A POEM. 139 



Nor rain, nor snow, the Fowler's steps deter, 

 Inur'd by seasoning, we hear no demur ; 

 But rather hopes the better sport t' obtain 

 In cover ; luxurious foliage bears no blame 

 When misses hap, as now he sees his game 

 Longer on wing ; each sort may glad the eyes, 

 Each will this month thro' prove a lawful prize. 

 And in addition, Woodcocks now we seek, 

 Which from the North, the first and second week 

 Hither migrate ; comparatively few 

 Now reach our shores, to what were wont to do ; 

 The northern gentry now, as ours long past, 

 Delight in dainties of the choicest cast ; 

 The Woodcock's nest is rifled for their meals, 

 Her eggs the farmer takes, at market sells ; 

 The price they fetch encourages the search, 

 And their destruction leaves us in the lurch ; 

 And were it not these birds possess no crop, 

 The thought of bagging one would almost drop ; 

 But luckily, this want the Northerns treat 

 As a firm proof they are not fit to eat ; 



