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Fisherman near fisherman. Hunter near hunter.

Burmese proverbs
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Fisherman jim's kids

Fisherman Jim lived on the hill
With his bonnie wife an' his little boys;
'T wuz "Blow, ye winds, as blow ye will -
Naught we reck of your cold and noise!"
For happy and warm were he an' his,
And he dandled his kids upon his knee
To the song of the sea.

Fisherman Jim would sail all day,
But, when come night, upon the sands
His little kids ran from their play,
Callin' to him an' wavin' their hands;
Though the wind was fresh and the sea was high,
He'd hear'em - you bet - above the roar
Of the waves on the shore!

Once Fisherman Jim sailed into the bay
As the sun went down in a cloudy sky,
And never a kid saw he at play,
And he listened in vain for the welcoming cry.
In his little house he learned it all,
And he clinched his hands and he bowed his head -
"The fever!" they said.

'T wuz a pitiful time for Fisherman Jim,
With them darlin's a-dyin' afore his eyes,
A-stretchin' their wee hands out to him
An' a-breakin' his heart with the old-time cries
He had heerd so often upon the sands;
For they thought they wuz helpin' his boat ashore -
Till they spoke no more.

But Fisherman Jim lived on and on,
Castin' his nets an' sailin' the sea;
As a man will live when his heart is gone,
Fisherman Jim lived hopelessly,
Till once in those years they come an' said:
"Old Fisherman Jim is powerful sick -
Go to him, quick!"

Then Fisherman Jim says he to me:
"It's a long, long cruise-you understand -
But over beyont the ragin' sea
I kin see my boys on the shinin' sand
Waitin' to help this ol' hulk ashore,
Just as they used to - ah, mate, you know! -
In the long ago."

No, sir! he wuzn't afeard to die;
For all night long he seemed to see

[...] Read more

poem by Eugene Field
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Lonely Is The Hunter

My eggs in one basket, but she threw me a bone
She was dealt a full deck, but she likes to live alone
Aint just talkin to myself, need a reason to stop (oh yeah)
With a flower in her teeth, she drained the last drop
I said girls love money like bees the honey
But lonely is the hunter, youre my one and only, and lonely is the hunter
Asked her for a refill, sweat flew off my face (oh yeah)
Shes a legendary figure, kept me in a cage
Shes a torture chamber, when I seduced her in my bed (ooh yeah)
She gave a cold reading, success went to her head
In the heat of the battle the heart cannot rule, Im such a fool
But lonely is the hunter, youre my one and only, and lonely is the hunter
Lonely is the hunter, youre my one and only, and lonely is the hunter
Lonely is the hunter, youre my one and only, and lonely is the hunter
Lonely is the hunter, youre my one and only, and lonely is the hunter

song performed by Kiss
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Lovehunter

(coverdale/moody/marsden)
I need a woman to treat me good
And give me everything a good woman should
Everyday and every night
Shed be waiting on her brown-eyed boy
To come and treat her right
Im a love hunter baby
Sneaking up on you,
Im a love hunter baby
Sneaking up on you
Im gonna give you all my loving
And use my tail on you
In my time Ive been a back door man,
Ive taken everything I could
But, Ive given all I can
I dont want no woman
To weep or moan,
Im looking for a sweet heartbreaker
And Im never gonna leave her alone
Im a love hunter baby
Sneaking up on you,
Im a love hunter baby
What you gonna do?
Im gonna give you all my loving
And use my tail on you
Im a love hunter baby
Sneaking up on you,
Im a love hunter baby
What you gonna do?
Im gonna give you all my loving
And use my tail on you
cos Im a love hunter baby,
Im a love hunter baby...
Im a love hunter baby
Sneaking up on you
Im sneaking up on you!

song performed by Whitesnake
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The Hunter

