My delight it was to rise With the early morning skies All aglow, And to brush the dewy height Where the deer in airy state Wont to go; At least a hundred brace Of the lofty antlered race, When they left their sleeping place Light and gay; When they stood in trim array, And with low deep-breasted cry, Flung their breath into the sky, From the brae; When the hind, the pretty fool, Would be rolling in the pool At her will; Or the stag in gallant pride, Would be strutting at the side Of his haughty-headed bride On the hill. And sweeter to my ear Is the concert of the deer In their roaring, Than when Erin from her lyre Warmest strains of Celtic fire May be pouring; And no organ sends a roll So delightsome to my soul, As the branchy-crested race, When they quicken their proud pace, And bellow in the face Of Ben Dorain. O what joy to view the stag When he rises ’neath the crag, And from depth of hollow chest, Sends his bell across the waste, While he tosses high his crest, Proudly scorning. And from milder throat the hind, Lows an answer to his mind With the younglings of her kind In the morning; With her vivid swelling eye, While her antlered lord is nigh, She sweeps both earth and sky, Far away; And beneath her eye-brow grey, Lifts her lid to greet the day, And to guide her turfy way O’er the brae. O how lightsome is her tread, When she gaily goes ahead, O’er the green and mossy bed Of the rills; When she leaps with such a grace You will own her pretty pace Ne’er was hindmost in the race, When she wills; Or when with sudden start, She defies the hunter’s art. And is vanished like a dart O’er the hills.