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What though the hunter's horn be mute.
The wild hallo no longer heard ? Though fox nor hound is now on foot, And no one wears the scarlet suit,
And no one wings a bird ; Yet still young May doth don a dress That shines a thing of loveliness,
In raptur'd sportsman's eye. Not, not alone, for the sweet rose
That now first owns the summer sun, Not for the blossoms they descry,
From spring's full flow'ry lap just, won ; But that she calls them to the plain,
And beckons to the stream, And, joying in her genial reign,
Bids hearts and hope to beam. Oh ! then there is something the sportsman to cheer, Spring is gone and the May-days are here.
Then, sp ortsmen, to the course, the coui'se, For there is the high-mettled steed ;
Or bend thy steps to the river source,
M hen 'tis rippled by the south wind's force, And the spotted trout doth feed ;
Ay, hie thee on, these are of May,
And make of their spirit a holiday, Nor think of the covert and fields.