Just then the sound of horses’ hoofs the sick man heard without,
And he and Death, in one glad breath, sent up a hunting shout—
“It’s bold Squire Thornleigh’s raw-boned gray, or Parson Jones’s bay—
I’m coming, Squire, Yoick’s tally-ho!” Death shouted, “Hark! Away!”
Yoick’s tally-ho fills loud the room as he springs up from bed,
And the bugle horn sounds merrily in the chamber of the dead;
Gay prancing steeds and huntsmen bold ride blithely by his side,
“Yoicks! tally-ho!” rang from his lips, and back he fell and died.
His kinsmen heard that hunting shout, that old familiar cry,
And in they rushed—too late—too late—to see the good man die.