The toils are pitched, and the stakes are set, 
Ever sing merrily, merrily; 
The bows they bend, and the knives they whet, 
Hunters live so cheerily. 

It was a stag, a stag of ten, 
Bearing its branches sturdily; 
He came silently down the glen, 
Ever sing hardily, hardily. 

It was there he met with a wounded doe, 
She was bleeding deathfully; 
She warned him of the toils below, 
O so faithfully, faithfully! 

He had an eye, and he could heed, 
Ever sing so warily, warily; 
He had a foot, and he could speed-- 
Hunters watch so narrowly.