My falcon 's tow'ring o'er him with an eye of fire and pride,
Her pinions strong, with one short pull, are gather'd to her side,
When like a stone from off the sling, or bolt from out the bow,
In meteor flight, with sudden dart, she stoops upon her foe.
The vanquish'd and the vanquisher sink rolling round and round,
With wounded wing the quarried game falls heavy on the ground.
Away, away, my falcon fair has spread her buoyant wings,
While on the ear her silver voice as clear as metal rings.
Though high her soar, and far her flight, my whoop has struck her ear,
And reclaiming for the lure, o'er my head she sallies near.
No other sport like falconry can make the bosom glow,
When flying at the stately game, or raking at the crow.
Who mews a hawk must nurse her as a mother would her child,
And soothe the wayward spirit of a thing so fierce and wild;
Must woo her like a bride, while with love his bosom swells
For the noble bird that bears the hood, the jessy, leash, and bells.
THE SALMON RUN.
Air—"The brave old Oak."
Oh! away to the Tweed,
To the beautiful Tweed,
My much-loved native stream;
Where the fish from his hold,
'Neath some cataract bold,
Starts up like a quivering gleam.
From his iron-bound keep,
Far down in the deep,
He holds on his sovereign sway;
Or darts like a lance,
Or the meteor's glance,
Afar on his bright-wing'd prey.
As he roves through the tide,
Then his clear glitt'ring side
Is burnish'd with silver and gold;
And the sweep of his flight
Seems a rainbow of light,
As again he sinks down in his hold.