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!