 | Living English Poets: A. Conan Doyle |  |
THE OLD HUNTSMAN.
There's a keen and grim old huntsman
On a horse as white as snow;
Sometimes he is very swift
And sometimes he is very slow.
But he never is at fault,
For he always hunts at view,
And he rides without a halt
After you.
On a horse as white as snow;
Sometimes he is very swift
And sometimes he is very slow.
But he never is at fault,
For he always hunts at view,
And he rides without a halt
After you.
The huntsman's name is Death,
His horse's name is Time;
He is coming, he is coming,
As I sit and write this rhyme;
He is coming, he is coming,
As you read this rhyme I write;
You can hear the hoofs' low drumming
Day and night.
His horse's name is Time;
He is coming, he is coming,
As I sit and write this rhyme;
He is coming, he is coming,
As you read this rhyme I write;
You can hear the hoofs' low drumming
Day and night.
You can hear the distant drumming
As the clock goes tick-a-tack,
And the chiming of the hours
In the music of his pack.
You may hardly note their growling
Underneath the noonday sun,
But at night you hear them howling
As they run.
As the clock goes tick-a-tack,
And the chiming of the hours
In the music of his pack.
You may hardly note their growling
Underneath the noonday sun,
But at night you hear them howling
As they run.
And they never check or falter
For they never miss their kill;
Seasons change and systems alter,
But the hunt is running still.
Hark! the evening chime is playing,
O'er the long gray town in peals;
Don't you hear the death-hound baying
At your heels?
For they never miss their kill;
Seasons change and systems alter,
But the hunt is running still.
Hark! the evening chime is playing,
O'er the long gray town in peals;
Don't you hear the death-hound baying
At your heels?
Where is there an earth or burrow?
Where a cover left for you?
A year, a week, perhaps to-morrow
Brings the Huntsman's death halloo.
Day by day he gains upon us,
And the most that we can claim
Is that when the hounds are on us
We die game.
Where a cover left for you?
A year, a week, perhaps to-morrow
Brings the Huntsman's death halloo.
Day by day he gains upon us,
And the most that we can claim
Is that when the hounds are on us
We die game.
And somewhere dwells the Master,
By whom it was decreed;
He sent the savage huntsman,
He bred the snow-white steed.
These hounds which run forever,
He set them on your track;
He hears you scream, but never
Calls them back.
By whom it was decreed;
He sent the savage huntsman,
He bred the snow-white steed.
These hounds which run forever,
He set them on your track;
He hears you scream, but never
Calls them back.
He does not heed our suing,
We never see his face;
He hunts to our undoing,
We thank him for the chase.
We thank him and we flatter,
We hope—because we must—
But have we cause? No matter!
Let us trust!
We never see his face;
He hunts to our undoing,
We thank him for the chase.
We thank him and we flatter,
We hope—because we must—
But have we cause? No matter!
Let us trust!
| Living English Poets: A. Conan Doyle | |