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2.
The lord of Hrub-Kozoged's lands,
On swift-pac'd steed is homeward gone,
With John, who waits his lord's commands—
His huntsman hold, his faithful John.
His brow is like a tempest cloud,
With angry scowls he looks around—
"Where is my greyhound—where?" aloud
He asks—"Say where my favorite hound?"
And three long wearying days they track
Hill, wood, and every wonted place,
And no one brings the greyhound back,
And none the greyhound's path can trace.
Kozoged's master homeward turns,
As death and midnight dark and drear,
And mourning sighs, and sighing mourns—
"Where is my fav'rite greyhound—where?"
He spoke—and as he spoke—behold
An ancient witch on crutches pass'd,
One-eyed and hunchback'd, haggard, old,
Fierce as a screech-owl—lo! she cast
