THE SHADE OF THE Hl'XTSMAX. 93 



On, onward, they go, where the meadows are gleaming 



In silvery grandeur, and silent and still ; 

 Away by the brook, where the moonbeams are streaming, 



The phantom-shaped pack, passes over the hill. 



And weird is the scene over which they are speeding, 

 And weird are the colours of silver and grey, 



And weird are the hounds that are silently leading 

 The ghost of the huntsman — still, forrard, away. 



And still in the hunt there are those who maintain it, 

 Unseen in the daylight he rides by your side, 



And when you have got a good start and retain it, 

 He moves you to gallop and stirs you to ride. 



He stirs you to ride when your comrades are moving 

 Around you in chase, ever true to the end ; 



He stirs you to ride when the moments are proving 

 That every true sportsman is counted a friend. 



Well, well, men may laugh and declare I'm romancing, 

 For me 'tis enough, I care not what they say, 



I know that at night when the moonbeams are dancing 

 Poor Joe and the hounds are still streaming away. 



Good night, sir, good night. Mind the step. How it's snowing. 



I'm glad you are pleased at the story I've told. 

 My word ! what a gale ! see the trees, how it's blowing 



The drifts must be deep over there on the wold. 



