FullReads

“And so he is!–He always hits–
And sometimes hard, and all to bits.
But ere with him our tongues we task,
I’ve still one little thing to ask;
Namely, with such a random master,
Of course you sometimes want a plaster?
Such missing hands make game of more
Than ever pass’d for game before–
A pounded pig–a widow’s cat–
A patent ventilating hat–
For shot, like mud, when thrown so thick,
Will find a coat whereon to stick!”

“What! accidentals, as they’re term’d?
No never–none–since I was worm’d–
Not e’en the Keeper’s fatted calves,–
My master does not miss by halves!
His shot are like poor orphans, hurl’d
Abroad upon the whole wide world,–
But whether they be blown to dust,
As often-times I think they must,
Or melted down too near the sun,
What comes of them is known to none–
I never found, since I could bark,
A Barn that bore my master’s mark!”

“Is that the case?–Why then, my brother,
Would we could swap with one another!
Or take the Squire, with all my heart,
Nay, all my liver, so we part!
He’ll hit you hares–(he uses cartridge)
He’ll hit you cocks–he’ll hit a partridge;
He’ll hit a snipe; he’ll hit a pheasant;
He’ll hit–he’ll hit whatever’s present;
He’ll always hit,–as that’s your wish–
His pepper never lacks a dish!”

“Come, come, you banter,–let’s be serious;
I’m sure that I am half delirious,
Your picture set me so a-sighing–
But does he shot so well–shoot flying?”

“Shoot flying? Yes–and running, walking–
I’ve seen him shoot two farmers talking–
He’ll hit the game, whene’er he can,
But failing that he’ll hit a man,–
A boy–a horse’s tail or head–
Or make a pig a pig of lead,–
Oh, friend! they say no dog as yet,
However hot, was known to sweat,
But sure I am that I perspire
Sometimes before my master’s fire!
Misses! no, no, he always hits,
But so as puts me into fits!
He shot my fellow dog this morning,
Which seemed to me sufficient warning!”

“Quite, quite, enough!–So that’s a hitter!
Why, my own fate I thought was bitter,
And full excuse for cut and run;
But give me still the missing gun!
Or rather, Sirius! send me this,
No gun at all, to hit or miss,
Since sporting seems to shoot thus double,
That right or left it brings us trouble!”

So ended Dash;–and Pointer Don
Prepared to urge the moral on;
But here a whistle long and shrill
Came sounding o’er the council hill,
And starting up, as if their tails
Had felt the touch of shoes and nails,
Away they scamper’d down the slope,
As fast as other pairs elope,–
Resolv’d, instead of sporting rackets,
To beg, or dance in fancy jackets;
At butchers’ shops to try their luck;
To help to draw a cart or truck;
Or lead Stone Blind poor men, at most
Who would but hit or miss a post.