So full of Disappointments, as a Hunter's:

Each Morn he wakes he views the destin'd Prey,

And counts the Profits of th' ensuing Day;

Each Ev'ning at his curs'd ill Fortune pines,

And till next Day his Hope of Gain resigns.

By Jove, I'll from these Desarts hasten home,

And swear that never more I'll touch a Gun.

Honnyman.

Honnyman.

These hateful Indians kidnap all the Game.

Curse their black Heads! they fright the Deer and Bear,

And ev'ry Animal that haunts the Wood,

Or by their Witchcraft conjure them away.

No Englishman can get a single Shot,

While they go loaded home with Skins and Furs.

'Twere to be wish'd not one of them survived,

Thus to infest the World, and plague Mankind.

Curs'd Heathen Infidels! mere savage Beasts!

They don't deserve to breathe in Christian Air,

And should be hunted down like other Brutes.

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