 | Songs of the Seasons |  |
Lo! the fowler waits for me—
Wearies, like an ardent lover,
For the hour of my appearing!
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.
Wearies, like an ardent lover,
For the hour of my appearing!
15
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.
| Songs of the Seasons | |