Sir Walter Scott



                   Song of the Imprisoned Huntsman

                   (from The Lady of the Lake)


                   My hawk is tired of perch and hood,
                   My idle greyhound loathes his food,
                   My horse is weary of his stall
                   And I am sick of captive thrall.

                   I wish I were, as I have been, 
                   Hunting the hart in forest green,
                   With bended bow and bloodhound free,
                   For that's the life is meet for me.

                   I hate to learn the ebb of time
                   From yon dull steeple's drowsy chime,
                   Or mark it as the sunbeams crawl,
                   Inch after inch, along the wall.

                   The lark was wont my matins ring.
                   The sable rook my vespers sing;
                   These towers, although a king's they be,
                   Have not a hall of joy for me.

                   No more at dawning morn I rise,
                   And sun myself in Ellen's eyes,
                   Drive the fleet deer the forest through,
                   And homeward wend with evening dew.

                   A blithsome welcome blithely meet,
                   And lay my trophies at her feet,
                   While fled the eve on wings of glee:
                   That life is lost to love and me!


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