Hilli-ho! Hilli-ho!
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-bell, ringing sweet
While hunters shout and the woods repeat,
Hilli-ho! Hilli-ho!
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!
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