It dont come easy, thats understood
Faint-hearted loser, thats no good
Just take a lesson from the great mohammed
He said... he said...
Pick up a rifle, you must be strong
To take a title, can be so long
If you believe, you cant go wrong
I said... I said...
Hes a fighter, hes my friend,
Always winning in the end,
Hes no angel, hes no fool,
Never plays it by the rule,
Take the glory, steal the prize,
Only the hunter, only the hunter
You took your chances, you hurt your pride
A sense of failure, is hard to hide
You crossed the limit, you broke the code
Back on the road... remember?
Hes a rival, hes my friend,
Always winning in the end,
Hes a tiger, hes a swan,
Hes the one Im counting on,
To take the glory, steal the prize,
Only the hunter, only the hunter survives
Im on the outside, Im looking in
Through the lenses, then into film
Ive got the target set in my sights
I see a vision of truth... look out!
Were gonna fight until we drop,
Were gonna get back to the top,
Were gonna be the first in line,
Winners till the end of time
Only the hunter, only the hunter,
Only the hunter, only the hunter,
Survives

song performed by Asia
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I A Hunter.

I a hunter of life,
I got shot by a hunter with my knife,
I a hunter of death,
A shot just broke my teeth

I a hunter of destiny,
Am afraid mine is taken,
I hunter of happiness,
am afraid mine is darkness

I a hunter of purity,
Putifying isn't my duty,
I a hunter of greatness,
I've just found am the smallest

I hunter of Love,
But am a sparrow not a dove,
and now I've got a message,
A message I, ve meant to receive

Hallow love Thank you,
my mind is holified that is you,
you have made my mind over due,
you made me think about you
SO THANK YOU

poem by Dickson Mseti
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The Hunter’s Song

RISE! Sleep no more! ’T is a noble morn:
The dews hang thick on the fringed thorn,
And the frost shrinks back, like a beaten hound,
Under the steaming, steaming ground.
Behold, where the billowy clouds flow by,
And leave us alone in the clear gray sky!
Our horses are ready and steady.—So, ho!
I ’m gone, like a dart from the Tartar’s bow.
Hark, hark!—Who calleth the maiden Morn
From her sleep in the woods and the stubble corn?
The horn,—the horn!
The merry, sweet ring of the hunter’s horn.

Now, thorough the copse, where the fox is found,
And over the stream, at a mighty bound,
And over the high lands, and over the low,
O’er furrows, o’er meadows, the hunters go!
Away!—as a hawk flies full at its prey,
So flieth the hunter, away,—away!
From the burst at the cover till set of sun,
When the red fox dies, and—the day is done!
Hark, hark!—What sound on the wind is borne?
’T is the conquering voice of the hunter’s horn.
The horn,—the horn!
The merry, bold voice of the hunter’s horn.

Sound! Sound the horn! To the hunter good
What ’s the gulley deep or the roaring flood?
Right over he bounds, as the wild stag bounds,
At the heels of his swift, sure, silent hounds.
O, what delight can a mortal lack,
When he once is firm on his horse’s back,
With his stirrups short, and his snaffle strong,
And the blast of the horn for his morning song?
Hark, hark!—Now, home! and dream till morn
Of the bold, sweet sound of the hunter’s horn!
The horn,—the horn!
O, the sound of all sounds is the hunter’s horn!

poem by Barry Cornwall
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John The Fisherman

When he was young youd not find him doing well in school,
His mind would turn unto the waters.
Always the focus of adolescent ridicule,
He has no time for farmers daughters.
Alienated from the clique society,
A lonely boy finds peace in fishing.
His mother says john this is not the way lifes supposed to be.
Dont you see the life that you are missing?
And he says...
When I grow up I want to be,
One of the harvesters of the sea.
I think before my days are done,
I want to be a fisherman.
Now years gone by we find man that rules the sea.
He sets out on a dark may morning .
To bring his catch back to this small community.
He doesnt see the danger dawning.
Four hours up, oh the ocean swelled and swelled,
The fog rolled in it started raining.
The starboard bow. oh my God were going down!
The do not hear his frantic mayday.
And he says
When I grow up I want to be,
One of the harvesters of the sea.
I think before my days are done,
I want to be a fisherman.
Ill live and die a fisherman.
Calling john the fisherman.

song performed by Primus
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Give Your Heart To The Hawks

1 he apples hung until a wind at the equinox,

That heaped the beach with black weed, filled the dry grass

Under the old trees with rosy fruit.

In the morning Fayne Fraser gathered the sound ones into a

basket,

The bruised ones into a pan. One place they lay so thickly
She knelt to reach them.

