 | Poems of home and country |  |
336
THE HUNTSMAN'S SONG.
Trarah! Trarah!
The morning hoar-frost on the cold earth glistens;
The bleak wind whistles so fresh and cold,
The huntsman arouses and listens;
The horn is winding so clear and shrill,
It calls him abroad to the sunny hill;
Trarah! Trarah!
The sunny hill,
Trarah! Trarah! Trarah!
The morning hoar-frost on the cold earth glistens;
The bleak wind whistles so fresh and cold,
The huntsman arouses and listens;
The horn is winding so clear and shrill,
It calls him abroad to the sunny hill;
Trarah! Trarah!
The sunny hill,
Trarah! Trarah! Trarah!
Trarah! Trarah!
The winter's breeze makes strong his very marrow.
Up fly the birds—and his eye is clear;
He seizes the sharp gleaming arrow,
And scours the hillside where waved the corn,
Led on by the voice of the hunting-horn.
Trarah! Trarah!
The hunting-horn,
Trarah! Trarah! Trarah!
The winter's breeze makes strong his very marrow.
Up fly the birds—and his eye is clear;
He seizes the sharp gleaming arrow,
And scours the hillside where waved the corn,
Led on by the voice of the hunting-horn.
Trarah! Trarah!
The hunting-horn,
Trarah! Trarah! Trarah!
Trarah! Trarah!
It calls away,—the sound of sport and pleasure.
The hounds are ready; away we go!
The evening our frolic shall measure.
The horn is winding; the game is here;
And the echo salutes us far and near,—
Trarah! Trarah!
The game is here;
Trarah! Trarah! Trarah!
It calls away,—the sound of sport and pleasure.
The hounds are ready; away we go!
The evening our frolic shall measure.
The horn is winding; the game is here;
And the echo salutes us far and near,—
Trarah! Trarah!
The game is here;
Trarah! Trarah! Trarah!
| Poems of home and country | |