Sir Watkin intending,
The morning befriending,
Through woodlands descending,
To hunt the wild deer;
Now slumb'ring, of course, Sir,
Dreams of his bay horse, Sir,
And proud of his force, Sir,
Begins his career.
And forth as he sallies,
Up hills, and down vallies,
Around him he rallies
A train like a peer.

His hunter goes featly,
His stag-hounds run fleetly,
The bugle sounds sweetly,
They raise a fat doe.
Now turning and winding,
Then losing, then finding,
No obstacle minding,
Still forward they go.
All danger subduing,
Impatient pursuing,
With ardour renewing,
Yet ever too slow.

With whoop and with hollo,
His merry men follow,
She skims like a swallow,
And flies like the wind.
Sir Watkin, however,
Who quits the chase never,
Swam over a river,
And left them behind.
The day was fast closing,
His way he was losing,
The road was so posing,
No path could he find.

A castle high frowning,
The lofty rock crowning,
Dim twilight embrowning,
Hung over his head.
And thitherward bending,
With steps slow ascending,
The courser attending,
He cautiously led.
Now dark'ness o'ertaking,
And crags the way breaking,
He fell - and awaking,
The vision was fled!