How gladly would I wander through some strange and savage land,
The lasso at my saddle-bow, the rifle in my hand,
A leash of gallant mastifs bounding by my side,
And, for a friend to love, the noble horse on which I ride!

Alone, alone -- yet not alone, for God is with me there,
The tender hand of Providence shall guide me everywhere,
While happy thoughts and holy hopes, as spirits calm and mild,
Shall fan with their sweet wings the hermit-hunter of the wild!

Without a guide,-- yet guided well,-- young, buoyant, fresh, and free,
Without a road,-- yet all the land a highway unto me,
Without a care, without a fear, without a grief or pain,
Exultingly I thread the woods, or gallop o'er the plain!

Or, brushing through the copse, from his leafy home I start
The stately elk, or tusky boar, the bison, or the hart,
And then, with eager spur, to scour, away, away,
Nor stop until my dogs have brought the glorious brute to bay!

Or, if the gang of hungry wolves come yelling on my track,
I make my ready rifle speak, and scare the cowards back;
Or, if the lurking leopard's eyes among the branches shine,
A touch upon the trigger -- and his spotted skin is mine!

And then the hunter's savoury fare at tranquil eventide,
The dappled deer I shot to-day upon the green hill-side:
My feasted hounds are slumbering round beside the watercourse,
And plenty of sweet prairie-grass for thee, my noble horse,--

Hist! hist! I heard some prowler snarling in the wood;
I seized my knife and trusty gun, and face to face we stood!
The Grizzly Bear came rushing on,-- and, as he rush'd, he fell!
Hie at him, dogs! my rifle has done its duty well,--

Hie at him, dogs! one bullet cannot kill a foe so grim;
The God of battles nerve a Man to grapple now with him,--
And straight between his hugging arms I plunge my whetted knife,
Ha -- ha! it splits his iron heart, and drinks the ruddy life!

Frantic struggles -- welling blood -- the strife is almost o'er,--
The shaggy monster, feebly panting, wallows in his gore,--
Here, lap it hot, my gallant hounds,-- the blood of foes is sweet;
Here, gild withal your dewlapped throats, and wash your brawny feet!

So shall we beard those tyrants in their dens another day,
Nor tamely wait, with slavish fear, their coming in the way:
And pleasant thoughts of peace and home shall fill our dreams to-night,
For lo, the God of battles has helped us in the fight!