I don't know any tune from any other, 
I couldn't sing a song if I were paid,
I couldn't for the ransom of a brother, 
Hum a single thing that anybody played. 
But I know one melody
That can stir the heart of me- 
It's the mad and merry challenge of the horn ! 
With the chime of hounds that follow, 
And the cheer and rate and holloa 
That can shake the very dewdrops from the thorn!
I couldn't make a fortune with a fiddle, 
I scarce can sing a psalm-tune in a pew, 
I couldn't lead a partner 'down the middle' 
With a more than sporting chance of getting through.
I couldn't for my life 
Play a cornet or a fife 
And the flute was never any friend of mine; 
But I do appreciate 
When a yokel on a gate 
Gives a holloa that can hold us to the line! 
For everything is music when you hunt, 
From the guttural ' Gar'r' on there!' of the Whip 
To the' Tally-ho !' of some one up in front 
Or the holloa of a herdsman in the dip; 
The crash of post and rail 
In a sort of running scale, 
The thunder as the gallopers go by, 
The ringing' For'ard on ! ' 
That is swallowed up anon 
In the chorus of the pack against the sky !
So let others swear by Melba if they will, 
By Crossley, Tetrazzini, and the rest; 
I 'll be happy if I hear upon the hill 
The voices of the ladies I love best- 
The voices of a pack 
Running hot upon his track, 
And the cheer of one that saw the way he went! 
When they hustle him along 
Is there any grander song 
Than the song of sixteen couple on a scent?