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Ye jovial hunters, in the morn
Prepare then for the chase;
Rise at the sounding of the horn
And health with sport embrace,

When a hunting we do go.

HENRY FIELDING.

THE HUNTER'S SONG.

RISE! Sleep no more! 'Tis a noble morn.
The dews hang thick on the fringed thorn,
And the frost shrinks back, like a beaten hound,
Under the steaming, steaming ground.
Behold where the billowy clouds flow by,
And leave us alone in the clear gray sky!
Our horses are ready and steady. — So, ho!
I'm gone, like a dart from the Tartar's bow.
Hark, hark! Who calleth the maiden Morn
From her sleep in the woods and the stubble corn?
The horn, the horn!

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Sound! Sound the horn! To the hunter good
What's the gully deep or the roaring flood?
Right over he bounds, as the wild stag bounds,
At the heels of his swift, sure, silent hounds.
O, what delight can a mortal lack,
When he once is firm on his horse's back,
With his stirrups short, and his snaffle strong,
And the blast of the horn for his morning song?
Hark, hark! Now, home! and dream till morn
Of the bold, sweet sound of the hunter's horn!
the horn!

The horn, O, the sound of all sounds is the hunter's horn!

BRYAN W. PROCTER (BARRY CORNWALL).

A CANADIAN BOAT-SONG.

FAINTLY as tolls the evening chime,
Our voices keep tune, and our oars keep time.
Soon as the woods on shore look dim,
We'll sing at St. Ann's our parting hymn.
Row, brothers, row! the stream runs fast,
The rapids are near, and the daylight's past!

Why should we yet our sail unfurl?
There is not a breath the blue wave to curl.
But when the wind blows off the shore,
O, sweetly we'll rest our weary oar!

Blow, breezes, blow! the stream runs fast,
The rapids are near, and the daylight's past!

Utawa's tide! this trembling moon
Shall see us float over thy surges soon.
Saint of this green isle, hear our prayers,
O, grant us cool heavens and favoring airs!
Blow, breezes, blow! the stream runs fast,
The rapids are near, and the daylight's past!

THOMAS MOORE.

THE PLEASURE-BOAT.

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