 | Hunting Songs |  |
The Dead Hunter.
I
His sire from the desert, his dam from the north,The pride of my stable stept gallantly forth,
One slip in his stride as the scurry he led,
And my steed, ere his rivals o'ertook him, lay dead.
II
Poor steed! shall thy limbs on the hunting field lie,That his beak in thy carcase the raven may dye?
Is it thine the sad doom of thy race to fulfil,
Thy flesh to the cauldron, thy bones to the mill?
III
Ah! no.—I beheld thee a foal yet unshod,Now race round the paddock, now roll on the sod;
25
There, the shoes on thy feet, will I lay thee to rest!
| Hunting Songs | |