Her husband's brother passing
Along the broken fence of the stubble-field,
His quick brown eyes took in one moving glance
A little gopher-snake at his feet flowing through the stubble
To gain the fence, and Fayne crouched after apples
With her mop of red hair like a glowing coal
Against the shadow in the garden. The small shapely reptile
Flowed into a thicket of dead thistle-stalks
Around a fence-post, but its tail was not hidden.
The young man drew it all out, and as the coil
Whipped over his wrist, smiled at it; he stepped carefully
Across the sag of the wire. When Fayne looked up
His hand was hidden; she looked over her shoulder
And twitched her sunburnt lips from small white teeth
To answer the spark of malice in his eyes, but turned
To the apples, intent again. Michael looked down
At her white neck, rarely touched by the sun,
But now the cinnabar-colored hair fell off from it;
And her shoulders in the light-blue shirt, and long legs like a boy's
Bare-ankled in blue-jean trousers, the country wear;
He stooped quietly and slipped the small cool snake
Up the blue-denim leg. Fayne screamed and writhed,
Clutching her thigh. 'Michael, you beast.' She stood up
And stroked her leg, with little sharp cries, the slender invader
Fell down her ankle.

Fayne snatched for it and missed;

Michael stood by rejoicing, his rather small

Finely cut features in a dance of delight;

Fayne with one sweep flung at his face

All the bruised and half-spoiled apples in the pan,

[...] Read more

poem by Robinson Jeffers
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An Old Fisher In The Green

A man, this man, alone in the green,
a little, tiny sand, a speck in the sea.
He used to be a torrent, a veritable blizzard,
ready to weather the storms, this strong fisher.

Then these little fish, to him flocked,
and his heart gave in, collapsed in him, and gave him quite a start.
He took the fish and laid it out, gave it his breath,
and as it looked, its eyes glowed hot, and took from him the rest.

Then it became a fisherman, but one that knew its gift,
it indeed was a fisherman who helped its once-known kin,
what a wondrous man this fish did make, reveling in this skin,
it indeed was a better fisherman who helped its once-known kin.

And so this old fisherman, living on his last breath,
lived only to help the fish he helped, until his last, his death.
His last was given to a fish he deemed demure, a wriggling sickly thing,
he gave it his last, he did, he did, though it remained a fish.

He gave his all, he did, he did, till this fish became enlarged,
yet still not a man did it make, but instead became in charge,
a shark it made, it did, it did, and it hounded out,
till once again, it did, it hid, became the rounder out.

The fishermen were thrown on their guards, this shark was so enlarged,
till all was dust upon the sea, and the old man was set free.

The vision just though may it be,
became but dust upon the sea
till all was dust to dust upon the sea,
and the old man, weak, was at last set free.

poem by Kevin Maroney
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Lana Jane

Every boy loved her- Lana Jane,
And who could blame them? She was fair,
Of perfect form and beauty rare,
But none could have her, Lana Jane,
The fisherman’s only daughter,
And he no man to barter.

For he would take poor Lana Jane
To sea, and she would stay the boat
When harbored; thus, a dreadful moat
Would bar the way to Lana Jane,
The fisherman’s only daughter,
But he refused to barter.

In fourteen years, sweet Lana Jane,
Was never seen upon the shore
Among the boys who wanted more
Than life to see their Lana Jane,
The fisherman’s only daughter,
Whose father ne'er would barter.

The legend grew of Lana Jane,
While scores of ports, legions of ships
Claimed: “She’s aboard! ” through whispered lips,
“The rarest beauty, Lana Jane,
“The fisherman’s only daughter.
“She's yours to see. Let's barter! ”

poem by Hm. Nes
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Lonely Is The Hunter

There is a thing out there that lives in the dark
Lamented into dust is the crow
A star shining in the sky
In the darkened night

A filling taste it is
Lonely is the hunter in the days
Of them we are
Of they there are none
Two times the rooster crows
In the days of the lonely hunter

Hope dead and cold
Lonely is the hunter
None nearby lonely is the hunter

Tombs filling the heart
Lonely is the hunter
The hunter is he

poem by Alex Fischer
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Hunter/Killer

