-Wo worth the chase. Wo worth the day,
That cost thy life, my gallant grey!�-Scott

The Hunter stooped o-er his dying steed
With sad dejected mien,
And softly stroked its glossy neck,
Lustrous as silken sheen;
With iron will and nerve of steel,
And pale lips tight compressed,
He kept the tears from eyes that long
Were strange to such a guest.

Thou-rt dying now, my faithful one,
Alas! -tis easy known-
Thy neck would arch beneath my touch,
Thou-dst brighten at my tone;
But turn not thus thy restless eyes
Upon my saddened brow,
Nor look with such imploring gaze-
I cannot help thee now.

No more we-ll bound o-er dew gemmed sward
At break of summer morn,
Or follow on, through forests green,
The hunter-s merry horn;
No more we-ll brave the rapid stream,
Nor battle with the tide,
Nor cross the slipp-ry mountain path,
As we were wont to ride.

Oh! we have travelled many miles,
And dangers have we braved;
And more than once thy matchless speed
Thy master-s life hath saved;
And many nights the forest sward
Has been the couch we-ve pressed,
Where, pillowed on thy glossy neck,
Most sweet has been my rest.

How often, too, I we shared with thee
The hunter-s scanty fare.
To see thee suffer want or pain,
Mute friend I could not bear;
And now, thou best in agony,
As if thy heart would burst,
And I, what can I do for thee,
Save slake thy burning thirst?

That parting sob, that failing glance-
The pains of death are past!
Thy glazing eyes still turned on me
With love unto the last!
Well may my tears o-er thy cold form,
My steed, flow fast and free,
For, oh! I have had many friends,
Yet none so true as thee!