HUNTING SONGS 



VI 



Bones of chicken ever picking. 

 This pet, so fed and nurs'd, 



Though he never gave a gallop, 

 He may finish with a bui'st. 



The NLare a7id her Master 



I 



THOUGH my sight is grow^n dim, though my 

 arm is grown weak, 

 Grey hairs on my forehead, and lines on my cheek ; 

 Though the verdure of youth is now yellow and 



sere, 

 I feel my heart throb when November draws near. 



II 



I could pardon the wrongs thou hast done me. Old 



Time ! 

 If thy hand would but help me the stirrup to climb ; 

 The one pleasure left is to gaze on my mare, 

 Her with whom I lov'd best the excitement to share. 



Ill 



Sound wind and limb, without blemish or speck, 

 Her rider disabled, her owner a wreck ! 

 Unstripp'd and unsaddled, she seems to ask why ; 

 Unspurr'd and unbooted, I make no reply. 

 158 



