Wind Thy Horn, My Hunter Boy.

Wind thy horn, my hunter boy, And leave thy lute's inglorious sighs; Hunting is the hero's joy, Till war his nobler game supplies. Hark! the hound-bells ringing sweet, While hunters shout and the, woods repeat, Hilli-ho! Hilli-ho! Wind again thy cheerful horn, Till echo, faint with answering, dies: Burn, bright torches, burn till morn, And lead us where the wild boar lies. Hark! the cry, "He's found, he's found," While hill and valley our shouts resound. Hilli-ho! Hilli-ho!