,
The laugh and joke prevail,
The huntsman blows a joyful sound,
The dogs snuff up the gale;
The upland winds they sweep along,
Through field and brake they fly;
The game is rous’d, too true the song -
“This day a stag must die.”

Chorus


Poor thing! 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 sportsmen of the town,
The virgin game in view,
Are full content to run them down,
Then they in turn pursue.

Alternative third verse

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.