The woods are deep, and still resound
with trumpet blasts and calls of hound.
The huntsman’s quarry, stag and fox,
elude his chase through rills and rocks.
There! A wolf crawls from his lair,
out for the deer, he stalks a pair.
Osprey dives for his little prey –
sad field mouse, with fur of grey.
Duke Robert is hunting with hound and horse,
his fire-eyed stallion streaks over gorse.
He is the King’s guest, at Louvre takes ease
whilst courting the fair Demoiselle d’Ys
But Duke Robert is dead these five hundred years.
Ma Demoiselle d’Ys is dust with her tears.
Gone are the wolf and the boar and the deer,
gone are serf and valiant peer.
I must be dreaming in this little park,
my head is affected by oak, ash, and bark.
But where is my suit of imitation suede?
why am I dressed in old brocade?