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!