On the twilight of life, the sky shed tears
Knowing too well of what lay ahead
Fate revealed
Pale shadows danced as the night caught fire
No turning back, one glance ahead
What was void now turns to red
Responsiblity discarded
A snake always sheds it's skin
Push away the pain we cause
Live to sin, we are
Hunter/killer
Blinded by our hate, deafened to cries
Hunter/killer
Only one has the right to survive
Hunter/killer
Faith in conviction of lies
When all that's left is a sigh
Then we'll wonder why no one asked why
A truth that cuts deeper than the lies that bind
Souls hardwired to serve one god
Backbone made of fear tranlates to lack of control
Responsiblity discarded
A snake always sheds it's skin
Push away the pain we cause
Live to sin, we are
Hunter/killer
Blinded by our hate, deafened to cries
Hunter/killer
Only one has the right to survive
Hunter/killer
Faith in conviction of lies
When all that's left is a sigh
Then we'll wonder why no one asked why
Torn apart who can we look to for answers?
One more loss will bring is closer to the edge
Unwritten chapter, a final tale
Are we the only one's who cannot comprehend?
Can't you see we've only just begun
No second chance, there's only one
No turning back, what's done is done
Look into the eyes of madmen
Pools of blackness lie beyond
Drowning the soul, drowning cries
Ties that blind, lineage that's last so long
Must be overcome before
Time is revoked, curtains fall

song performed by Quo Vadis
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Pray For The Hunted

No light inside as empty room
Under pressure I cant win
The screams - the pain - its all inside
All this talking all the time
When there is something left
Talk to me face to face
Expected so much more
Im sick and tired of it all
Why dont you pray for the hunted
I scream for help to free my heart
You better pray for the hunter
I wonder why you take me apart
The light has diedd and whos to blame
Youre the one who messed around
You shook - you took - you played your games
The time has come youre going down
When there is something left
Talk to me face to face
Expected so much more
Im sick and tired of it all
Why dont you pray for the hunted
I scream for help to free my heart
You better pray for the hunter
I wonder why you take me apart
You take me apart
Why dont you pray for the hunted
You better pray for the hunter
Why dont you pray for the hunted
You better pray for the hunter
Why dont you pray for the hunted
I scream for help to free my heart
You better pray for the hunter
I wonder why you take me apart
Why dont you pray for the hunted
You score no more youve lost this game
You better pray for the hunter
Why do you always have to take me apart

song performed by U. D. O.
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Hunter's Mind

Awake, awake!
Awake to the morning bowl from last night's food;
Like the fling of a stone that puts the stars into flight.
What has the hunter in the hand?
Awake to the games of the Sultans,
Where the morning glory do call for the hunter;
Awake, awake!
Awake to the facts of life;
Cos', the hunter's gun is ready for action.
Oh no! ! The hunter's eye has caught the Sultans turret,
Like the noose of light to awake nature's call;
Who can satisfy the Sultans?
Like a little pool, so is the hunter's mind;
The hunter's gun is ready for action.
The only man who makes no mistake is,
The man who never does anything;
Awake, awake!
The Sultans turret is in trouble;
Like the noose of light to awake nature's call.

poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Temora - Book VIII

ARGUMENT.

The fourth morning from the opening of the poem comes on Fingal, still continuing in the place to which he had retired on the preceding sight, is seen, at intervals, through the mist which covered the rock of Cormul. The descent of the king is described. He orders Gaul, Dermid, and Carril the bard, to go to the valley of China, and conduct from thence the Caledonian army, Ferad-artho, the son of Cairbar, the only person remaining of the family of Conar, the first king of Ireland. The king makes the command of the army, and prepares for battle. Marching towards the enemy, he comes to the cave of Lubar, where the body of Fillan lay. Upon seeing his dog, Bran, who lay at the entrance of the cave, his grief returns. Cathmor arranges the Irish army in order of battle. The appearance of that hero. The general conflict is described. The actions of Fingal and Cathmor. A storm. The total rout of the Fir-bolg. The two kings engage, in a column of mist, on the banks of Lubar, Their attitude and conference after the combat. The death of Cathmor. Fingal resigns the spear of Trenmor to Ossian. The ceremonies observed on that occasion. The spirit of Cathmor, in the mean time, appears to Sul-malla, in the valley of Lona. Her sorrow. Evening comes on. A feast is prepared. The coming of Ferad-artho is announced by the songs of a hundred bards. The poem closes with a speech of Fingal.

