The day-light was dawning, right radiant the morn, When Arscott of Tetcott he winded his horn; He blew such a flourish, so loud in the hall, The rafters re-sounded, and danced to the call. Sing fol-de-rol, &c. 3 In the kitchen the servants, in kennel the hounds, In the stable the horses were roused by the sounds, On Black-Bird in saddle sat Arscott, "To day I will show you good sport, lads, Hark! follow, away!" Sing fol-de-rol, &c. 4 They tried in the coppice, from Becket to Thorn, There were Ringwood and Rally, and Princess and Scorn; Then out bounded Reynard, away they all went, With the wind in their tails, on a beautiful scent. Sing fol-de-rol, &c. 5 "Hark, Vulcan!" said Arscott, "The best of good hounds! Heigh Venus!" he shouted, "How nimbly she bounds! And nothing re-echoes so sweet in the valley, As the music of Rattler, of Fill-pot, and Rally." Sing fol-de-rol, &c. 6 They hunted o'er fallow, o'er field and on moor, And never a hound, man or horse would give o'er. Sly Reynard kept distance for many a mile, And no one dismounted for gate or for stile. Sing fol-de-rol, &c. 7 "How far do you make it?" said Simon, the Son, "The day that's declining will shortly be done." "We'll follow till Doom's day," quoth Arscott. Before They hear the Atlantic with menacing roar. Sing fol-de-rol, &c. 8 Thro' Whitstone and Poundstock, St. Gennys they run, As a fireball, red, in the sea set the sun. Then out on Penkenner--a leap, and they go, Full five hundred feet to the ocean be-low. Sing fol-de-rol, &c. 9 When the full moon is shining as clear as the day, John Arscott still hunteth the country, they say; You may see him on Black-Bird, and hear, in full cry The pack from Pencarrow to Dazard go by. Sing fol-de-rol, &c. 10 When the tempest is howling, his horn you may hear, And the bay of his hounds in their headlong career; For Arscott of Tetcott loves hunting so well, That he breaks for the pastime from Heaven--or Hell. Sing fol-de-rol, &c. No. 3 UPON A SUNDAY MORNING H.F.S. [Music] 1 Upon a Sunday morning, when Spring was in its prime, Along the Church-lane tripping, I heard the Church-bells chime, And there encountered Reuben, astride upon the stile, He blocked the way, so saucy, upon his lips a smile. 2 Upon a Sunday morning, there came a rush of bells, The wind was music-laden, in changeful fall and swells; He would not let me over, he held, he made me stay, And promise I would meet him again at close of day. 3 Upon a Sunday evening, the ringers in the tower, Were practising their changes, they rang for full an hour; And Reuben by me walking, would never let me go, Until a Yes I answered, he would not take a No. 4