Oh, it ’s twenty gallant gentlemen Rode out to hunt the deer, With mirth upon the silver horn And gleam upon the spear; They galloped through the meadow-grass, They sought the forest’s gloom, And loudest rang Sir Morven’s laugh, And lightest tost his plume. There ’s no delight by day or night Like hunting in the morn; So busk ye, gallant gentlemen, And sound the silver horn! They rode into the dark greenwood By ferny dell and glade, And now and then upon their cloaks The yellow sunshine played; They heard the timid forest-birds Break off amid their glee, They saw the startled leveret, But not a stag did see. Wind, wind the horn, on summer morn! Though ne’er a buck appear, There ’s health for horse and gentleman A-hunting of the deer! They panted up Ben Lomond’s side Where thick the leafage grew, And when they bent the branches back The sunbeams darted through; Sir Morven in his saddle turned, And to his comrades spake, “Now quiet! we shall find a stag Beside the Brownies’ Lake. Then sound not on the bugle-horn, Bend bush and do not break, Lest ye should start the timid hart A-drinking at the lake.” Now they have reached the Brownies’ Lake,— A blue eye in the wood,— And on its brink a moment’s space All motionless they stood; When, suddenly, the silence broke With fifty bowstrings’ twang, And hurtling through the drowsy air Full fifty arrows sang. Ah, better for those gentlemen, Than horn and slender spear, Were morion and buckler true, A-hunting of the deer. Not one of that brave company Shall hunt the deer again; Some fell beside the Brownies’ Pool, Some dropt in dell or glen; An arrow pierced Sir Morven’s breast, His horse plunged in the lake, And swimming to the farther bank He left a bloody wake. Ah, what avails the silver horn, And what the slender spear? There ’s other quarry in the wood Beside the fallow deer! O’er ridge and hollow sped the horse Besprent with blood and foam, Nor slackened pace until at eve He brought his master home. How tenderly the Lady Ruth The cruel dart withdrew! “False Tirrell shot the bolt,” she said, “That my Sir Morven slew!” Deep in the forest lurks the foe, While gayly shines the morn: Hang up the broken spear, and blow A dirge upon the horn.
The Last Hunt
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