While he sits on his nest on that old pine limb.
A life in the woods some men may deride,
But freedom is there, my boast and my pride.
I roam through the wild wood o’er skim or the lake,
My wreaths are of laurel, my plumes never fade;
I sleep when the night falls, with the dawn am awake,
To hunt the red deer while they feed in the glade.
I’m joyous and free as a bird of the air,—
A son of the forest, a stranger to care.