A POEM. 83 



The twentieth of the eighth is made the day, 



That o'er the heaths in search of them you may 



Range, if giv'n liberty, and none say nay. 



In the beginning of the season, they 



Afford good sport, as they will sometimes lay 



Like stones : the old cock's first upon the wing ; 



If you are fortunate enough to bring 



Him down, all the male poults may one by one 



Prove the reward of an unerring gun. 



When such the case is, this depend upon, 



You'd best retry, before you travel on 



The ground ; tho' I ne'er saw, I've heard it said, 



They're oft pick'd up alive, they lie so dead. 



But as the Autumn season older grows, 



These birds to bag, the practis'd Sportsman pose ; 



They are so tickle, you may e'en remain 



A day upon a heath, p'rhaps not obtain 



A shot in range : not only they won't lie, 



But out of sight will also sometimes fly ; 



