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62 THE WOLF. 
Oh, the horrible wolves! methinks I hear 
The sound of their barking drawing near ; 
Down from their dismal caves they drive, 
And leave behind them nought alive ; 
Down from their caves they come by day, 
Savage as mad-dogs for their prey ; 
Down on the tracks where the hunters roam, 
Down to the peasant’s hut they come. 
The peasant is waked from his pine-branch 
bed 
By the direst, fiercest sound of dread ; 
A snuffing scent, a scratching sound, 
Like a dog that rendeth up the ground ; 
Up from his bed he springs in fear, 
For he knows that the cruel wolf is near. 
A moment’s pause—a moment more— 
And he hears them snuffing ‘neath his door. 
Beneath his door he sees them mining, 
Snuffing, snarling, scratching, whining. 
Horrible sight! no more he sees, 
With terror his very senses freeze ;— 
Horrible sounds! he hears no more, 
The wild wolves bound across his floor, 
And the next moment lap his gore; 
