Wind Thy Horn, My Hunter Boy.

Wind thy horn, my hunter boy,
    And leave thy lute's inglorious sighs;
Hunting is the hero's joy,
    Till war his nobler game supplies.
Hark! the hound-bells ringing sweet,
While hunters shout and the, woods repeat,
        Hilli-ho! Hilli-ho!

Wind again thy cheerful horn,
    Till echo, faint with answering, dies:
Burn, bright torches, burn till morn,
    And lead us where the wild boar lies.
Hark! the cry, "He's found, he's found,"
While hill and valley our shouts resound.
        Hilli-ho! Hilli-ho!

Thomas Moore

Thomas Moore was an Irish poet, singer, and songwriter, celebrated for his Irish Melodies, which are now considered a staple of Irish cultural heritage. Born on May 28, 1779, in Dublin, Ireland, Moore gained fame for his lyrical songs, many of which were set to traditional Irish tunes. Not only a poet, but he was also a staunch advocate of Irish nationalism, often incorporating themes of national identity and resistance into his work. Moore's influential collection 'Irish Melodies' became popular in both Ireland and Britain and helped to define the literary output of the era. He passed away on February 25, 1852, but his legacy in Irish literature and music endures.

Thomas Moore

Wreaths For The Ministers. An Anacreontic.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Stanzas Written In Anticipation Of Defeat.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

A Characterless

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

To Cloe. Imitated From Martial.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

Flourish Of Trumpets.

        Hark, 'tis the sound that charms
        The war-steed's wakening ears!--
    Oh! many a mother folds her arms
Round her boy-soldier when that call she hears;
    And, tho' her fond heart sink with fears,
    Is proud to feel his young pulse bound
    With valor's fever at the sound.
    See, from his native hills afar
    The rude Helvetian flies to war;
    Careless for what, for whom he fights,
    For slave or despot, wrongs or rights:
        A conqueror oft--a hero never--
    Yet lavish of his life-blood still,
    As if 'twere like his mountain rill,
        And gushed forever!

        Yes, Music, here, even here,
    Amid this thoughtless, vague career,
Thy soul-felt charm asserts its wondrous power.--
    There's a wild air wh...

Thomas Moore

The Huntsman And His Hound.

When hill and dale, long years ago,
Lay clad in nature's dress,
And flourish'd the primeval pomp
Of nature's wilderness,

A huntsman and his hound would roam,
Where fed the timid deer,
And where the partridge's drum, or whirr,
Brought music to his ear.

In sooth, he heard all forest sounds
With real sportsman's joy;
And here he always pleasure found,
With little of alloy.

The pigeon's coo, the squirrel's chirp,
The wild-bird's thrilling lay,
Brought freshen'd pleasure to his heart,
At ev'ry op'ning day.

But music sweeter far than aught
In wood or vale around,
Was the loud crackling of the deer,
Or baying of his hound.

Full many a deer his steady aim,
With faithful rifle slew,
But, faithful as his rifle ...

Thomas Frederick Young

Hunting Song

Ye darksome Woods where Echo dwells,
Where every bud with freedom swells
To meet the glorious day:
The morning breaks; again rejoice;
And with old Ringwood's well-known voice
Bid tuneful Echo play.

We come, ye Groves, ye Hills, we come:
The vagrant Fox shall hear: his doom,
And dread our jovial train.
The shrill Horn sounds, the courser flies,
While every Sportsman joyful cries,
'There's Ringwood's voice again.'

Ye Meadows, hail the coming throng;
Ye peaceful Streams that wind along,
Repeat the Hark-away:
Far o'er the Downs, ye Gales that sweep,
The daring Oak that crowns the steep,
The roaring peal convey.

The chiming notes of chearful Hounds,
Hark! how the hollow Dale resounds;
The sunny Hills how gay.
But where's t...

Robert Bloomfield

The Minstrel-Boy.

The Minstrel-Boy to the war is gone,
    In the ranks of death you'll find him;
His father's sword he has girded on.
    And his wild harp slung behind him.
"Land of song!" said the warrior-bard,
    "Tho' all the world betrays thee,
"One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard,
    "One faithful harp shall praise thee!"

The Minstrel fell!--but the foeman's chain
    Could not bring his proud soul under;
The harp he loved ne'er spoke again,
    For he tore its chords asunder;
And said, "No chains shall sully thee,
    "Thou soul of love and bravery!
"Thy songs were made for the pure and free,
    "They shall never sound in slavery."

Thomas Moore

Cephalus And Procris.

A hunter once in that grove reclined,
    To shun the noon's bright eye,
And oft he wooed the wandering wind,
    To cool his brow with its sigh,
While mute lay even the wild bee's hum,
    Nor breath could stir the aspen's hair,
His song was still "Sweet air, oh come?"
    While Echo answered, "Come, sweet Air!"

But, hark, what sounds from the thicket rise!
    What meaneth that rustling spray?
"'Tis the white-horned doe," the Hunter cries,
    "I have sought since break of day."
Quick o'er the sunny glade he springs,
    The arrow flies from his sounding bow,
"Hilliho-hilliho!" he gayly sings,
    While Echo sighs forth "Hilliho!"

Alas, 'twas not the white-horned doe
    He saw in the rustling grove,
But the bridal veil, as pure as snow...

Thomas Moore

The Homeward March.

Be still my heart: I hear them come:
    Those sounds announce my lover near:
The march that brings our warriors home
    Proclaims he'll soon be here.

        Hark, the distant tread,
        O'er the mountain's head,
While hills and dales repeat the sound;
        And the forest deer
        Stand still to hear,
As those echoing steps ring round.

Be still my heart. I hear them come,
    Those sounds that speak my soldier near;
Those joyous steps seem winged fox home.--
    Rest, rest, he'll soon be here.

But hark, more faint the footsteps grow,
    And now they wind to distant glades;
Not here their home,--alas, they go
    To gladden happier maids!

    Like sounds in a dream,
    The footsteps seem,
As down the hi...

Thomas Moore