Sir Harold, the hunter, was rarely seen At rest in his lordly home; But, roughly clad in his forester's green, Far over the hills he'd roam. With his hounds and his bugle, he greeted the dawn, Tracing the roebuck's track; Oft was he seen, at the rosy morn, With the wild fawn slung at his back. Merrily caroll'd the bold young knight,— "No love, no bride for me! I'll never go wooing to beauty bright, But live as a hunter free."
Sir Harold, the hunter,—what ails him now? His beautiful dogs are at play; He has thrown aside the twanging bow; His tunic is courtly and gay. His quiver is hung where the barbs may rust, On high with his hunting spear; His echoing bugle is cover'd with dust, And a softer note comes near. Sir Harold is singing, beneath the moon,— "List, dearest Ella, to me! Life to thy knight is a joyless boon If he's parted long from thee."
Sir Harold, the hunter, is often known To go forth at the sunset hour: He roves in the twilight—but roves not alone, He leads a fair maid from her bower. He has doff'd his belt and forester's green, And shines in a bridal suit: Wooing, and wedding, are there, I ween, With the priest, the dance, and the lute. Merrily carols the gay young knight— "Love and my bride for me! 'Tis better to kneel to beauty bright Than live as a hunter free."
