202 BIG GAME OF NORTH AMERICA. 



And rushed with a bloodthirsty roar at the game! 



Twas worthy the sportsman, and worthy the gun, 



The fall of that noble old buck on the run. 



The sound of that rifle, still true to its aim, 



Brought each man from his "stand " for a view of the game. 



The pipes were drawn forth, and then over the slain 



The run and the shot were enacted again. 



The balmy fall evening was curtained with haze, 



The tree-tops were tinged with the sun's sinking rays, 



The leaves of the forest were silent and still. 



The mighty old hemlock that stood on the hill 



Moved not from its roots to its branches on high, 



Which towered in majestic relief 'gainst the sky. 



'Twas a beautiful scene, but the shadows of night 



From eve's dark'niug sky were commencing their flight. 



The quarry was shouldered, and glad was the tramp, 



As we carried our trophy away to the camp. 



Oh, give me the startling sound of the gun 



The rousing refrain of the hounds at full run! 



Oh, give me the sight of the Deer on the bound 



Over valley and hill, as he spurns the ground! 



Oh, give me the blaze of the camp-fire at night, 



When day and its glories have vanished from sight! 



When friends and companions are seated around, 



With the sky for a roof, for a bed but the ground 



The steam of the tea-kettle curling aloft 



Through the ether of Paradise, balmy and soft; 



The potato-pot boiling and snorting with ire; 



The frying-pan hissing aloud on the fire; 



And an appetite keen from the glorious run, 



Awaiting the moment when " Supper is done." 



Compared with such charms, a palace would be, 



Though gilded and gorgeous, a prison to me! 