As when the wintry winds have seized the waves of the mountain lake, have seized them in stormy night, and clothed them over with ice; white to the hunter's early eye, the billows still seem to roll. He turns his ear to the sound of each unequal ridge. But each is silent, gleaming, strewn with boughs, and tufts of grass, which shake and whistle to the wind, over their gray seats of frost. So silent shone to the morning the ridges of Morven's host, as each warrior looked up from his helmet towards the hill of the king; the cloud-covered hill of Fingal, where he strode in the folds of mist. At times is the hero seen, greatly dim in all his arms. From thought to thought tolled the war, along his mighty soul.

Now is the coming forth of the king. First appeared the sword of Luno; the spear half issuing from a cloud, the shield still dim in mist. But when the stride of the king came abroad, with all his gray dewy locks in the wind; then rose the shouts of his host over every moving tribe. They gathered, gleaming round, with all their echoing shields. So rise the green seas round a spirit, that comes down from the squally wind. The traveller hears the sound afar, and lifts his head over the rock. He looks on the troubled bay, and thinks he dimly sees the form. The waves sport, unwieldy, round, with all their backs of foam.

Far distant stood the son of Morni, Duthno's race, and Cona's bard. We stood far distant; each beneath his tree. We shunned the eyes of the king: we had not conquered in the field. A little stream rolled at my feet: I touched its light wave, with my spear. I touched it with my spear: nor there was the soul of Ossian. It darkly rose, from thought to thought, and sent abroad the sigh.

"Son of Morni," said the king, "Dermid, hunter of roes! why are ye dark, like two rocks, each with its trickling waters? No wrath gathers on Fingal's soul, against the chiefs of men. Ye are my strength in battle; the kindling of my joy in peace. My early voice has been a pleasant gale to your years, when Fillan prepared the bow. The son of Fingal is not here, nor yet the chase of the bounding roes. But why should the breakers of shields stand, darkened, far way?"

Tall they strode towards the king: they saw him turned to Morn's wind. His, tears came down for his blue-eyed son, no slept in the cave of streams. But he brightened before them, and spoke to the broad-shielded kings.

"Crommal, with woody rocks, and misty top, the field of winds, pours forth, to the sight, blue Lubar's streamy roar. Behind it rolls clear-winding Lavath, in the still vale of deer. A cave is dark in a rock; above it strong-winged eagles dwell; broad-headed oaks, before it, sound in Cluna's wind. Within, in his locks of youth, is Ferad-artho, blue-eyed king, the son of broad-shielded Cairbar, from Ullin of the roes. He listens to the voice of Condan, as gray he bends in feeble light. He listens, for his foes dwell in the echoing halls of Temora. He comes, at times, abroad in the skirts of mist, to pierce the bounding roes. When the sun looks on the field, nor by the rock, nor stream, is he! He shuns the race of Bolga, who dwell in his father's hall. Tell him, that Fingal lifts the spear, and that his foes, perhaps, may fail.

"Lift up, O Gaul, the shield before him. Stretch, Dermid, Temora's spear. Be thy voice in his ear, O Carril, with the deeds of his fathers. Lead him to green Moi-lena, to the dusky field of ghosts; for there, I fall forward, in battle, in the folds of war. Before dun night descends, come to high Dunmora's top. Look, from the gray skirts of mist, on Lena of the streams. If there my standard shall float on wind, over Lubar's gleaming stream, then has not Fingal failed in the last of his fields."

Such were his words; nor aught replied the silent striding kings. They looked sidelong on Erin's host, and darkened as they went. Never before had they left the king, in the midst of the stormy field. Behind them, touching at times his harp, the gray-haired Carril moved. He foresaw the fall, of the people, and mournful was the sound! It was like a breeze that comes, by fits, over Lego's reedy lake; when sleep half descends on the hunter, within his mossy cave.

