A POEM. 129 



Maintain, that health, good-fellowship, and fun, 

 Are own'd by most true brothers of the gun ; 

 Added to these, a conscience free from guile, 

 Each jovial Sportsman meets you with a smile ; 

 Sports in his leisure, industry's first fruits, 

 But never lets it clash with those pursuits 

 His sphere in life enjoins, to which he flies 

 With nerves rebrac'd, and double energies. 



September past next, brown October brings 

 Its sport in turn, and round the landscape flings 

 A sadder aspect ; still, we hope to find . 

 The weather genial : now the showiest kind 

 Of game we seek. The splendid Pheasant makes 

 His habitation in the woods and brakes, 

 'Mongst which, on op'ning dawn, the Sportsman plies 

 His eager Spaniels, whose inspiring cries 

 Gladden his heart ; they seem on bus'ness bent, \ 

 And press on closely; now, at last, they've pent > 

 Their prey in narrow compass ; to prevent 



