Classic Poem

T RARAH ! Trarah!
The morning hoar-frost on the cold earth glistens;
 The bleak wind whistles so fresh and cold,
 The huntsman arouses and listens;
 The horn is winding so clear and shrill,
 It calls him abroad to the sunny hill;
Trarah! Trarah!
The sunny hill,
  Trarah! Trarah! Trarah!

Trarah! Trarah!
The winter's breeze makes strong his very marrow.
 Up fly the birds—and his eye is clear;
 He seizes the sharp gleaming arrow,
 And scours the hillside where waved the corn,
 Led on by the voice of the hunting-horn
Trarah! Trarah!
The hunting-horn,
  Trarah! Trarah! Trarah!

Trarah! Trarah!
It calls away,—the sound of sport and pleasure.
 The hounds are ready; away we go!
 The evening our frolic shall measure
 The horn is winding; the game is here;
 And the echo salutes us far and near,—
Trarah! Trarah!
The game is here;
  Trarah! Trarah! Trarah!