"Why bends the bard of Cona," said Fingal, "over his secret stream? Is this a time for sorrow, father of low-laid Oscar? Be the warriors remembered in peace; when echoing shields are heard no more. Bend, then, in grief, over the flood, where blows the mountain breeze. Let them pass on thy soul, the blue-eyed dwellers of the tomb. But Erin rolls to war; wide tumbling, rough, aid dark. Lift, Ossian, lift the shield. I am alone, my son

As comes the sudden voice of winds to the becalmed ship of Inis-huna, and drives it large, along the deep, dark rider of the wave; so the voice of Fingal sent Ossian, tall along the heath. He lifted high his shining shield, in the dusky wing of war; like the broad, blank moon, in the skirt of a cloud, before the storms. arise.

Loud, from moss-covered Mora, poured down, at once, the broad-winged war. Fingal led his people forth, king of Morven of streams. On high spreads the eagle's wing. His gray hair is poured on his shoulders broad. In thunder are his mighty strides. He often stood, and saw, behind, the wide-gleaming rolling of armor. A rock he seemed, gray over with ice, whose woods are high in wind. Bright streams leapt from its head, and spread their foam on blasts.

Now he came to Lubar's cave, where Fillan darkly slept. Bran still lay on the broken shield: the eagle-wing is strewed by the winds. Bright, from withered furze, looked forth the hero's spear. Then grief stirred the soul of the king, like whirlwinds blackening on a lake. He turned his sudden step, and leaned on his bending spear.

White-breasted Bran came bounding with joy to the known path of Fingal. He came, and looked towards the cave, where the blue-eyed hunter lay, for he was wont to stride, with morning, to the dewy bed of the roe. It was then the tears of the king came down and all his soul was dark. But as the rising wind rolls away the storm of rain, and leaves the white streams to the sun, and high hills with their heads of grass; so the returning war brightened the mind of Fingal. He bounded, on his spear, over Lubar, and struck his echoing shield. His ridgy host bend forward, at once, with all their pointed steel.

Nor Erin heard, with fear, the sound: wide they come rolling along. Dark Malthos, in the wing of war, looks forward from shaggy brows. Next rose that beam of light, Hidalla! then the sidelong-looking gloom of Maronnan. Blue-shielded Clonar lifts the spear: Cormar shakes his bushy locks on the wind. Slowly, from behind a rock, rose the bright form of Atha. First appeared his two-pointed spears, then the half of his burnished shield: like the rising of a nightly meteor, over the valley of ghosts. But when ha shone all abroad, the hosts plunged, at once, into strife. The gleaming waves of steel are poured on either side.

As meet two troubled seas, with the rolling of all their waves, when they feel the wings of contending winds, in the rock-sided firth of Lumon; along the echoing hills in the dim course of ghosts: from the blast fall the torn groves on the deep, amidst the foamy path of whales. So mixed the hosts! Now Fingal; now Cathmor came abroad. The dark tumbling of death is before them: the gleam of broken steel is rolled on their steps, as, loud, the high-bounding kings hewed down the ridge of shields.

Maronnan fell, by Fingal, laid large across a stream. The waters gathered by his side, and leapt gray over his bossy shield. Clonar is pierced by Cathmor; nor yet lay the chief on earth. An oak seized his hair in his fall. His helmet rolled on the ground. By its thong, hung his broad shield; over it wandered his streaming blood. Tla-min shall weep, in the hall, and strike her heaving breast. Nor did Ossian forget the spear, in the wing of his war. He strewed the field with dead. Young Hidallan came. "Soft voice of streamy Clonra! why dost thou lift the steel? O that we met in the strife of song, in thine own rushy vale!" Malthos beheld him low, and darkened as he rushed along. On either side of a stream, we bent in the echoing strife. Heaven comes rolling down; around burst the voices of squally winds. Hills are clothed, at times, in fire. Thunder rolls in wreaths of mist. In darkness shrunk the foe: Morven's warriors stood aghast. Still I bent over the stream, amidst my whistling locks.

Then rose the voice of Fingal, and the sound of the flying foe. I saw the king, at times, in lightning, darkly striding in his might. I struck my echoing shield, and hung forward on the steps of Alnecma; the foe is rolled before me, like a wreath of smoke.

