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14
Ned Farmer's Scrap Book.
Hark! the unerring rifle's ring, the fatal bullets sped,
The forest's antler'd monarch dies, a hole drill'd thro' his head;
In all pertains to woodcraft's art inferior he's to none,
Few, few can kill a buck like him, or carve him when 'tis done,
O, he's a fine Old English Forester, one of the olden time.
There's one great point about him that proves he's thorough bred
His lofty hairless temples and his fine old chisseled head;
I fancy Deerhound's by his side, and mounted on his "Roan,"
I see him now, O long may Death leave his warm heart alone.
For he's a fine Old English Forester, one of the olden time.
