This year at ease on Ben Macquhair

Couches a certain stag;

Fearless he sniffs his native air

Because he knows I can't be there

To scare him off his crag.

This year his instinct (true, though dumb)

Tells him by subtle signs

No bullet loosed by me shall come

Shattering earth below his tum

Or whistling through his tines.

Yet little knows he why the hill

Misses my wonted feet,

Or how I've learned a lethal skill

At mimic butts that bodes him ill

When next I stalk his beat.

I trow that he would swoon for fright

Upon the purple ling

To know that in a decent light

I'd undertake the death, at sight,

Of any living thing.

O not for nothing do I grow

Efficient, eye and hand,

Schooling myself to strike a blow

In home defence against a foe

That never means to land.

Some fruit of toil there yet shall be

For this poor volunteer;

When War's abatement sets him free

From bloodless duties, I foresee

A deadly time for deer!