FOR YOUNG SHOOTERS 113 



At last, at last ! a whirr of wings ! 



Here comes a bunch of six or seven. 

 To right, to left, they stream in strings, 



Some low, some soaring high as heaven. 

 I raised my gun ; with might and main, 



While straight above the pheasants rocket, 

 I pulled and pulled, but all in vain, 



For. I had quite forgot to cock it. 



Away they flew : can pardon be 



For bursts of language double-shotted ? 

 When Uncle Toby's speech flew free, 



The word was by an angel blotted. 

 Yet if, while I addressed my gun, 



That angel marked me as I muttered, 

 He must have dropped more tears than one ' 



To blot the hasty words I uttered. ' 



And still, though years have passed away, 



And memories fade as men grow older, 

 My dreams repeat that fatal day ; 



The half-cocked gun is at my shoulder, 

 I strive to cry, my voice is dumb, 



While, by my nightmare fears made bigger, 

 Flocks of gigantic pheasants come, 



And bid me tug the useless trigger. 



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