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British Musical Theatre   My Lady Molly

No. 9 - Chorus - "Hurrah for the field."

MIDI File

[Men: Ye-ho yoicks!
Run to earth there's the sign!
There's never a dearth of good ale or wine
Where the old crest rules
O'er a score of farms
And its azure gules
Mark the Coverdale Arms,
Mark the Coverdale Arms.
Sir Miles: Hola, mine host, what cheer, what cheer!
Landlord: Right Nantz, Sir Miles, good claret and good beer.
Men: Wine to cheer the maim'd and halt,
Beer for us we find no fault
With the essence of the Malt
British beer, British beer.
Foam the tankards high and deep,
Hunters we who mean to keep
With the leaders, leap for leap,
With the leaders, leap for leap.
Basses: Tankards,
Tenors: Tankards,
Basses: Tankards here, Tankards,
Tenors: Tankards,
All men: Tankards here.
Ladies: Just drawn from the tap,
Fresh foamy and clear.
Your worship, may-hap
May fancy our beer.
Good malt and good hop,
With a bitter to Sting,
And never a drop
Isn't fit for a king.
Men: The good ale, the strong ale,
The ale of old England
May it long be the liquor
of peer and of peasant.
Ensemble: The foaming, the creaming
Brown ale of old England,
No land save our own
hath a vintage so pleasant.
No land hath a vintage so pleasant.
Landlord: Bustle, you hussies! bustle zounds.
Squire: And mine the treat as master of hounds.
Hurrah for the field that I've often led
When the hounds run mute with the fox ahead.
When the bramble bauk o'er the Dingley burn
Has made them all but the stoutest turn.
Do you know the place?
Men: Aye, we know it well.
Squire: Some of us cross'd it and others fell,
But where's the man wouldn't break the bounds
For a ding-dong ride with the Coverdale hounds?
Men: For a ding-dong ride with the Coverdale hounds.
Squire: Drain, drain your tankards, my bold brigade;
There's sport ahead when your thirst is stay'd.
The scent lies hot in the fallows damp,
The hounds are baying, the horses stamp.
You know the covert beyond the gate;
The fox is wondering why we wait.
Chorus: The air's astir with hunting sounds.
Hark to the tongue of the Coverdale hounds.
   
Squire: Some day the earth will be hard with frost
But ye shall not feel it a day all lost,
For my daughter's wedding but waits the day
When I'm ready to give the bride away.
There'll be dancing then.
Men: And a good dance too.
Squire: Feasting and frolic for all of you
And while the castle with mirth resounds
We will drink a toast to the Coverdale hounds.
Men: We will drink once more to the Coverdale hounds.
Squire: Drain, drain your tankards, my bold brigade;
There's sport ahead when your thirst is stay'd.
The scent lies hot in the fallows damp,
The hounds are baying, the horses stamp.
You know the covert beyond the gate;
The fox is wondering why we wait.
Chorus: The air's astir with hunting sounds.
Hark to the tongue of the Coverdale hounds.
Yoicks! Yoicks!

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