Page:Four favourite songs (2).pdf/7

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The cordial takes its merry round,
 The laugh and joke prevail,
The huntsman blows a jovial sound,
 The dogs snuff up the gale;
The upland winds they sweep along
 O’er fields, through brakes they fly,
The game is roused, too true the song,
 This day a stag must die.

Poor stag! the dogs thy haunches gore,
 The tears run down thy face,
The huntsman’s pleasure is no more,
 His joys were in the chace;
Alike the generous sportsman burns
 To win the blooming fair,
But yet he honours each by turns,
 They each become his care.

PEASE-STRAE.

When John and me were married,
 Our hading was but sma’,
For my minnie, cankert carlin,
 Would gie us nocht ava;