The toils are pitched, and the stakes are set, <br />Ever sing merrily, merrily; <br />The bows they bend, and the knives they whet, <br />Hunters live so cheerily. <br /> <br />It was a stag, a stag of ten, <br />Bearing its branches sturdily; <br />He came silently down the glen, <br />Ever sing hardily, hardily. <br /> <br />It was there he met with a wounded doe, <br />She was bleeding deathfully; <br />She warned him of the toils below, <br />O so faithfully, faithfully! <br /> <br />He had an eye, and he could heed, <br />Ever sing so warily, warily; <br />He had a foot, and he could speed-- <br />Hunters watch so narrowly.<br /><br />Sir Walter Scott<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/hunter-s-song/
