The Toils Are Pitched, And The Stakes Are Set, Ever Sing Merrily, Merrily; The Bows They Bend, And The Knives They Whet, Hunters Live So Cheerily. It Was A Stag, A Stag Of Ten, Bearing Its Branches Sturdily; He Came Silently Down The Glen, Ever Sing Hardily, Hardily. It Was There He Met With A Wounded Doe, She Was Bleeding Deathfully; She Warned Him Of The Toils Below, O So Faithfully, Faithfully! He Had An Eye, And He Could Heed, Ever Sing So Warily, Warily; He Had A Foot, And He Could Speed Hunters Watch So Narrowly.