Three Jolly Huntsmen, In Coats Of Red,

His Brow Is Seamed With Line And Scar; His Cheek Is Red And Dark As Wine; The Fires As Of A Northern Star Beneath His Cap Of Sable Shine. His Right Hand, Bared Of Leathern Glove, Hangs Open Like An Iron Gin, You Stoop To See His Pulses Move, To Hear The Blood Sweep Out And In. He Looks Some King, So Solitary In Earnest Thought He Seems To Stand, As If Across A Lonely Sea He Gazed Impatient Of The Land. Out Of The Noisy Centuries The Foolish And The Fearful Fade; Yet Burn Unquenched These Warrior Eyes, Time Hath Not Dimmed, Nor Death Dismayed.

So, Blind To Someone I Must Be.

Three Jolly Huntsmen, In Coats Of Red, Rode Their Horses Up To Bed.

An Hour's Terror Is Better Than A Lifetime Of Timidity.

A Harvest Mouse Goes Scampering By, With Silver Claws And Silver Eye; And Moveless Fish In The Water Gleam, By Silver Reeds In A Silver Stream.