" I sing not of the arms of men,

Their passions, hates, or fears, No sonnet this from lover's pen,

Of woman's smiles or tears. On other themes my rhymes I string,

And less ambitious soar, My subject is the jungle king—

The mighty, old, grey boar.


" Then here's a health, my boys, I cry, The hunter, keen and bold; May his sporting spirit never die, Or his true love grow cold.

" Ah ! what in all the world beside,

Through manhood's whole career, Can match the mingled joy and pride—

The glories of first-spear ? Love's soft confession may be sweet,

The shock of battle thrill; But give to me the hunting meet,

The find, the run, the kill.

Chorus—" Then here's a health," etc.

" Where varied jungles densest grow,

In deep ravine's dark bed, Where sluggish streamlets gently flow,

And joiv uprears its head; Where yellow grass waves tall and wide,

Where sugar-cane's at hand, By hill, or field, or jungle-side,

There, there, we'll take our stand.

Chorus—" Then here's a health," etc.

" And when in after days we boast

Of many wild boars slain, We'll not forget our runs to toast,

Or run them o'er again. And when our memory's mirror true

Reflects the scenes of yore, We'll think on friends it brings to view,

Who loved to hunt the boar.

Chorus—" Then here's a health," &c

And thus I conclude. My hunter-spearmen, like the ' Hastati' of old, having performed their allotted task, retire.