A DEEK-HUNT. 



By Wah-bah-mi-mi. 



HE voice of brave "Venus" was heard on the gale, 

 And the fierce howl of Driver came close at her heel; 

 The sharp yelj of Patch told the story of game, 

 As down the "swamp-runway " the grand chorus camel 

 The fear-stricken quarry, in proud antlered pride, 

 Fled onward, with snow-flakes of foam on his side. 

 On, onward he sped — over brake, and o'er brier. 

 Each bound to his doom brought him nigher and nigher; 

 And louder behind him swelled full on the breeze 

 That matchless refrain through the old cedar-trees. 

 'Twas clear as the notes of the bugle, which thrill 

 The spirit of Echo o'er valley and hill. 

 Tell me not of the music which instruments make, 

 Though harmony trembles in every wake; 

 Tell me not of the sound of a lute in the grove, 

 Though that lute be attuned to the cadence of love; 

 Tell me not of the chorus that swells o'er the bowl, 

 When wine sparkles brightly and mirth thrills each soul- 

 No melody rivals the magical sound 

 Of the deep-toned and heart-stirring voice of the hound, 

 "When fierce on the trail, with proud fire in his eye, 

 He follows each wind of the scent in " full cry ! " 

 But close came the music to where Eonald stood, 

 With nostrils expanded, impatient for blood ; 

 Hi's old double-barrel, that oft had been tried, 

 Was ready; his eye glanced on every side. 

 The breaking of twigs gives him warning, when high, 

 With a bound o'er the bushes, the buck meets his eye: 

 Pull sixty yards off did he burst on his view, 

 When up went his gun — tried, trusty, and true; 

 Out rang a report on the cool evening air; 

 We looked for the quarry— in death he lay there! 

 The bullet had pierced him direct 'twixt the eyes. 

 'Twas gallantly done. A magnificent prize 

 Was that stately old Deer, as he drew his last breath, 

 Pull-length on the runway. Then in at the death, 

 With a grand, sweeping chorus, the noble dogs came, 



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