“the charge is prepar’d.”—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 anthony!
the partridges — where can they lie?
i have promis’d 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 preserv’d! —
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 tax’d 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.
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!
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 licence.”
