I shot a buck the other day,
And after the shot, he ran away.
The reason he ran and did not die,
I shot him with my searching eye.


I shot a bir upon the wing,
But still he trills and continues to sing.
He lifts his head to rise and fly,
Because I he loves the arching sky.


The buck and bird still play and live,
And share the beauty which they give.
The buck can run, the bird can fly,
Because I shot them with my eye;
In joy, with my searching eye.

My great grandfather wrote this