Page:A Selection of Original Songs, Scraps, Etc., by Ned Farmer (1st ed.).djvu/22



Hark! the unerring rifle's ring, the fatal bullets sped, The forest's antler'd monarch dies, a hole drill'd thro' his head; In all pertains to woodcraft's art inferior he's to none, Few, few can kill a buck like him, or carve him when 'tis done, O, he's a fine Old English Forester, one of the olden time.

There's one great point about him that proves he's thorough bred His lofty hairless temples and his fine old chisseled head; I fancy Deerhound's by his side, and mounted on his "Roan," I see him now, O long may Death leave his warm heart alone. For he's a fine Old English Forester, one of the olden time.