Blow thy horn, hunter

Blow thy horn, hunter,

And blow thy horn on high!

There is a doe in yonder wood,

In faith she will not die.

Now blow thy horn, hunter,

Now blow thy horn, jolly hunter!

Sore this deer stricken is,

And yet she bleeds no whit;

She lay so fair, I could not miss,

Lord, I was glad of it:

As I stood under a band,

The deer shoff on the mead;

I struck her so that down she sank

But yet she was not dead.

There she go’th! See ye not,

How she go’th over the plain?

And if ye lust to gave a shot,

I warrant her barrain.

He to go and I to go,

But he ran fast afore;

I bade him shoot and strike the doe,

For I might shoot no more.

To the covert both they went,

For I found where she lay;

An arrow in her haunch she hent,

For faint she might not bray.

I was weary of the game,

I went to tavern to drink;

Now, the construction of the same -

What do you mean or think?

Here I leave and make an end

Now of this hunter’s lore:

I think his bow is well unbent,

His bolt may flee no more.