by Walter Scott, Sir (1771 - 1832)

Lay of the imprisoned Huntsman
Language: English 
"My hawk is tired of perch and hood,
My idle grey-hound loathes his food,
My horse is weary of his stall,
And I am sick of captive thrall.
I wish I were, as I have been, 
Hunting the hart in forests green,
With bended bow and blood-hound free,
For that's the life is meet for me.

"I hate to learn the ebb of time,
From yon dull steeple's drowsy chime,
Or mark it as the sun-beams crawl,
Inch after inch, along the wall.
The lark was wont my matins ring,
The sable rook my vespers sing;
These towers, although a king's they be,
Have not a hall of joy for me.

"No more at dawning morn I rise,
And sun myself in Ellen's eyes,
Drive the fleet deer the forest through,
And homeward wend with evening dew;
A blithsome welcome blithely meet,
And lay my trophies at her feet,
While fled the eve on wings of glee, -
That life is lost to love and me!"

Confirmed with The Lady of the Lake. A Poem. By Walter Scott, Esq. The fourth edition. Edinburgh: Printed for John Ballantyne and Co. Edinburgh; and Longman, Hurst, Rees, Orme, and Brown, and W. Miller, London. 1810, pages 279-280.


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Research team for this page: Emily Ezust [Administrator] , Peter Rastl [Guest Editor]

This text was added to the website: 2003-11-07
Line count: 24
Word count: 165