| «Tell us our good master
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| Why you sit there so quietly
|
| And where are the trophies
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| You usually bring home
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| Like the heads of the Bengal tiger
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| That decorate your great hall
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| And the skins of lion and zebra
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| That you’ve laid wall to wall…»
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| «My friends, in the foothills before the rainy season
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| I went out hunting one day all by myself
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| Keeping the wind in my face I crept up
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| To where a herd of deer were grazing
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| When suddenly before me
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| Stood a great horned king of stags
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| And it’s the truth I tell you, believe me
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| As the lord above’s my witness
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| The great beast did not quaver
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| But softly began to speak…»
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| «It's written in the stars, lord
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| Upon this day I die
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| So these my gifts I offer
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| To you this Eastertide:
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| These majestic antlers for you
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| To hang your bows on
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| And these my ears as fine cups
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| For you to toast your ladies
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| Take both my bright eyes
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| For a pair of shining mirrors
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| And all these bristles
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| For brushes to shave your face
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| I pray that you eat my flesh for ten days
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| And from my hide you make a warm coat
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| And as for your strength and courage
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| My liver will serve you well
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| Thus in the stars it’s written, my good sir
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| That the body of this your servant
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| Seven times will be fruitful
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| And seven times be reborn…»
|
| «Tell us our good master
|
| Why you sit there so quietly
|
| And where are all the trophies
|
| You usually bring home…» |