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Literary Gazette, 3rd January, 1835, Pages 11-12
The Black Hunt of Litzou.
What is the light from yon deep wood flashing—
What the sound on the wild wind borne?
What the dark ranks that are onwards dashing
To the voice of the pealing horn?
Who are they that thundering go?—
It is the Black Hunt of the bold Litzou!
Who are those wooded heights ascending,
Just sprung from their brief repose,
While the shout and the musket's crash is blending
With the shriek of dying foes?
Well do the French those rifles know—
It is the Black Hunt of the bold Litzou!
Where the Rhine's flowing, and the vine's growing,
They spring in their arms from the shore;
Like the lightning they cleave the dark stream's flowing,
For the enemy flies before!
Ask what dark swimmers heedless go?
It is the Black Hunt of the bold Litzou!
What is the strife that wakens yon valley?
There are swords that strike in their country's name,—
Around the spark of freedom they rally,
And the spark hath arisen a goodly flame!
Who are they that strike the blow?
It is the Black Hunt of the bold Litzou!
Who are they in their life-blood lying?
'Tis the last sunrise they'll see:
It matters not—the French are flying,
And their father-land is free!
Who are the brave ones now laid low?
It was the Black Hunt of the bold Litzou!
The glorious hunt of the foe is over—
Calm be the rest of the honoured brave!
Weep ye not for the friend or the lover—
Ours is the day which but dawned on their grave.
Ask ye what true hearts sleep below?
It was the Black Hunt of the brave Litzou!
