Hunting
Go home, child, quickly, the hounds have been loosed.
Go now, please hurry, through the bloody fields and woods.
Your father awaits, a rifle in hand,
So tread carefully but but quickly, quickly, quickly.
Run, my sweet, with your coat tucked close,
Lest it catch on brambles, branches, and thorns.
No light to help you on the path of escape.
The
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