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The toils are pitch'd, 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 stately down the glen, Ever sing hardily, hardily. It was there he met with a wounded doe, She was bleeding deathfully; She warn'd him of the toils below, O, so faithfully, faithfully! He had an eye, and he could heed, Ever sing warily, warily; He had a foot, and he could speed— Hunters watch so narrowly. |