The hunt is up! and hound and pup
Are tuning round Killarney;
The hunt is out! O there's a shout!
You'd hear it down to Blarney.
There goes the stag along the crag,
A Royal now I warrant,
See how he sails across the rails
And flies the foaming torrent.

Away in Tork they wind and work,
Among the whorts and heather.
The scent's in doubt, now all are out,
Now hark! They're all together.
For old Jack Keogh he marked him go
And waved 'em with his wattle.
A full George crown they've thrown him down,
With that he'll moist his throttle.

Yoicks! Tally ho! Away they go!
See how the turf he's skimming.
He's through the brake, he's took the lake,
And after him they're swimming.
Their floating ranks are on his flanks,
They're closing now behind him;
He feels the land, he's up the strand!
Now, mind him, oh now mind him!

Hull-hullahoo! they flash in view
Along the shining shingle;
In length'ning row they streaming go,
Now with the shades they mingle;
While, underneath the evening star,
A phantom hunt seems flying,
Now swelling near, now echoing far,
Now down the breezes dying.