Her look glanced wildly o’er the glen.
XXV.
“The toils are pitch’d, and the stakes are set,
Ever sing merrily, merrily;
The bows they bend, and the knives they whet,
Hunters live so cheerily.
“It was a stag, a stag of ten,[266]
Bearing its branches sturdily;
He came stately down the glen,
Ever sing hardily, hardily.