  “The charge is prepared.”—MACHEATH. If I shoot any more I’ll be shot, For ill-luck seems determined to star me, I have march’d the whole day With a gun—for no pay— Zounds, I’d better have been in the army! What matters Sir Christopher’s leave? To his manor I’m sorry I came yet! With confidence fraught, My two pointers I brought, But we are not a point towards game yet! And that gamekeeper too, with advice! Of my course he has been a nice chalker, Not far, were his words, I could go without birds: If my legs could cry out, they’d cry “Walker!” Not Hawker could find out a flaw,— My appointments are modern and Mantony, And I’ve brought my own man, To mark down all he can, But I can’t find a mark for my Antony! The partridges,—where can they lie? I have promised a leash to Miss Jervas, As the least I could do; But without even two To brace me,—I’m getting quite nervous! To the pheasants—how well they’re preserved! My sport’s not a jot more beholden, As the birds are so shy, For my friends I must buy, And so send “silver pheasants and golden.” I have tried ev’ry form for a hare, Every patch, every furze that could shroud her, With toil unrelax’d, Till my patience is tax’d, But I cannot be taxed for hare-powder. I’ve been roaming for hours in three flats In the hope of a snipe for a snap at; But still vainly I court The percussioning sport, I find nothing for “setting my cap at!” A woodcock,—this month is the time,— Right and left I’ve made ready my lock for, With well-loaded double, But spite of my trouble, Neither barrel can I find a cock for! A rabbit I should not despise, But they lurk in their burrows so lowly; This day’s the eleventh, It is not the seventh, But they seem to be keeping it hole-y. CANVASSING A BURROW—“COME TO THE POLE.” For a mallard I’ve waded the marsh, And haunted each pool, and each lake—oh! Mine is not the luck, To obtain thee, O Duck, Or to doom thee, O Drake, like a Draco! For a field-fare I’ve fared far a-field, Large or small I am never to sack bird, Not a thrush is so kind As to fly, and I find I may whistle myself for a black-bird! I am angry, I’m hungry, I’m dry, Disappointed, and sullen, and goaded, And so weary an elf, I am sick of myself, And with Number one seem overloaded. As well one might beat round St. Paul’s, And look out for a cock or a hen there; I have search’d round and round All the Baronet’s ground, But Sir Christopher hasn’t a wren there! A DOUBLE BARREL. Joyce may talk of his excellent caps, But for nightcaps they set me desiring, And it’s really too bad, Not a shot I have had With Hall’s Powder, renown’d for “quick firing.” If this is what people call sport, Oh! of sporting I can’t have a high sense. And there still remains one More mischance on my gun— “Fined for shooting without any license.” PALMAM QUI MERUIT FERAT. |
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