I.
A Prince of old driven underground;
Man of yore, Man of renown.
Loved he still the huntsman's hound,
His ancient tenets adhered, expound
His pleasure in gifts by pounds,
Stuffed until his meal mates round.
II.
Every doe and deer they downed
That day by night served, they found
Rendered, handled and tanned in mounds.
To start the feast a horn resounds!
Choral sound from conch rebounds;
Limitless courses - gives without bounds
The old sporting hunter in his moss antler'd crown.
Endeth the feast with that same glorious sound,
Pleasant and soothing in sleep's honey they drowned,
And woke once more in familiar confounds,
To the gentle nation a tale to astound.
YOU ARE READING
The Old Lodge
PoetryDeep, deep does the hunter sleep that any man can kick and creep, Or the devil plunge or the reaper reap, undisturbed in his ceaseless sleep.
