A POEM. 13 



The shot that's best adapted for September 



Is number seven,* and mind that you remember, 



Of this and powder never to be spare, 



Or some unlucky day you'll badly fare, 



As I once did, and to my sore dismay 



Empty my shqt pouch hung 'fore close of day, 



Curs'd my own folly, when I found 



My pointer fix'd as marble to the ground, 



The birds upon their flight, Don wond'ring why 



A brace I bagg'd not, and they were not shy, 



If aught could add unto my misery. 



See that the pellets bright as silver fall 



Into the barrels, or the charge may ball ; 



Nor mix the sizes, or you shoot in vain, 



The shot is scatter'd widely o'er the plain, 



And if successful 'tis no proof of skill, 



You may have levell'd well, or levell'd ill ; 



* Walker's is meant here, for in every manufactory in the 

 kingdom the numbers vary in relation to the size of the 

 pellets. 



