SHOOTING PAINS.

SHOOTING WITH ROVER AND RANGER.SHOOTING PAINS.

SHOOTING WITH ROVER AND RANGER.

“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 dayWith 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 twoTo 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 flatsIn the hope of a snipe for a snap at;But still vainly I courtThe 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.

If I shoot any more I’ll be shot,For ill-luck seems determined to star me,I have march’d the whole dayWith a gun—for no pay—Zounds, I’d better have been in the army!

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!

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!”

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!

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 twoTo brace me,—I’m getting quite nervous!

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.”

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 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 flatsIn the hope of a snipe for a snap at;But still vainly I courtThe percussioning sport,I find nothing for “setting my cap at!”

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 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.

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 kindAs to fly, and I findI 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 roundAll the Baronet’s ground,But Sir Christopher hasn’t a wren there!

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 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 kindAs to fly, and I findI may whistle myself for a black-bird!

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.

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 roundAll the Baronet’s ground,But Sir Christopher hasn’t a wren there!

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 hadWith 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 oneMore mischance on my gun—“Fined for shooting without any license.”

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 hadWith Hall’s Powder, renown’d for “quick firing.”

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 oneMore mischance on my gun—“Fined for shooting without any license.”

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.”

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