The sun looked forth from his cloud. The hundred streams of Moi-lena shone. Slow rose the blue columns of mist, against the glittering hill. Where are the mighty kings? Nor by that stream, nor wood, are they! I hear the clang of arms! Their strife is in the bosom of that mist. Such is the contending of spirits in a nightly cloud, when they strive for the wintry wings of winds, and the rolling of the foam-covered waves.

I rushed along. The gray mist rose. Tall, gleaming, they stood at Lubar. Cathmor leaned against a rock. His half-fallen shield received the stream, that leapt from the moss above. Towards him is the stride of Fingal: he saw the hero's blood. His sword fell slowly to his side. He spoke, amidst his darkening joy.

"Yields the race of Borbar-duthul? Or still does he lift the spear? Not unheard is thy name, at Atha, in the green dwelling of strangers. It has come, like the breeze of his desert, to the ear of Fingal. Come o my hill of feasts: the mighty fail, at times. No fire am I to low-laid foes; I rejoice not over the fall of the brave. To close the wound is mine: I have known the herbs of the hills. I seized their fair heads, on high, as they waved by their secret streams. Thou art dark and silent, king of Atha of strangers!"

"By Atha of the stream," he said, "there rises a mossy rock. On its head is the wandering of boughs, within the course of winds. Dark, in its face, is a cave, with its own loud rill. There have I heard the tread of strangers, when they passed to my hall of shells. Joy rose, like a flame, on my soul; I blest the echoing rock. Here be my dwelling, in darkness; in my grassy vale. From this I shall mount the breeze, that pursues my thistle's beard; or look down on blue-winding Atha, from its wandering mist."

"Why speaks the king of the tomb? Ossian, the warrior has failed! Joy meet thy soul, like a stream, Cathmor friend of strangers! My son, I hear the call of years; they take my spear as they pass along. Why does not Fingal, they seem to say, rest within his hall? Dost thou always delight in blood? In the tears of the sad? No; ye dark-rolling years, Fingal delights not in blood. Tears are wintry streams that waste away my soul. But when I lie down to rest, then comes the mighty voice of war. It awakes me in my hall and calls forth all my steel. It shall call it forth no more; Ossian, take thou thy father's spear. Lift it, in battle, when the proud arise.

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poem by James Macpherson
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Gordon Cumming - The Lion Hunter

Some thirty years ago, in conversation with an old sea
captain who had visited or voyaged to all quarters of the
globe, he was denouncing fiercely the degeneracy of these
costermonger times. He said there was a book in our
town library which was a tissue of falsehood from begin-
ning to end, and that there never existed such a man as
Gordon Cumming, the Lion Hunter. I told the old gen-
tleman that I had seen the Lion Hunter hundreds of
times and conversed with him in the woods of Aylter,
and that be was a descendant of the Royal Comyn, one
of whom was killed by King Robert the Bruce, and that
I had seen the magnificent person of Gordon Cumming in
the garb of old Gaul, successfully punish a huge prize
fighter who kept grossly insulting him during the excite-
ment of a general election-when Cumming's uncle,
Major Cumming Bruce, was running for member, this
Major being father-in-law to Lord Elgin, formerly Gov-
ernor of Canada. I also told him that Hugh Millar was
a warm friend of the Lion Hunter's mother, as she was
distinguished both as a geologist and a botanist, and that
Livingstone, the great traveller, was a great admirer and
intimate friend of the Hunter. After his return to
Britain he exhibited himself and his magnificent trophies
throughout all the cities and towns of Britain and Ireland.
His own noble figure in full Highland costume was perhaps no
insignificant part of the exhibition. Barnum afterwards
secured the noble specimens of hides and horns and monstrous
tusks for his New York museum.

Now the youth in fertile Moray
Do in Gordon Cumming glory,
Bold lion hunter-first who made
With Africa tribes successful trade ;
First in those wilds to fire a gun,
While he the mighty trophies won.

The moat celebrated lady traveller in Britain is Miss
Cumming, a niece of the Lion Hunter. She has written
several volumes of her travels in distant lands.

poem by James McIntyre
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The Song of the Little Hunter

Ere Mor the Peacock flutters, ere the Monkey People cry,
Ere Chil the Kite swoops down a furlong sheer,
Through the Jungle very softly flits a shadow and a sigh--
He is Fear, O Little Hunter, he is Fear!
Very softly down the glade runs a waiting, watching shade,
And the whisper spreads and widens far and near.
And the sweat is on thy brow, for he passes even now--
He is Fear, O Little Hunter, he is Fear!

