322 SONNNET. 



know why your honour's lordship didn't hit 'em ; but now I see you 

 only wished to find out which way they wanted to go, an' faith we 

 been seen that sure enough." 



His lordship loaded his piece, and the gamekeeper having marked 

 down the birds, they proceeded ; but in the very next field another 

 covey was flushed. His lordship fired first his right and then his 

 left barrel, but without effect, the birds escaped ! 



" Oh, murther ! what a miss !" said the Irishman ; " by the piper 

 that play'd before Moses but you rumpled some of their feathers this 

 time, my lord ; them burds won't be comfortable agin if your lud- 

 ship gets a-near 'em once more." 



Well, on they went ; birds were found in abundance, and shots 

 were fired ; but, luckily for the poor birds, they were not to be had. 

 His lordship, the gamekeeper thought, either was obstructed by his 

 curls, or else dazzled by his silver chain. Still the poor gamekeeper 

 kept on consoling and finding excuses at each unsuccessful effort of 

 his lordship until evening came and they were on their return home, 

 when the dogs found a covey of partridges not far from the house. 

 The gamekeeper said they must be feeding, and that if so, they 

 might get close to them. Lord Ellenborough saw them advanced, 

 and determined not to throw a chance away, shut his eyes and fired 

 both barrels at once as the birds stood on the ground. But the curls, 

 or the chain, or both were in his lordship's way, the covey took 

 wing and flew away. 



The poor gamekeeper was at his wits' end. He could not con- 

 ceive how the birds could have been missed j but at length he 

 scratched his head, and, with a sarcastic smile, said, " By Jasus ! 

 my lord, but you made 'em leave that any how." The noble lord 

 gave him nothing for his compliment. 



SONNET. 



BY SIR EGERTON BRIDGES. 



SOMETIMES dark clouds do gather on my soul, 

 And I am feeble, e'en as if the sleep 

 Of death was coming on me ; then I lie 

 Helpless in meek submission to my fate: 

 Existence here I not too fondly prize ; 

 The fruits it has not been my lot to reap 

 Of life's rich harvest ; therefore shall I die 

 Calm and contented, be it soon or late. 

 Already have I long, long years endured 

 Of pain, wrong, sorrow, contumely, yet 

 Mingled with drink of joy arid comfort pour'd 

 Into the age of life before me set. 

 O, to what chequer'd fortunes man is doom'd 

 Where vice triumphant is with honours plumed ! 



December 22, 1833. 



