254 APPENDIX. 



THE LAME OLD HUNTSMAN BY HIS FIRESIDE. 



I HEAR the echoing sound, 

 That stirred my blood in the bygone years, 

 When the ringing music filled my ears, 



And made my pulses bound. 



In a grey November's morn, 

 When the mists rolled up the hills, 

 One cheery note my memory fills — 



The note of my own old horn. 



And there it hangs on the wall ; 

 Fetch it right down to my hand, my boy ; 

 You think it is but an old man's toy — 



As good as your bat and ball. 



The sport it brings to my mind ! 

 I'll wind it now with my failing breath, — 

 As I used to wind it at the Death, 



When the field were far behind ! 



How often we drew that gorse ! 

 And we used to watch to see him break. 

 And stand to mark the line he'd take, 



I, and the old black horse. 



What a rattling run we had. 

 When we found in the covert by the down ; 

 And then ran him through the market town, 



Till the folks all thought us mad. 



