The Hunter's Daughter

When loud the horn is sounding
Along the distant hills,
Then would I rove, ne'er weary,
The Hunter's Daughter near me,
By flowery margin'd rills.

'Mid stately pines embosom'd
There stands the Hunter's cot,
From which this maiden daily
At morning peeps so gaily,
Contented with her lot.

This Hunter and his Daughter
Make everything their prey;
He slays the wild roe bounding,
Her eyes young hearts are wounding--
No shafts so sure as they!