The solitary huntsman
No coat of pink doth wear,
But midnight black from cap to spur
Upon his midnight mare.
He drones a tuneless jingle
In lieu of tally-ho:
Ill catch a fox
And put him in a box
And never let him go.
The solitary huntsman,
He follows silent hounds.
No horn proclaims his joyless sport,
And never a hoofbeat sounds.
His hundred hounds, his thousands,
Their masters will they know:
To catch a fox
And put him in a box
And never let him go.
For all the foxs doubling
They track him to his den.
The chase may fill a morning,
Or threescore years and ten.
The huntsman never sated
Screaks to his saddlebow,
Ill catch another fox
And put him in a box
And never let him go.
