 | The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes |  |
THE HUNT
NAUSHON, 1857
Not a buck was shot nor a doe nor a faun
As from desire to dream they hurried,
Though the huntsmen were dragged from their beds by dawn
And the deer were terribly worried.
As from desire to dream they hurried,
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And the deer were terribly worried.
They crawled back slowly at fall of night
At a funeral trot returning,
As they steered their course by the dim red light
Where the Captain's cheroot was burning.
At a funeral trot returning,
As they steered their course by the dim red light
Where the Captain's cheroot was burning.
Short, not sweet, were the words they said
As they smoked in silent sorrow,
But they swore that the deer must all be dead,
And they'd try again tomorrow.
As they smoked in silent sorrow,
But they swore that the deer must all be dead,
And they'd try again tomorrow.
No wish for a saddle or haunch was heard;
They did not care a button,
They said with a grin how they all preferred
A leg of the island mutton.
They did not care a button,
They said with a grin how they all preferred
A leg of the island mutton.
Little they spoke, as they jogged in the road
But they kept up a mighty thinking
Of the wagon showing its empty load,
And the folks are staring and winking.
But they kept up a mighty thinking
Of the wagon showing its empty load,
And the folks are staring and winking.
They thought, as they sadly removed the caps
From the useless shot and powder,
How they'd better have staid at home, perhaps,
And plied with their spoons at chowder.
From the useless shot and powder,
How they'd better have staid at home, perhaps,
And plied with their spoons at chowder.
Slowly and solemnly, one by one,
They entered and told their story,
The hearing whereof brought lots of fun
With a plentiful lack of glory—
They entered and told their story,
The hearing whereof brought lots of fun
With a plentiful lack of glory—
| The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes | |