A POEM. 113 



For if they're slain, 'twill be in such a way, 

 You'd better miss them for another day. 

 We must do more than killing to excel, 

 Aye, more ! 'twill needful be to save them well ; 

 For birds I've seen pick'd up, for nothing fit, 

 Their shatter'd bodies ne'er could grace a spit; 

 Had they had twenty yards more law, they'd been 

 Fit on a Noble's table to be seen. 



But, 'mark!' a brace, more knowing, you perceive 

 From yonder corner gently take their leave ; 

 These may be barren birds, which never lie 

 So well as parts of coveys, and defy, 

 E'en when the season's young, the Sportsman's art, 

 And oft before the scent is gain'd depart. 

 Let then the field be tried well o'er and o'er, 

 Till you have seen the whole of Harry's score, 

 Before 'tis left; and, unless very near 

 Where you are now, 'tis thought there's like t' appear 

 Another covey, follow up the same ; 

 That is, those miss'd and mark'd, or you're to blame* 



