When the farmer comes to count them in the morning.

The horse is up and saddled;
Girth the old horse tight!
The hounds are out and drawing
In the morning light.
Now it's 'Yoick!' among the heather,
And it's 'Yoick!' across the clover,
And it's 'To him, all together!'
'Hyke a Bertha! Hyke a Rover!'
And the woodlands smell so sweetly in the morning.

'There's Termagant a-whimpering;
She whimpers so.'
'There's a young hound yapping!'
Let the young hound go!
But the old hound is cunning,
And it's him we mean to follow,
'They are running! They are running!
And it's 'Forrard to the hollo!'
For the scent is lying strongly in the morning.

'Who's the fool that heads him?'
Hold hard, and let him pass!
He's out among the oziers
He's clear upon the grass.
You grip his flanks and settle,
For the horse is stretched and straining,
Here's a game to test your mettle,
And a sport to try your training,