If life is a business, existence is fun
When duty and pleasure and sport are in one;
And so he wears ever a smile on his lip--
'Tis a labour of love to the Galloping Whip.
The moon of September's his light in the morn,
When the cub's to be killed and they've carried the corn;
The moon of December's his lamp for the trip,
As home with the pack goes the Galloping Whip.
For hours never vex him, and work cannot tire,
That dapper pink fits on a framework of wire;
He'll go without sup, and he'll go without sip
From daylight to dark will the Galloping Whip.
The phiz of bold Reynard is shaped on his mug,
Mouth wide as an oxer, as deep as a jug;
That feature was fashion'd to scream, not to nip,
And the bumper's no charm for the Galloping Whip.
The last to leave covert, he'll cheer on the pack;
Twenty couples are out, then away with a crack;
In a mile he has given the quickest the slip--
The wind from their sails takes the Galloping Whip.