The distant horsemen now were coming on again, riding in double file.
They had flung their banners to the breeze, and on the changing wind,
with the thumping of horses' hoofs, came by snatches the sound of a
kettledrummer drawing his drumhead tight, and beating as he drew, and
the muffled blasts of a trumpeter proving his lips.

Fynes Morrison and Walter Stirley, who had gone to Cowslip lane to meet
the march, were running on ahead, and shouting as they ran: "There's
forty men, and sumpter-mules! and, oh, the bravest banners and
attire--and the trumpets are a cloth-yard long! Make room for us, make
room for us, and let us up!"

A bowshot off, the trumpets blew a blast so high, so clear, so keen,
that it seemed a flame of fire in the air, and as the brassy fanfare
died away across the roofs of the quiet town, the kettledrums clanged,
the cymbals clashed, and all the company began to sing the famous old
song of the hunt:

"The hunt is up, the hunt is up,
Sing merrily we, the hunt is up!
The wild birds sing,
The dun deer fling,
The forest aisles with music ring!
Tantara, tantara, tantara!

"Then ride along, ride along,
Stout and strong!
Farewell to grief and care;
With a rollicking cheer
For the high dun deer