STAG-HUNTING 



THE LORD OF THE VALLEY 



A STAG-HUNTEU's SONG 



Hunters are fretting, and hacks in a lather, 



Sportsmen arriving from left and from right. 

 Bridle-roads bringing them, see how they gather ! 



Dotting the meadows in scarlet and white. 

 Foot-people staring, and horsemen preparing ; 



Now there's a murmur — a stir — and a shout ! 

 Fresh from his carriage, as bridegroom in marriage, 



The Lord of the Valley leaps gallantly out. 



Time, the Avenger, neglecting, or scorning, 



Gazes about him in beauteous disdain. 

 Lingers to toy with the whisper of morning, 



Daintily, airily, paces the plain. 

 Then in a second, his course having reckoned. 



Line that all Leicestershire cannot surpass. 

 Fleet as a swallow, when summer winds follow. 



The Lord of the Valley skims over the grass. 



Where shall we take him ? Ah ! now for the tussle. 



These are the beauties can stoop and can fly ; 

 Down go their noses, together they bustle. 



Dashing, and flinging, and scorning to cry ! 

 Never stand dreaming, while yonder they 're sti-eaming ; 



If ever you meant it, man, mean it to-day ! 

 Bold ones are riding and fast ones are striding. 



The Lord of the Valley is Forward ! Away ! 



Hard on his track, o'er the open and facing, 



The cream of the country, the pick of the chase. 

 Mute as a dream, his pursuers are racing. 



Silence, you know, 's the criterion of pace ! 

 Swarming and driving, while man and horse striving 



By cranuning and hugging, scarce live with them still ; 

 The fastest are failing, the truest are tailing, 



The Lord of the Valley is over the hill ! 

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