Hounds, whose voices could give warning
From far moors of stags at bay,
Quiver in each iron muscle,
Howl, impatient of delay.

Henchmen, waiting for the signal,
At their chiefs imperious word
Start, to drive from hill and corrie
To the pass the watchful herd.

Closed were paths as with a netting,
Vain high courage, speed, or scent;
Every mesh, a man in ambush
Ready with a crossbow bent.

"Eachan, guard that glade and copsewood,
At your peril let none by!"
Cries the chief, while in the heather
Silently the huntsmen lie.

Shouting by the green morasses
Where the fairies dance at night,
Yelling 'mid the oak and birches
Come the beaters into sight.

And before them, rushing wildly
Speeds the driven herd of deer,
Whose wide antlers toss like branches
In the winter of the year.