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THE HUNTSMAN AND HIS HOUND.
When hill and dale, long years ago,
Lay clad in nature's dress,
And flourish'd the primeval pomp
Of nature's wilderness,
A huntsman and his hound would roam,
Where fed the timid deer,
And where the partridge's drum, or whirr,
Brought music to his ear.
In sooth, he heard all forest sounds
With real sportsman's joy;
And here he always pleasure found,
With little of alloy.
The pigeon's coo, the squirrel's chirp,
The wild-bird's thrilling lay,
Brought freshen'd pleasure to his heart,
At ev'ry op'ning day.
But music sweeter far than aught
In wood or vale around,
Was the loud crackling of the deer,
Or baying of his hound.
Full many a deer his steady aim,
With faithful rifle slew,
But, faithful as his rifle was,
His hound was faithful, too.
With loud, sonorous bay, he ran
Through swamp, or darken'd brake,
Till, from the bush the deer would bound
Far out into the lake.
And then, with ready boat at hand,
The hunter got his game;
For to its struggling, frightened mark,
The well-aim'd bullet came.