Rooted in history, the hunstman last,

Their scarlet coats and bugle horns brave things

Upon time's laden boughs of the same vast

Gnarled tree where poets, admirals, and kings

Love evergreen. Bend down the branch, pluck down

Old armor, torches, flags, old tragedies;

Shake out a name, a rhyme, a storied crown;

Hear antique cannon boast old victories.

Forget the fallen centuries turned brown,

The leafmold life now withered all away.

The huntsmen live, the huntsmen sound a horn.

Mellow and merry in the tune they play,

Merry and mellow for the root and thorn

And laden boughs of time in a bygone day.