A-hunting we will go.
A-hunting we are gone.
We'll ride through hail and snow,
And our hunting hats we'll don.

Hunting all day long,
And we sing our hunting song:

"Give me back my tea spoon..."
No that's not how it goes.
But never mind; we'll hum a tune,
And chase our furry foes.

Stupid, stupid fox.
  He couldn't duck the bullet.
We're not here to kill the fox.
  We're only here to cull it.

Silly, silly duck.
  He couldn't out-fox the crossbow.
How the fox is still alive,
  I'm still at a loss, though.

The dogs lead us to a goat.
Where the fox is we don't know.
But a fox in a hat and a bright red coat
Points to where we should go.

The undergrowth is dense.
All over, not just under.
We come to a halt at a fence,
And look beyond in wonder.

People hunt a yellow bird
With nets but it gets away.
We look in awe; not one word
Can any of us say.

Or maybe one, but no more.
'Tennis', someone calls this thing.
The party is a group of four,
And the little bird won't sing.

This type of hunt is the right thing.
It's better than horses and a gun.
It's so much more exciting,
And a million times more fun.

They let us have a go.
It's just as much fun as it looks.
But no one there seems to know
Why it isn't in the hunting books.