Page:A Selection of Original Songs, Scraps, Etc., by Ned Farmer (3rd ed.).djvu/149

 

The tuneful lark’s gay matin song his early summons sounds,
Then lustily he wends his way o'er Trentham’s spacious grounds;
Or mounted, or on foot, he hies around its princely park,
And every person that he meets gets some unique remark
From this fine old English Forester, one of the olden time.

Hark! the unerring riffe’s ring, the fatal bullet's sped;
The forest's antler’d monarch dies—a hole drill'd through his head.
In all pertains to woodcraft’s art inferior he’s to none;
Few, few can kill a buck like he, or carve him when ’tis done,
He's a fine old English Forester, one of the olden time.

Anon, for orders at the Hall, “the Ranger” may be seen,
As spruce as modorn dandy, in his suit of Lincoln green;
And should his noble “ Mistress” depart the place that day,
He proudly leads the cavalcade into the Queen's highway.
He’s a fine old English Forester, one of the olden time.

And when the boundary is gain’d the Ranger makes his bow,
A very ranger-like “salaam,” concocted long ago;
Then blows that note peculiar (a proof his lungs are good),
And this evergreen trots back again to his “cottage near the
wood.”
He’s a fine old English Forester, one of the olden time.

There are two great points about him that prove him thorough bred:
His lofty hairless temples, and his fine old chiselled head;
I fancy Deerhound’s by his side ; and mounted on his “Roan,”
I see him now! O long may Death leave his warm heart alone,
For he’s a fine old English Forester, one of the olden time.