King Henry stood in Waltham Wood,
⁠One morn in merry May-time;
Years fifteen hundred thirty-six,
⁠From Christ had roll'd away time.

King Henry stood in Waltham Wood,
⁠All young green, sunny-shady.
He would not mount his pawing horse,
⁠Though men and dogs were ready.

"What ails his Highness? Up and down
⁠In moody sort he paceth;
He is not wont to be so slack,
⁠Whatever game he chaseth."

He paced and stopp'd; he paced and turn'd;
⁠At times he inly mutter'd;
He pull'd his girdle, twitch'd his beard;
⁠But not one word he utter'd.

The hounds in couples nosed about,
⁠Or on the sward lay idle;
The huntsmen stole a fearful glance,
⁠While fingering girth or bridle.

Among themselves, but not too loud,
⁠The young lords laugh'd and chatter'd,
Or broke a branch of hawthorn-bloom,
⁠As though it nothing matter'd.

King Henry sat on a fell'd oak,
⁠With gloomier eyes and stranger;
His brows were knit, his lip he bit;
⁠To look that way was danger.

Mused he on pope and emperor?
⁠Denied them and defied them?
Or traitors in his very realm
⁠Complotting? — woe betide them!

Suddenly on the south-west wind,
⁠Distinct though distant, sounded
A cannon shot, — and to his feet
⁠The king of England bounded.

"My horse!" he shouts, — "Uncouple now!"
⁠And all were quickly mounted.
A hind was found; man, horse, and hound
⁠Like furious demons hunted.

Fast fled the deer by grove and glade,
⁠The chase did faster follow;
And every wild-wood alley rang
⁠With hunter's horn and hollo.

Away together streamed the hounds;
⁠Forward press'd every rider.
You're free to slay a hind in May,
⁠If there's no calf beside her.

King Harry rode a mighty horse,
⁠His Grace being broad and heavy,
And like a stormy wind he crash'd
⁠Through copse and thicket leavy.

He rode so hard, and roar'd so loud,
⁠All men his course avoided;
The fiery steed, long held on fret,
⁠With many a snort enjoy'd it.

The hind was kill'd, and down they sat
⁠To flagon and to pasty.
"Ha, by Saint George, a noble prince!
⁠Tho' hot, by times, and hasty."

Lord Norfolk knew, and other few,
⁠Wherefore that chase began on
The signal of a gun far off,
⁠One growl of distant cannon, —

And why so jovial grew his Grace,
⁠That erst was sad and sullen:
With that boom from the tower, had fall'n
⁠The head of fair Anne Bullen.

Her neck, which Henry used to kiss,
⁠The bloody axe did sever;
Their little child, Elizabeth,
⁠She'll see no more forever.

Gaily the king for Greenwich rides;
⁠Each moment makes his glee more;
He thinks — "To-morrow I'm betrothed,
⁠At last, to young Jane Seymour!"

The sunshine falls, the wild-bird calls,
⁠Across the slopes of Epping;
From grove to glade, through light and shade,
⁠The troops of deer are stepping.