Ay! the good hound may bay beneath,
The hunter wind his horn;
He dared ye through the flooded Teith,
As a warrior in his scorn!
Dash the red rowel in the steed!
Spur, laggards, while ye may!
St. Hubert's staff to a stripling reed,
He dies no death to-day!
"Forward!" nay, waste not idle breath,
Gallants, ye win no greenwood wreath;
His antlers dance above the heath,
Like chieftain's plumed helm;
Right onward for the western peak,
Where breaks the sky in one white streak,
See, Isabel, in bold relief,
To Fancy's eye, Glenartney's chief,
Guarding his ancient realm.
So motionless, so noiseless there,
His foot on rock, his head in air,
Like sculptor's breathing stone:
Then, snorting from the rapid race,
Snuffs the free air a moment's space,
Glares grimly on the baffled chase,
And seeks the covert lone.
Hunting has been a favourite sport in Britain for many centuries.
Dyonisius (B.C. 50) tells us that the North Britons lived, in great
part, upon the food they procured by hunting. Strabo states that the
dogs bred in Britain were highly esteemed on the Continent, on account
of their excellent qualities for hunting; and Caesar tells us that
venison constituted a great portion of the food of the Britons, who did
not eat hares.
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