Classic Poem

I spied the brown stag and the hinds,
climbing up the pass together;
I spied the brown stag and the hinds.

As I descend from Misty Corrie,
great is my dudgeon, I am cheerless,
ranging forest all day long:
I fired the burst that gained me nothing.
I spied the brown stag, &c.

Though there is a ban on weapons,
I saved the Spanish gun for hunting,
yet she did me this disservice,
that she did not slay the hind's son.

When I rose up in the morning,
I loaded her with Glasgow powder,
tight-fitting ball, three English buckshot,
and a wad of tow thereafter.

The new flint had just been roughened,
I applied oil to the lock gear;
for fear of dew, there was a skin sheath
providing shelter for my partner.

The hind lay down by the spring,
I stalked cautiously around her,
I loosed that charge in her direction:
vexed I am that she did rise up.

I arrived there at the bank edge,
and I expended my lead on her;
when I fancied she was stricken,
it was then she bounded highest.

'Tis dreary to be ranging forest
on a day of wind, and rain, and deluge,
while strict command requiring game
subjects the gamekeepers to hardship.

'Tis time to descend to the valleys,
since the mountains are forbidding,
and mist, enveloping the hill-tops,
totally obscures our vision.

We will live in hope unfailing,
that matters will be better next day,
and that wind and sun and terrain
will be as we wish, on the mountains.

The grey lead will be flying swiftly,
lean hounds will have unhindered coursing,
then the brown stag will be bleeding,
and men of prowess will have pastime.