Classic Poem

I did love, on rising
in the early morn,
a round on the hill-sides,
where they ought to be—
two hundred of a count,
of the empty-headed tribe,
innocently waking
full joyously;
boldly from their mouth
comes easy, steady drone;
in body and frame they are clean,
sounding that call note.
That grey, fussy brock of a hind
goes to roll in a pool—
a sample of her vagaries,
when she fancied it.
When they take to crooning,
I like it more'
than all there is in Eire
of harmonies;
sweeter than all tunes
is the voice of the deer's son
belling on the face
of Ben Dobhrain:
the stag, whose peculiar roar
comes from the depth of his chest—
afar might his bellow be heard,
when he strikes up;
and young hind of sweetest low,
with small calf in her train—
they answer each to each
so yearningly.
His flashing, soft, sharp eye
has no trace of cast in it;
eyelid below grey eyebrow
is controlling it;
a good, strong marcher he,
who vigorously goes
on before the herd
that was confident.
No fault was in your step,
no slowness in your bound;
to be outstripped was not
this breed's experience;
when you made a sprint,
and would not look behind,
myself I know not who
could keep pace with you.
The hind is in the forest
as she ought to be,
where she may have sweet grass,
clean, fine-bladed;
heath-rush and deer's hair grass,
herbs in which strength resides,
and which would make her flanks
plump and fat-covered;
a spring in which there is
abundant water-cress,
she deems more sweet than wine,
and would drink of it;
sorrel and rye grass
which flourish on the moor,
she prefers as food
to rank field grass.
Of her fare she deemed
these the delicacies:
primrose, St. John's wort
and tormentil flowers;
tender spotted orchis,
forked, spiked and glossy,
on meadows where, in clusters,
it flourishes.
Such was the dietary
that would increase their strength,
that would pull them through
in the stormy days;
that would upon their back
amass the roll of fat,
which, over their spare frame,
was not cumbersome.
That was a comely fellowship
at eventide,
when they would assemble
in the gloaming:
though long the night might be,
no harm would come to you;
the lee base of the knoll
was your dwelling place.
Here are the beds of deer,
where they have ever been,
on a spacious, bounteous moor,
and on mountain range.
Delightful was their hue,
when vivid was their hide;
'twas no mean portion they desired,
it was Ben Dobhrain.