Song-1
We
know
where
deepest
lies
the
snow,
And
where
the
frost-winds
keenest
blow,
O'er
every
mountain's
brow,
We
long
have
known
and
learnt
to
bear
The
wandering
outlaw's
toil
and
care,
But
where
we
late
were
hunted,
there
Our
foes
are
hunted
now.
We
have
their
princely
homes,
and
they
To
our
wild
haunts
are
chased
away,
Dark
woods,
and
desert
caves.
And
we
can
range
from
hill
to
hill,
And
chase
our
vanquished
victors
still;
Small
respite
will
they
find
until
They
slumber
in
their
graves.
But
I
would
rather
be
the
hare,
That
crouching
in
its
sheltered
lair
Must
start
at
every
sound;
That
forced
from
cornfields
waving
wide
Is
driven
to
seek
the
bare
hillside,
Or
in
the
tangled
copse
to
hide,
Than
be
the
hunter's
hound.