Ere the moon has climbed the mountain, ere the rocks are ribbed with light,
When the downward-dipping trails are dank and drear,
Comes a breathing hard behind thee--snuffle-snuffle through the night--
It is Fear, O Little Hunter it is Fear,
On thy knees and draw the bow; bid the shrilling arrow go;
In the empty, mocking thicket plunge the spear!
But thy hands are loosed and weak, and the blood has left thy cheek--
It is Fear, O Little Hunter, it is Fear!

When the heat-cloud sucks the tempest, when the slivered pine-trees fall,
When the blinding, blaring rain-squalls lash and veer,
Through the war-gongs of the thunder rings a voice more loud than all--
It is Fear, O Little Hunter, it is Fear!
Now the spates are banked and deep; now the footless boulders leap--
Now the lightning shows each littlest leaf--rib clear--
But thy throat is shut and dried, and thy heart against thy side
Hammers: Fear, O Little Hunter--this is Fear!

poem by Rudyard Kipling
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The Avowyng of Arthur

He that made us on the mulde,
And fair fourmet the folde,
Atte His will, as He wold,
The see and the sande,
Giffe hom joy that will here
Of dughti men and of dere,
Of haldurs that before us were,
That lifd in this londe.
One was Arther the Kinge,
Wythowtun any letting;
Wyth him was mony lordinge
Hardi of honde.
Wice and war ofte thay were,
Bold undur banere,
And wighte weppuns wold were,
And stifly wold stond.

This is no fantum ne no fabull;
Ye wote wele of the Rowun Tabull,
Of prest men and priveabull,
Was holdun in prise:
Chevetan of chivalry,
Kyndenesse and curtesy,
Hunting full warly,
As wayt men and wise.
To the forest thay fare
To hunte atte buk and atte bare,
To the herte and to the hare,
That bredus in the rise.
The King atte Carlele he lay;
The hunter cummys on a day -
Sayd, 'Sir, ther walkes in my way
A well grim gryse.
'He is a balefull bare -
Seche on segh I nevyr are:
He hase wroghte me mycull care
And hurte of my howundes,
Slayn hom downe slely
Wyth feghting full furcely.
Wasse ther none so hardi
Durste bide in his bandus.
On him spild I my spere
And mycull of my nothir gere.
Ther moue no dintus him dere,
Ne wurche him no wowundes.
He is masly made -
All offellus that he bade.
Ther is no bulle so brade
That in frith foundes.

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poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Coventry in November

They say it was a Hunter’s moon
The night the City died
They say it was a hunter’s moon
The day the people cried

They say it was a hunter’s moon
That took our house away
They say it was a hunter’s moon
When the devil came to stay

An ageing now I’d like to know
Won’t someone tell me soon,
Why the reaper came to mow
in the light of the hunter’s moon

poem by Adrian Wait
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Hearts A Lonely Hunter

Theres a fog upon the skyline
Clouds my view
And the citys cold and lonely
Without you
And so I set out upon the highway
Bound to leave your memory behind
And the praire wind it chills me to my bone
And the hearts a lonely hunter all alone
And the fields are rollin softly
Across the plane
And my eyes can see forever
Through the pourin rain
I could have sworn I heard your sweet voice callin
Bout a mile past the county line
It was only just an echo, in my soul
And the hearts a lonely hunter all alone
Drivin past the state line
Change my state of mind
Suddenly a free born man
Headin for a small town turn
Turn my life around
No one has to understand
Without a past, to tie me
To my shadow
And to the last, Ill run my life
Alone, alone
Now the sun is beatin softly
On my skin
And at last I feel emotion
Beating deep within
And for the first time I know for certain
I can leave that girl behind
And I cast a giant shadow as I roam
And the hearts a lonely hunter,
Hearts a lonely hunter
The hearts a lonely hunter
All alone
All alone
When youre all alone
All alone
When youre all alone

song performed by Survivor
Added by Lucian Velea
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