The hunter wind his horn;
He dared ye through the flooded Teith
As a warrior in his scorn!
Dash the red rowel in the steed,
Spur, laggards, while ye may!
St. Hubert's shaft to a stripling reed,
He dies no death to-day!
'Forward!'—Nay, waste not idle breath,
Gallants, ye win no green-wood wreath;
His antlers dance above the heath,