And ne'er beneath the sportive gale
Did Wharfe so calmly flow.
"Hark! hark! on Barden-fell the horn
Of the blithe hunter rings,
Buscar! they rouse a stag this morn;
Oh, sweet the bugle sings."
Away, away, they speed with joy,
The frolic hound and he,
Proud Egremond's far boasted boy,
That gallant chase to see.