“Another pigeon! egad, I'm in luck's way this morning.”

Round and red, through the morning fog
The sun's bright face
Shone, like some jolly toping dog
Of Bacchus' race.
When Jenkins, with his gun and cur
On sport intent,
Through fields, and meadows, many fur—
—longs gaily went.
He popp'd at birds both great and small,
But nothing hit;
Or if he hit, they wouldn't fall—
No, not a bit!
"It's wery strange, I do declare;
I never see!
I go at sky-larks in the hair
Or on a tree.”
"It's all the same, they fly away
Has I let fly—
The birds is frightened, I dare say,
And vill not die.”
"Vhy, here's a go! I hav'nt ramm'd
In any shot;
The birds must think I only shamm'd,
And none have got.”
"I'll undeceive 'em quickly now,
I bet a crown;
And whether fieldfare, tit, or crow,
Vill bring 'em down.”
And as he spake a pigeon flew
Across his way—
Bang went his piece—and Jenkins slew
The flutt'ring prey.
He bagg'd his game, and onward went,
When to his view
Another rose, by fortune sent
To make up two.
He fired, and beheld it fall
With inward glee,
And for a minute 'neath a wall
Stood gazing he.
When from behind, fierce, heavy blows
Fell on his hat,
And knock'd his beaver o'er his nose,
And laid him flat.
"What for,” cried Jenkins, “am I mill'd,
Sir, like this ere?”
"You villain, you, why you have kill'd
My pouter rare.”
The sturdy knave who struck him down
With frown replied:—
"For which I'll make you pay a crown
Nor be denied.”
Poor Jenkins saw it was in vain
To bandy words;
So paid the cash and vow'd, again
He'd not shoot birds—
At least of that same feather, lest
For Pouter shot
Some Dragon fierce should him molest—
And fled the spot.