FullReads

Thus having held out olive branches,
They sank again, though not on haunches,
But couchant, with their under jaws
Resting between the two forepaws,
The prelude, on a luckier day,
Or sequel, to a game of play:
But now they were in dumps, and thus
Began their worries to discuss,
The Pointer, coming to the point
The first, on times so out of joint.

“Well, Friend,–so here’s a new September,
As fine a first as I remember;
And, thanks to such an early Spring,
Plenty of birds, and strong on wing.”

“Birds!” cried the little crusty chap,
As sharp and sudden as a snap,
“A weasel suck them in the shell!
What matter birds, or flying well,
Or fly at all, or sporting weather,
If fools with guns can’t hit a feather!”

“Ay, there’s the rub, indeed,'” said Don,
Putting his gravest visage on;
“In vain we beat our beaten way,
And bring our organs into play,
Unless the proper killing kind
Of barrel tunes are play’d behind:
But when we shoot,–that’s me and Squire–
We hit as often as we fire.”

“More luck for you!” cried little Woolly,
Who felt the cruel contrast fully;
“More luck for you, and Squire to boot!
We miss as often as we shoot!”

“Indeed!–No wonder you’re unhappy!
I thought you looking rather snappy;
But fancied, when I saw you jogging,
You’d had an overdose of flogging;
Or p’rhaps the gun its range had tried
While you were ranging rather wide.”

“Me! running–running wide–and hit!
Me shot! what, pepper’d?–Deuce a bit!
I almost wish I had! That Dunce,
My master, then would hit for once!
Hit me! Lord, how you talk! why, zounds!
He couldn’t hit a pack of hounds!”

“Well, that must be a case provoking.
What, never–but, you dog, you’re joking!
I see a sort of wicked grin
About your jaw you’re keeping in.”

“A joke! an old tin kettle’s clatter
Would be as much a joking matter.
To tell the truth, that dog-disaster
Is just the type of me and master,
When fagging over hill and dale,
With his vain rattle at my tail,
Bang, bang, and bang, the whole day’s run,
But leading nothing but his gun–
The very shot I fancy hisses,
It’s sent upon such awful misses!”

“Of course it does! But p’rhaps the fact is
Your master’s hand is out of practice!”

“Practice?–No doctor, where you will,
Has finer–but he cannot kill!
These three years past, thro’ furze and furrow,
All covers I have hunted thorough;
Flush’d cocks and snipes about the moors;
And put up hares by scores and scores;
Coveys of birds, and lots of pheasants;–
Yes, game enough to send in presents
To ev’ry friend he has in town,
Provided he had knock’d it down:
But no–the whole three years together,
He has not giv’n me flick or feather–
For all that I have had to do
I wish I had been missing too!”

“Well,–such a hand would drive me mad;
But is he truly quite so bad?”

“Bad!–worse!–you cannot underssore him;
If I could put up, just before him,
The great Balloon that paid the visit
Across the water, he would miss it!
Bite him! I do believe, indeed,
It’s in his very blood and breed!
It marks his life, and, run all through it;
What can be miss’d, he’s sure to do it.
Last Monday he came home to Tooting,
Dog-tir’d, as if he’d been a-shooting,
And kicks at me to vent his rage–
‘Get out!’ says he–‘I’ve miss’d the stage!’
Of course, thought I–what chance of hitting?
You’d miss the Norwich wagon, sitting!”