Oh, why do they hunt so hard, so hard, who have
no need of food?
Do they hunt for sport, do they hunt for hate, do
they hunt for the lust of blood?

. . . . . .

If I were a god I would get me a spear, I would
get me horse and dog,
And merrily, merrily I would ride through covert
and brake and bog,

With hound and horn and laughter loud, over the
hills and away-
For there is no sport like that of a god with a
man that stands at bay!

Ho! but the morning is fresh and fair, and oh!
but the sun is bright,
And yonder the quarry breaks from the brush and
heads for the hills in flight;

A minute's law for the harried thing-then follow
him, follow him fast,
With the bellow of dogs and the beat of hoofs
and the mellow bugle's blast.

. . . . . .

Hillo! Halloo! they have marked a man! there is
sport in the world to-day-
And a clamor swells from the heart of the wood that
tells of a soul at bay!