GEORGE TEMPLER'S 

 FAREWELL TO HIS OLD HORN 



Though toil hath somewhat worn thy frame. 

 And time hath marred thy beauty, 



Come forth, lone relic of my fame, 

 Thou well hast done thy duty. 



Time was when other tongues would praise 

 Thy wavering notes of pleasure ; 



Now, miser-like, alone I gaze 

 On thee, a useless treasure. 



Some hearts may prize thy music still. 

 But, ah ! how changed the story. 



Since first Devonia felt the thrill 

 That roused her sporting glory . 



Grace still in every vale abounds. 

 But one dear charm is wanting. 



No more I hear my gallant hounds 

 In chorus blithely chaunting. 



And there my steed has found a rest, 



Beneath the mountain heather 

 That oft, like comrades sworn, we've prest 



In pleasure's train together. 



And some, who at thy call would wake. 

 Hath friendship long been weeping ; 



A shriller note than thine must break 

 Their deep and dreamless sleeping. 



I, too, the fading wreath resign, 

 For friends and fame are fleeting. 



Around his bolder brow to twine, 

 Where younger blood is beating. 



Henceforth, be mute, my treasured Horn, 

 Since time hath marred thy beauty. 



And I, like thee, by toil am worn— 

 We both have done our duty. 



