To sun and moon are now beckoned each and every sire. A fowl of crescent descent and of the Hood, does the hunter now flow. To arrow and bow, does his lyre sing, with strings of glass, and a heart to pluck them with. Silver and wane, now comes the stars meet. To slender huntsman she does now greet, her jewels and powders, will not avail her. From the Huntsman sweet song.