(One of my earliest works!)
The Hunter
He trod his way down the byway,
That wound its way through the glen,
The Geese overhead on their flyway,
His gun cock beyond their ken.
As he raised the barrel toward the sky,
His bloodhounds awaited the call,
With the musket raised up to his eye,
His finger did only just stall.
Bang! cried the head of the musket,
Tinker; said the bullet shell;
Off went the hounds of the Truskott
As goose and feather fell.
The death of one living for sport,
Tis a ghastly thing to tell;
Of one's life cut so short,
With no thought, no a farewell.
