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 The Hunter marked that mountain high, The lone lake's western boundary, And deemed the stag must turn to bay Where that huge rampart barred the way; Already glorying in the prize, Measured his antlers with his eyes; For the death-wound and death-halloo Mustered his breath, his whinyard drew; But thundering as he came prepared, With ready arm and weapon bared, The wily quarry shunned the shock, And turned him from the opposing rock; Then, dashing down a darksome glen, Soon lost to hound and hunter's ken, In the deep Trosach's wildest nook His solitary refuge took. There, while close couched, the thicket shed Cold dews and wild-flowers on his head, He heard the baffled dogs in vain Rave through the hollow pass amain, Chiding the rocks that yelled again.

Close on the hounds the hunter came, To cheer them on the vanished game; But, stumbling in the rugged dell, The gallant horse exhausted fell. The impatient rider strove in vain To rouse him with the spur and rein, For the good steed, his labours o'er, Stretched his stiff limbs, to rise no more; Then touched with pity and remorse He sorrowed o'er the expiring horse.

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