Clinton Scollard

The Hunter

I crept up Benbulbin a-hunting the boar;
Mist swooped on the heather, mist swept down the shore,
And all of the tongues of the mountain, they murmured behind and before.

Then out of a cleft rose a terrible cry,
And a form like a demon went ravening by,
And I fell in a quake on the moss, and I thought I should die.

I 'm no hunting man now, and I sit by the fire,
And whenever the wind keens around by the byre,
I shiver and rock like a reed that has root in the mire.

And if you 're a young man, and sound to the core,
And a sweet maid is waiting you home at the door,
Beware how you creep up Benbulbin a-hunting the boar!