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The toils are
pitched, 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,
Bearing its branches sturdily;
He came silently down the glen,
Ever sing
hardily, hardily.
It was there he met with a
wounded doe,
She was bleeding deathfully;
She
warned him of the toils below,
O so faithfully,
faithfully!
He had an eye, and he could heed,
Ever sing so warily, warily;
He had a foot, and
he could speed--
Hunters watch so narrowly.
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