/ 



SONG OF THE SPORTSMAN. 



PIERRE SOULE. 



We're up with the sun, by the rippling 



brook, 

 With split bamboo and a feathered hook, 

 Whipping each eddy and shaded nook, 

 For a 2-pound trout we're wishing. 

 A cast, a rise, and the whir of the reel ! 

 As homeward we go with a well filled 



creel, 

 Tired but happy, we're bound to feel 

 There is no sport like fishing. 



The hunter tastes of the joy that's found 

 In the noble sport of riding. 



As the morning sun shows her light in the 



East 

 And the otter is tasting his newly caught 



feast, 

 The hunter is setting a trap for the beast, 

 While the woodpecker loud is rapping ; 

 Or he fixes a snare by the light of the moon, 

 A strong figure 4 for the cunning coon, 



A hunter sits by the pond-hole small, 

 Decoying the bay snipe with plaintive call, 

 While goodly birds to his good gun fall. 

 When the owl at the winter moon is hoot- 

 ing, 

 The hunter thinks of his blind by the 



bay, 

 And recalls the pleasure he had that day, 

 For there is no sport like shooting. 



The wind blows free in the hunter's face, 

 And his steed flies on at a steady pace, 

 Doing his best to be first at the place 

 Where the sly red fox is hiding. 

 As the far-off bay of the running hound 

 And the mellow notes of the whip's horn 

 sound, 



Ere he visits a trap where a mink will be 



soon, 

 For there is no sport like trapping. 



;i ^/*|%^ 



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