Orsbourn Monologue from Ponteach; Or, The Savages of America

From Ponteach; Or, The Savages of America by Robert Rogers

male · anguished · 52 sec

Long have we toil'd, and rang'd the Woods in vain, No Game, nor Track, nor Sign of any Kind Is to be seen; I swear I am discourag'd And weary'd out with this long fruitless Hunt. No Life on Earth besides is half so hard, 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.

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