Poem by Walter Scott

Hunter's Song

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. 

1. On Ettrick Forest’s Mountains Dun
2. Lines Addressed to Ranald Macdonald, Esq., of Staffa
3. The Sun upon the Weirdlaw Hill
4. The Monks of Bangor’s March
5. On Leaving Mrs. Brown's Lodgings

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