SIR HAROLD, THE HUNTER by ELIZA COOK

Sir Harold, the hunter, was rarely seen
At rest in his lordly home;
But, roughly clad in his forester's green,
Far over the hills he'd roam.
With his hounds and his bugle he greeted the dawn;
Tracing the roebuck's track;
Oft he was seen, at the rosy morn,
With the wild fawn slung at his back.
Merrily carolled the bold young knight,
"No love, no bride for me;
I'll never go wooing to beauty bright,
But live as a hunter free."

Sir Harold, the hunter, what ails him now?
His beautiful dogs are at play;
He has thrown aside the twanging bow;
His tunic is courtly and gay!
His quiver is hung where the barbs may rust,
On high with his hunting spear;
His echoing bugle is covered with dust
And a softer note comes near.
Sir Harold is singing beneath the moon, --
"List, dearest Ella, to me:
Life to thy knight is a joyless boon
If he's parted long from thee."

Sir Harold, the hunter, is often known
To go forth at the sunset-hour:
He roves in the twilight -- but roves not alone:
He leads a fair maid from her bower.
He has doff'd his belt and forester's green,
And shines in a bridal suit;
Wooing, and wedding, is there, I ween,
With the priest, the dance, and the lute.
Merrily carols the gay young knight, --
"Love and my bride for me:
'Tis better to kneel to beauty bright
Than live as a hunter free."

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