The hunter takes his way amid the woods, Or by the ocean side, when far away The wave that roll’d upon the beach has gone, To lave a thousand isles of beauty ere It breaks again in thunder on that shore. The well-trained setter through the covert seeks The bird the sportsman’s fancy prizes o’er The feathered songsters of the woodland wild; The covey starts, and soon the murd’rous aim Brings down the plover, or the woodcock dun, Or mottled pheasant, that puts trust in man, And finds, as all have found, the trust abused. On the brown stump the sprightly squirrel sits, Filling his striped pouch with ripened grain, While in the thicket near the rabbit glides, And as his foot falls on the withered leaves, A rustling sound in the dim woods is heard, Rousing the chewitt and the piping jay, And startling from the dead pines naked top, With hoarsest cry, the reconnoitering crow.
The meadow-lark, with yellow breast, alights On the old field, and sings her favorite strain— A clear harmonious song. The Hunter Boy— A little urchin stealing by his side, With freckled face, lit up with roguish smiles, And eyes that twinkled perfect gems of fun— Armed with an ancient musket, that did speak The voice of death on wars victorious fields, Creeps down the garden wall and nears her seat, Then, casting down his flopping hat of straw, Rests fearless o’er his trembling playmate’s back, Takes deadly aim, and shuts both eyes, and fires! Loud ring the hills, and vales, and plains around, The border grove is filled with sulphurous smoke, The cat-bird cries “for shame!” and darts away Before her leafy resting-place is seen; And when the cloud of death has floated on, The victim bird is found a gory thing, While the proud hero of this manly sport, Struts down the lane like Cæsar entering Rome. The patient Angler threads the winding brook, Tempting the dainty trout with gilded bait; And ever and anon, as fleecy clouds Pass o’er the sun, the fish voracious darts From the cool shadows of some mossy bank, Swallows the bait with one convulsive act, And learns too late that death was at the feast; While the glad sportsman feels the sudden jerk, And plays his victim with extended line, Swiftly he darts, and through the glittering rings The silken line is drawn with ringing sound, Till wearied out with struggling that but serves To drive the barbed weapon deeper still, He seeks his quiet shelter ’neath the bank, And thence in triumph to the shore is borne, A prize that well rewards a day of toil.