Hark! the game's on foot; they scatter;
Down the forest riding lone,
Furious, single horsemen gallop.
Hark! a shout--a crash--a groan!

Pale and breathless, came the hunters;
On the turf, dead lies the boar,
But the Duke lies stretched beside him,
Senseless, weltering in his gore.

In the dull October evening,
Down the leaf-strewn forest road,
To the Castle, past the drawbridge,
Came the hunters with their load.

In the hall, with torches blazing,
Ladies waiting round her seat,
Clothed in smiles, beneath the dais
Sat the Duchess Marguerite.

Hark! below the gates unbarring,
Tramp of men and quick commands.
"'Tis my lord come back from hunting,"
And the Duchess claps her hands.

Slow and tired, came the hunters;
Stopped in darkness in the court.--
"Ho! this way, ye laggard hunters.
To the hall! What sport, what sport?"