When the horn of the hunter resounds from on high

When the horn of the hunter resounds from on high, Where the tall giant ice-cliffs ire piled to the sky, Where, shunning the verdure of valleys and dells, The brave eagle builds, and the shy chamois dwells,— I list to its gay tones, as by me they float, And I echo them merrily back, note for note; With the wild bird a song full as gladsome I sing, I crown me with flowers, and sit a crowned king,— My flock are my subjects, my dog my vizier, And my sceptre—a mild one—the crook that I bear; No wants to perplex me, no cares to annoy, I live an unenvying, free shepherdboy!

Werner (meets and addresses him).

Thou'rt merry, lad.