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.

Chorus
Tally ho! Tally ho! Tally ho!
Hark for'ard good hounds, Tally ho!

The moon of September's his life in the morn,
When there's cubs to be killed and they've carried the corn,
The moon of December is last for the trip,
As home with the pack goes the Galloping Whip.

For hours never vex him nor work ever tire,
That strapper exists on a framework of wire,
He'll go without sup and he'll go without sip,
From daylight to dusk will the Galloping Whip.

The vis of bold Reynard is shaped on his mug,
As wide as an oxer, as deep as a jug,
That picture was fashioned to scream and to nip
And the bumpers are out for the Galloping Whip.

The last to leave cover, he'll cheer on the pack,
Twenty couple are out and away with a crack,
In a mile he has given the fastest the slip,
And the wind from their sails takes the Galloping Whip.

When we're jammed in a corner the timber too strong,
The bullfinch too thick and our courage all gone,
He'll give us a lead and over he'll flip,
But it's little improved by the Galloping Whip.

Does he ride for repute now as high as a head,
He works for his huntsman and works for his bread,
Wherever he steers men are glad for the trip,
And the bruisers delight in the Galloping Whip.

Ever sparing of race and indulging of youth,
His cheer if it's faulty, gets forard to truth,
But a rioter determined will never outstrip,
The swift venging thong of the Galloping Whip.

They've run twenty minutes as close as a wedge
By jove they have split, there's two lines by the hedge,
Old Regent is right up the furrow they rip,
And around swing the rest with the Galloping Whip.

Again through the covers the whip isn't here
Look, a hat's down the wind, Charles has him I swear,
And Reynard poor devil is well in the grip,
Of white collar Will and his Galloping Whip.