Hunter's Song

The toils are pitch'd, and the stakes are set,

Ever sing merrily, merrily;

The bows they bend, and the knives they whet,

Hunters live so cheerily.

It was a stag, a stag of ten,

Bearing its branches sturdily;

He came stately down the glen,

Ever sing hardily, hardily.

It was there he met with a wounded doe,

She was bleeding deathfully;

She warn'd him of the toils below,

O, so faithfully, faithfully!

He had an eye, and he could heed,

Ever sing warily, warily;

He had a foot, and he could speed—

Hunters watch so narrowly.