Again the slaughtering gun is heard,
And wildly screams the parent bird;
All night she mourns her lessen’d brood,
Still views them fluttering in their blood,
With timorous call the rest collects,
And with quick wing their flight directs.
Now the strong buck his rival drives,
And awes with jealous threats his wives:
Slow move the kine to fresher fields;
The hawthorn to the holly yields: