Wo worth the chase. Wo worth the day,
That cost thy life, my gallant grey!Scott
The Hunter stooped oer his dying steed
With sad dejected mien,
And softly stroked its glossy neck,
Lustrous as silken sheen;
With iron will and nerve of steel,
And pale lips tight compressed,
He kept the tears from eyes that long
Were strange to such a guest.
Thourt dying now, my faithful one,
Alas! tis easy known
Thy neck would arch beneath my touch,
Thoudst brighten at my tone;
But turn not thus thy restless eyes
Upon my saddened brow,
Nor look with such imploring gaze
I cannot help thee now.
No more well bound oer dew gemmed sward
At break of summer morn,
Or follow on, through forests green,
The hunters merry horn;
No more well brave the rapid stream,
Nor battle with the tide,
Nor cross the slippry mountain path,
As we were wont to ride.
Oh! we have travelled many miles,
And dangers have we braved;
And more than once thy matchless speed
Thy masters life hath saved;
And many nights the forest sward
Has been the couch weve pressed,
Where, pillowed on thy glossy neck,
Most sweet has been my rest.
How often, too, I we shared with thee
The hunters scanty fare.
To see thee suffer want or pain,
Mute friend I could not bear;
And now, thou best in agony,
As if thy heart would burst,
And I, what can I do for thee,
Save slake thy burning thirst?
That parting sob, that failing glance
The pains of death are past!
Thy glazing eyes still turned on me
With love unto the last!
Well may my tears oer thy cold form,
My steed, flow fast and free,
For, oh! I have had many friends,
Yet none so true as thee!