Forget not now, my children all,
The silver bell:
For here I end the song I sing,
The tale I tell.
To keep ye listening longer, were
Nor kind, nor wise,
For slumbers bend your weary head,
And dim your eyes.

Yet ere you leave—one passing word,
Our song may suit:
O! trifle not a soul away
Just for a brute.
Bear sorrow's sting with fortitude,
Whate'er befall;
And, O be gentle, kind, and good
To all—to all.

Now sleep in blessedness—till morn
Brings its sweet light:
And hear the awful voice of God
Bid ye “Good night!”
Yet ere the hand of slumber close
The eye of care,
For the poor huntsman's soul's repose,
Pour out one prayer.