A POEM. 121 



Towards the close of sport, sunset, I mean, 

 The birds again the stubbles seek, and glean 

 Their evening meal, thither your dogs set on, 

 And pretty sport just 'fore the day is done 

 The same afford ; but, hark, the birds now call ! 

 Experience says, when that's the case, they fall 

 Seldom or ever to the gun ; the why 

 They 'scape is clear : while by this means they try 

 Their scatter'd ranks t' assemble, the qui vive 

 They're on, nor till there's no reply, believe 

 The family is safe : if night comes on 

 Before this task's effected, morning's dawn 

 Will not long break before they will succeed 

 To muster all, ere they together feed- 

 That is, those spar'd : and as 'tis vain to try 

 Near them to get, ere evening's shades ' good bye' 

 To sport shall bid you make, 'tis meet to leave 

 This noisy brood, and let them not deceive 

 Your better judgment; for, as WilPs-o'-th'-Wisp, 

 Astray they'll lead you, if you idly list 



