II.
The kennelled pack, with conscious ear,
Well know the huntsman to be near;
Their deep-toned notes, in concert rise,
As to the door each staunch hound flies;
And merry were the huntsman’s cries:
Full well he knew to cheer each hound,
Or quell his riot, by the sound
Of angry word, or cracking thong.
But now the pack as round they crowd,
In notes melodious, and loud,
Pour forth their morning song.
And, on my soul, the sound was dear,
And transport to the huntsman’s ear.
Out dashed the pack, a stauncher crew
Ne’er snuffed the pearly morning-dew:
And soon the huntsman’s sounding thong
Has checked the ardour of the throng:
In meet procession, quiet, slow,
Behind their master’s horse they go:
His two assistants after ride,
To bring them all to cover side.