INDIAN SPORTING SONGS. 325 



V. 



Like the whirlwind that sweeps over mountain and 



mead, 



Thro' the jungle of thorn is the rush of each steed ; 

 Yet one shoots ahead like a shaft from a bow, 

 And the hunter's sharp weapon is poised o'er his foe. 



VI. 



It is done he is speared, and the flank of that boar 

 So lately unscarred, is dripping with gore ; 

 He turns and he charges, but charges in vain, 

 For the next moment he lies a corpse on the plain. 



VII. 



Now, our sport being over, let us drink to the day, 

 When once more we assemble a grey boar to slay. 

 May his pluck be as good, and his speed as well 



tried, 

 As his who but now by the Bheema has died I 



SCREW. 



Oriental Sporting Magazine,' 

 March, 1833. 



