'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 stately 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 warily, warily;
He had a foot, and he could speed,--
Hunters watch so narrowly.'
