YE WEARIE WAYFARER 



Shall we who for pastime have squander'd life, 

 Who are styled '' the Lords of Creation," 



Recoil from our chance of more equal strife, 

 And our risk of retaliation ? 



Though short is the dying pheasant's pain, 



Scant pity you may well spare, 

 And the partridge slain is a triumph vain, 



And a risk that a child may dare ; 

 You feel, when you lower the smoking gun. 



Some ruth for yon slaughtered hare, 

 And hit or miss, in your selfish fun 



The widgeon has little share. 



But you've no remorseful qualms or pangs 



When you kneel by the grizzly's lair, 

 On that conical bullet your sole chance hangs, 



'Tis the weak one's advantage fair, 

 And the shaggy giant's terrific fangs 



Are ready to crush and tear ; 

 Should you miss, one vision of home and 

 friend, 

 Five words of unfinish'd prayer, 

 Three savage knife stabs, so your sport 

 ends 



31 



