The Jolly Fox Hunters
Author: unknown
Melody: The words fit the melody of The Glendalough Saint

The Jolly Fox Hunters
Author: unknown
Melody: The words fit the melody of The Glendalough Saint

This was printed in Wexford in the 1860s; it was given by Paddy Berry to Tony Malone.
The piece traces the course of a fox hunt through south Carlow in 1799, while the country was still suffering reprisals after the rebellion of 1798. Sir William Burdett of Garryhill Castle was 3rd Baronet of Dunmore.

Come boys let us follow the fox
No more we’ll be called lazy grunters;
We’ll hunt him through mountains and rocks
For we are the jolly fox hunters.

We’ll rise him at six in the morn;
I’ll hold ten to one that we’ll kill him;
If Lang gives a blast to his horn
We’ll surely all follow Sir William.

The last time we met for the chase
At Kilcoltrim the ‘Babbies’ assembled;
We drew round that beautiful place,
Had sly Reynard been there he’d have trembled.

The red rogue broke Coolyhune copse:
We led off with Bowler and Jolly;
We brushed him by hills, dales and rocks
And we ran him through hazel and holly.

Of the bogs and the breaks we kept clear,
But the brooks and the banks disregarded.
Dick Lang pushed us on with each cheer:
The country all ‘round we’re sure heard it.

Poor Reynard he came to disgrace
For the ducks and the geese felt his ravage;
He ran for his life through each place
To the beautiful site of Rocksavage.

By the palace of Marley we ran,
Ballycrinigan rocks scrambled over;
Up by Knockamulgurry each man
Went as if he was going to clover.

Like aigles we rose on the hill;
All Wexford we saw underneath us,
But the rogue was in front of us still
And we hadn’t a turn to breath us.

We ran him towards the Blackstairs
Where the best horse in Europe would stumble.
Mick Sinnott with Bill Garret’s mare,
Like mountebanks down they did tumble.

Then he thought to get on to the rocks
Which before us rose up like church steeples
But we snaffled the wily old fox
Or we’d all ha’ gone home limping cripples.

Dick lang blew his horn right stout
And you’d think we were going to berrin’;
The people so crowded about
When they heard he was dead as a herrin’.

Then like hosiers we footed along,
Each sportsman had aired his red jacket;
A few of them dropped from the throng
But in Myshall they ended the racket.