A POEM. 109 



I'd no instruction, Mates unwilling 



To unfold to me the art of killing ; 



Of what they knew, to impart one tittle, 



Tho' were 't all, 't had been but very little. 



And here, Young Friend, I'll whisper in your ear 



One word, worth twenty thousand, -persevere. 



But quite enough on this I have enlarg'd, 

 Quickly re-load, now that your gun's discharg'd ; 

 Besides being best to do so when it's warm, 

 To be prepar'd for stragglers, is no harm ; 

 And being nimbly ready, you will find 

 You're oft in time for one that lags behind. 

 Take care, before bestow'd, the game is dead ; 

 If not so when pick'd up, then strike its head 

 (Or surely you humanity will shock,) 

 Against your boot sole, which may serve as block ; 

 But not, as some advise, use the gunstock. 

 The game bag hansell'd, praise to Harry giv'n 

 For marking them ; he swears he saw eleven ! 



