And thus they liv'd from day to day,
This hunter and his hound;
With nature's simple joys content,
He felt not life's dull round.
A hunter's life he dearly lov'd,
And still, from day to day,
No other sound he lov'd to hear,
Like his own deer-hound's bay.
But soon that voice must sound no more;
The faithful dog must die;
The man must hunt the deer, without
That well-known, guiding cry.
The hound had chas'd a noble buck
Right down into the lake,
But roll'd the waves so high and strong,
The noble beast did quake
With fear, for now he saw 'twas death,
To leave the solid shore—
A lesser danger there he saw,
So back he came once more.
He came with fierce, determin'd bounds,
Impell'd by wild despair,
With lower'd head he reach'd the dog,
Who bravely met him there.
But short the fight, the antlers gor'd,
The dog's brave heart, so true
To him who stood upon the shore,
As spell-bound by the view.
The dog's death yell rang o'er the lake,
For him, and for his foe,
As whizzing came the well-aim'd ball,
That laid the slayer low.
The bullet came, but yet too late
To save the gallant hound;
And long the hunter mourn'd his loss,
And miss'd his voice's sound.
* * * * *