(_To be sung when the Hounds meet at Colney Hatch or Hanwell_)
Tantivy! Anchovy! Tantara!
The moon is up, the moon is up,
The larks begin to fly,
And like a scarlet buttercup
Aurora gilds the sky.
Then let us all a-hunting go,
Come, sound the gay French horn,
And chase the spiders to and fro,
Amid the standing corn.
Tantivy! Anchovy! Tantara!
* * * * *