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And near its willow banks I heard The cooing of a dove.
'Twas one grand pleasure; The brook was plainly seen, Like a long thread of silver In a cloth of lovely green; The laughter of the water, The cooing of the dove, Was like some painted picture, Some well-told tale of love.
While drinking in the country And resting in the saddle, I heard a gentle rippling Like the dipping of a paddle, And turning to the water, A strange sight met my view,— A lady with her rifle In a little bark canoe.
She stood up in the center, With her rifle to her eye; I thought just for a second My time had come to die. I doffed my hat and told her, If it was just the same, To drop her little shooter, For I was not her game.