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Songs of the Seasons

And Other Poems. By Thomas Tod Stoddart

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Lo! the fowler waits for me—
Wearies, like an ardent lover,
For the hour of my appearing!

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Happy with his dogs and gearing
And the dream of glossy wealth
Hidden in the purple cover.
At the dawning of the Twelfth,
While, as yet, the dews are falling,
I regard him on the hill
To his wayward setters calling;
On the hill, among the heather
Dropping with an aim of skill
Tuft on tuft of lustrous feather.