368 CAPTAIN CARTWRIGHT'S 



But shou'd you there, the signs of Foxes trace, 

 Your Sport is o'er: No Hares frequent that place. 

 Grouse, Ptarmigan, and various sorts of Game, 

 With Birds and Beasts too tedious here to name, 

 You'll find in plenty through the Year to kill; 

 No Game-Laws there to thwart the Sportsman's Will! 



September comes, the Stag's in season now; 

 Of Ven'son, far the Richest you'll allow. 

 No Long-legg'd, Ewe-neck'd, Cat-hamm'd, Shambling Brute: 

 In him strength, beauty, size, each other suit. 

 His branching Horns, majestic to the view, 

 Have points (for I have counted) seventy-two. 

 But do you think, you'll all this pleasure share, 

 And, when fatigu'd, to some good Inn repair; 

 There on a Chop, or Steak, in comfort dine. 

 And smack your Lips, o'er glass of gen'rous Wine? 

 No, no; in this our Land of Liberty, 

 Thousands of Miles you'll walk, but no House see. 

 When Night comes on, it matters not a Rush, 

 Whether you sleep in that, or t'other Bush. 

 If Game you've kill'd, your Supper you may eat; 

 If not, to-morrow you'll be sharper set. 

 Yourself, both Cook and Chamberlain must be, 

 Or neither. Bed, nor Supper will you see. 

 Drink you will want not, Water's near at hand; 

 Nature's best Tap! and always at Command. 



Now Works of various kinds, employ all hands; 

 Each to his Post; for no one idle stands. 

 The Salmon now we pack; the next our care, 

 The Codfish for the IMarket, to prepare. 

 Crews to their Winter-quarters now we send; 

 Whilst some, the Firewood fell; Nets, others mend. 

 The Furrier now, with care his Traps looks o'er, 

 These he puts out in paths, along the Shore, 

 For the rich Fox; although not yet in kind. 

 His half-price Skin, our Labour's worth we find. 

 And when the Beaver lands, young Trees to cut, 

 Others he sets for his incautious foot. 

 On Rubbing-places, too, with nicest care, 



